but the hay was not all in. Nine o’clock, and there still remained
several loads. A consultation was called.
“It looks like rain,” said Mr. Wyman. “But you are all tired, and the
oxen have done enough for one day; perhaps we had better let it rest.
It will not rain to-night; and if it does to-morrow, it wont take long
to put in three loads.”
“But to-morrow will be Sunday, Mr. Wyman.”
“I know; but it would not be right to let the hay spoil.”
“I do not understand that; the command is positive: ‘Six days shalt
thou labor, and do all thy work: but the seventh day is the Sabbath
of the Lord thy God: in it thou shalt not do any work, thou, nor thy
son, nor thy daughter, thy man-servant, nor thy maid-servant, nor thy
cattle, nor thy stranger that is within thy gates.’ Nothing can be more
explicit.”
“It is also equally incumbent upon us not to waste our substance,”
said Mr Wyman. “If you read the New Testament rightly, you will find
that it is lawful to do works of mercy and necessity.”
“True; but would the getting in hay be counted such a work, when God
expressly bids us keep his Sabbath even in harvest time?”
“Yes, if the hay was to be spoiled by the neglect, it ought to be got
in.”
There was no more said. It was late, and the men dispersed. I went
directly to my room, not a little disconcerted about what I might be
called upon to do. Mr. Wyman was an old man, and had been very kind to
me; it was not for me to speak to him as an equal. He felt it to be
right; I felt it to be a direct act of disobedience. We must each act
according to our conscience; and with this thought I went to sleep.
The next morning the sun peeped through a dull, hazy atmosphere,
looked, and was gone, showing occasional glimpses of his face till
nearly church time, when the clouds began to gather and roll themselves
into inky blackness, and rain seemed inevitable.
“Put the oxen to the cart,” said Mr. Wyman; “that hay will be ruined.”
“But, pa, it is Sunday,” said Mrs. Wyman.
“Well, what if it is? You are ready to go to church, and the wagon is
at the door; go on, I shall stop for the hay. It is just as much a
duty to save our property as to do any thing else. We are told to be
diligent in business;” and the farmer exchanged his Sunday coat for his
work-day one, and went out.
“Marston,” he said as he passed through the back porch, “you load
faster than any of the others. If we hurry, we can get it in and then
go to church.”
“I cannot do that kind of work on the Sabbath, Mr. Wyman. I regard it
as an open violation of His law.”
“If you cannot work for me to-day, you certainly cannot to-morrow.”
I did not stop to question; there was but one course for me. My head
bowed over my hands. To lose Mr. Wyman’s friendship was more than I
could bear.
“What is that to thee? follow thou me,” floated through my brain and
comforted me. Presently a light hand was on my shoulder, and a kind
voice said,
“Marston, will you drive us to church? I do not think it will rain at
all.”
“If you desire it, Mrs. Wyman.”
We started, Mrs. Wyman with Emma and Alice. As we passed the meadow,
Mr. Wyman was busily pitching on the hay, Anderson and Gregory each
having a cart. The oxen stood with their great patient eyes rolling
about, as if not quite sure of the right of breaking in upon their day
of rest. Nothing was said, however.
We reached the church door just in time to escape a few quiet drops;
but these were soon gone; the clouds unrolled and dispersed their dark
folds, and before noon all was bright again.
“Oh, father, you should have heard the sermon this morning,” said Alice
Wyman, a sweet, blooming girl, tripping into the parlor as though
nothing had happened. The farmer sat in his straight-backed chair, the
hay was all in, and he was reading the Bible.
“What was the text, child?” he at length said.
“‘Trust in the Lord, and do good; so shalt thou dwell in the land,
and verily thou shalt be fed.’ Mr. Gordon spoke so beautifully of the
implicit trust we are privileged to have, it seemed to me I never felt
so forcibly before how far short we come of realizing all that might be
ours, the contentment that would fill our hearts, would we put aside
self and lean more perfectly upon Him.”
“But there is something for us to do,” said her father. “We are not to
sit still; we are to act, and that diligently.”
“Yes,” answered Mrs. Wyman, “Mr. Gordon said there was something for us
to do. The first act was obedience; the second was love and trust.”
By this time dinner was on the table. The farmer was evidently in no
talkative mood, and few words were spoken.
In the afternoon I walked with Alice to the Sabbath-school, and
returned comforted. Perhaps Mr. Wyman would turn me off; it was more
than probable he would. I had displeased him. Still, having done what I
thought to be right, I would trust it all to God.
The next morning as we finished breakfast, and before we arose from the
table, Mr. Wyman said,
“I owe you for two weeks’ work, Marston: I am sorry for what happened
yesterday; still I must have the direction of what shall be done on my
own farm. I shall fill your place with some one who will do what I ask
of him.”
“Had it been any other than a plain, positive command, I should have
gone with you, Mr. Wyman; but so positive is the decree with regard to
the Sabbath, there could be no question with me concerning my duty.”
Mrs. Wyman and Alice followed me down the walk, and begged me not to
cherish unkind feelings towards Mr. Wyman.
“No fear of that,” I answered. “He has always been my friend, and I
shall not think unkindly of him for this. He is too good a man not to
be sorry when he thinks of it with his accustomed coolness.”
I had nothing to do but to walk back to Claverton, and tell Jennie what
had befallen me.
“I am sorry, Marston; but I should have been still sorrier had you
acted otherwise;” and she pressed her red lips to mine. “An entire
obedience is necessary. Do not be troubled; some good will come of it.”
We walked down to the little gate, where stood a messenger from Mr.
Willett.
“Mr. Willett would like to see Marston,” as Jennie took the message.
“He has not been well for several weeks, and has inquired for you
continually,” she said, as she held the gate for me to pass.
Mr. Willett was pillowed up in his easy-chair, and seemed delighted to
see me.
“I am glad that you are free,” he said at length. “I have been sick,
and the doctor forbids all kinds of exertion. Every thing is going to
ruin in the store. If you will just go in, I shall consider it a great
favor, and will give you more than you can get doing any thing else.”
How soon the black cloud had showed a silver lining. I had felt so
unwilling to leave Mr. Wyman, so sad and desponding, that I could not
think of any thing else as I walked back to the village. With all my
waywardness, God was not unmindful. Could I ever despond again? I felt
at the time that it would be impossible.
“I told you something good would come of it,” said Jennie as I crossed
the street and once more entered the parlor. “‘A right effort is never
lost.’ This should teach us both to trust more perfectly.”
Mr. Willett recovered rapidly; and by the time vacation was over, I was
appointed a regular teacher in the Rockdale academy.
“This will delay your college course, but it will be better for you in
the end,” said Mr. Harlan. “You are still young enough to wait next
year, and your salary will enable you to begin. Besides, if you choose
to study while teaching, I will aid you all I can; and I have little
doubt you can enter the Sophomore class instead of the Freshman.”
This was a step I had not thought of, and I quickly resolved not a
moment should be lost; to teach and to study should be my work for
another year.
Among the first of the new pupils that particularly interested me when
I entered upon my duties was Ezra Metcalf. Stimulated by his little
teacher, he had put forth very commendable effort; and through the
interest of Mr. Gordon and one or two benevolent ladies of Terryville,
Mr. Harlan had been induced to take him, the boy paying his board, as I
had done, by labor.
[Illustration]
XIII.
It proved as Mr. Harlan had said. The next year I entered the Sophomore
class, once more finding myself face to face with Frank Clavers and
Harry Gilmore. Their greeting was most cordial, and Harry’s friendship
was as warm as ever. Although my year’s salary had clothed me decently
and left me something for books, it still required the closest economy
to get along; making me appear, to those who had plenty, as close
and parsimonious. This was in itself a trial, and the hardest with
which I had to contend. Yet my frank avowal of a scanty purse saved
me from many temptations. In the various expedients of the students
for killing time I was not expected to share; and still I always had a
spare dollar for a new book, or sufficient to expend upon a course of
scientific lectures; while there were some lavish in expenditures for
rides, suppers, ices, and sherbet, who were at times obliged to deny
themselves the means of improvement.
It was not trying to acknowledge poverty when the admission brought no
dishonor. Still, when with some of my class-mates who were rich men’s
sons, and well supplied with pin-money, I found to my cost that I had
not learned the lesson of self-conquest so perfectly as I had flattered
myself. I was once looking at a second-hand book in the presence of
Morris and Wright, two of the richest students in college.
“That is what I call small business, to look up old threadbare books,”
said Morris, in a tone that I could not avoid hearing, at the same time
ordering a new copy of the same work; to which Wright replied, while
a contemptuous smile wreathed his proud lips. I could have wept with
vexation; and the next moment was ashamed of myself for giving way to
such a weak, ignoble feeling.
Through all these days Jennie’s letters comforted me, and Mr. and Mrs.
Harlan did not forget me.
“Regard the right,” said the latter in one of her letters, “and seek
for companions such as honor it. Think too much of yourself to cherish
a selfish thought or feeling; and let every act prove that a light
purse does not of necessity imply low tastes or a meagre intellect.”
Little did the good woman imagine all the trials springing out of my
weakness. Still the strife was short, and invariably I found my way
back to the sheltering arms of that Friend who looks not alone to the
outward, and who judges not as man judges.
Overhearing one of the professors saying that he could not find a
suitable gardener for his grounds, and having learned a good deal
of gardening from Mr. Harlan, I offered myself, and was accepted. I
needed exercise. This was just as good as boating, ball-playing, or the
gymnasium.
One Saturday, as I returned from the river with a wheelbarrow of
pebbles for the flooring of a new arbor I had just planned, I met
several of my class-mates at the gate. Conquering my first impulse of
false shame, I advanced as though it was the most pleasant exercise
imaginable.
“Gardening for the pleasure of it?” said Stevens, in a tone of irony he
knew so well to use.
“Not for pleasure, Stevens, but from necessity;” and I walked on. The
next meeting was easier. I had filled the wheelbarrow again, and was
crossing the carriage-way, when Wright drove leisurely along in an
open buggy. As he passed me he touched his hat, while a mocking smile
wreathed his lips:
“There goes the best scholar in his class.”
“And the best I intend to be,” I said to myself, but without any
unpleasant feeling.
Finishing my task, I went to the office for letters; passing the hotel
just as the numerous hacks had left a greater number of guests than
usual. I had nearly passed, when suddenly my name was called, and in
a voice that seemed strangely familiar. It was Silas June. He had
given up study, and had been two years in the city, and talked largely
of city pleasures and pursuits. His uncle had recently become very
wealthy through land speculation, and had generously offered Mrs. June
a home, and also taken Silas into his employ as a clerk.
“I suppose you are planning ways and means yet,” he said at length. “I
remember you used to be good at this.”
“Practice makes perfect,” I answered.
“I have never had any thing else to do, and I am now quite as expert as
ever.”
“I told you I should get along just as well without so much study,
although I did not then dream of the good in store for me. Uncle is
rich, and without a family of his own. He must do something with his
money, and I shall come in for a large share.”
“I hope you will repay him by making a good and noble man.”
“I shall please him, if that is what you mean, although it goes greatly
against my inclination to sit bound down day after day to the day-book
and ledger. Still night comes, and I enjoy while he sleeps.”
“You enjoy; how so?”
“Go to parties, operas, theatres, or into some saloon; anywhere, if I
find good company.”
“You used to try to deceive yourself with regard to study,” I said,
with a degree of earnestness that made him laugh heartily. “Do not
deceive yourself now, and run into company that will lead you to ruin,
just because your uncle is rich enough to give you the opportunity.
Deception cannot prosper.”
“Don’t everybody deceive--everybody but you and Lovell?”
“That many practise it, I allow, and that some for a time succeed, is
very possible; but the end is not yet.”
“There is no use in denying self-interest is the motive,” he answered;
“and if some noble deeds and benevolent actions are performed, the
mainspring is the same. I humor my uncle, for I need his money; you
study enough to kill a common man, making this a stepping-stone to
something else. What’s the difference?”
There was a difference, notwithstanding his fluent speech. Back as
far as I could look there was still one purpose-- a strong and noble
manhood, a life of usefulness and honor; and in my estimation, a good
education would greatly contribute to bring this about. This was why I
studied, why I was resolved to study--not merely distinction, worldly
honor, or aggrandizement, but to possess a truly excellent character,
worthy the regard of others and the respect of myself.
XIV.
At length a year in college had passed; one more layer was unwrapped
from round the kernel of college lore, and as Juniors we were trying
with renewed powers honorably to rival each other.
Not alone to us change had come, but to others. Miss Clavers had opened
a seminary in the little village bearing her father’s name, and Jennie
was an assistant. How full of love and encouragement were her letters.
How strange it all seemed: no longer a little girl that nestled in
my arms, and looked up to me as one able to do so much, but a tall,
stately young woman, going in and out before her pupils with the
conscious grace of one who feels that she is able to do all that she
has undertaken.
It was a bright autumn day when Stevens invited a party of some half a
dozen students to walk with him to a town not far distant. For the last
six months I had been on friendly terms with him, so I did not think
it strange when he invited me; neither did I refuse to go. It was a
perfect day: the rich, fervid hues of autumn were spread over miles of
forest-trees and shrubbery; a thin veil of mist hung over every winding
stream, while the brilliant sunshine illuminated the many varying
shades of wood, water, and cloud, blending all in perfect harmony.
That hazy, dreamy atmosphere, how well I remember it. The memory of
that walk makes my heart beat with much of its youthful buoyancy. Under
the exhilarating influence of the day, and our unexpected freedom, we
ran, laughed, shouted--appearing, as we really were, a company of
grown-up school-boys. I remember Harry Gilmore’s mirthful tone as we
pelted him with chestnuts, and how Wright forgot his dignity when we
covered his hat and shoulders with red and yellow leaves.
After visiting a gallery of paintings, which was the ostensible object
of the excursion, and which we all expressed ourselves as sorry to
leave, Stevens invited us to step into a restaurant for refreshment.
Wright and Gilmore left us to make a call, but the remainder of the
party entered the saloon.
When seated in an elegant room, we were soon supplied with tempting
viands. Not satisfied with a lavish profusion of fruits, cakes, and
ices, Stevens rang for the waiter, to whom he gave orders in an
undertone, the nature of which was evident from the speedy appearance
of glasses and bottles.
“Now to the health of the company: may the shadow of each never
be less,” said Stevens, filling his glass. There was a burst of
applause, and I looked around the table, hoping to find at least one
representative of total abstinence; but with the exception of my own,
every glass was drained.
“How is this?” said Stevens, eyeing me keenly; “afraid or unwilling to
pledge me in a glass of wine?” All eyes were turned upon me, and I felt
the blood recede from my face.
“I am afraid, Stevens. I saw a student carried to his room the other
night. If I take a glass now, who knows but I may one day be found in a
like situation?”
We walked back more quietly than we went. The sun had set, and a
vaporous veil of golden haze had floated off into the purple twilight,
and the watching stars came out one by one, with a dim, subdued light,
only seen on such autumnal nights. Stevens, who was my companion in
spite of my not joining him in the wine, was in a contemplative mood.
“I don’t approve,” he said, “of wine, tobacco, or any thing of the
kind, and very often I make up my mind never to touch them again;
especially did I the other night when I saw Darcy in such a state.”
“It is the only safe course,” I answered.
“I know it,” he said earnestly, “and I like you all the better for not
touching it. I only ordered it for fear there were some who would think
it mean; ‘nothing to drink,’ as they say.”
And so I believe it would be in every instance where a young man openly
avows his determination not to drink, smoke, or chew, waste his time,
or trifle with duty. After his resolves have once been tested, he
will only be thought more of by the wildest associate he has, and his
influence from that moment will be wider and more powerful.
In college, as elsewhere, it is easy to select our associates. If
we wish, we can have the most studious and high-minded; or the
pleasure-seeker, who came to college because it was fashionable to do
so, and will get a diploma, if he gets one at all, because the wealth
of his father purchases it for him, the same as any other article of
luxury.
Still, try as I would, I could not make friends with Wright. At first
he had looked down upon me: more recently he seemed to regard me only
as a rival; and to say the truth, we were quite even, our regular marks
in recitation seldom varying. The time now came when the subject for
a prize essay was given out, and knowing my chief competitor would be
Wright, I determined to surpass him.
Not having a strong constitution, study wore upon him sadly.
“Do not work so hard, I entreat you,” said our President one day as he
saw how wan and pale Wright was growing. “There is no use in this,”
taking the feverish hand in his. “Indeed I have been blind not to see
it before; you must rest, at all hazards.”
“Not now,” said Wright. “I came here to take the first honor in my
class, and I will do it.”
“You will not live to reach it, at this rate; and then what profit can
come from all your ambitious labors?”
A week or two afterwards Wright was prostrate.
“They say that you will win the prize,” said Stevens, coming into my
room on his way from the sick-bed. “If poor Wright had not been sick,
you might not have been so certain, however.”
“Wright probably wrote his essay before he was sick,” I answered.
“Yes, he wrote it, and I have read it, and I assure you it is a fine
production; but he cannot read it, and of course the prize will be
yours.”
I went to my room in no enviable state of mind. I wanted the prize. I
had worked for it. But if Wright had written his essay, he must not
lose the honor because he was sick. Nothing more was said of it, and
all seemed to take it for granted that I should be the successful
competitor.
At last I could bear it no longer. I called upon Stevens, as a friend
of Wright, to procure the essay; and then, with the conviction that
I was destroying my own hopes, I carried it to the chairman of the
committee, and begged him to suspend his decision until this had been
sufficiently examined.
The result was as I expected. Wright was announced the winner of the
prize at the same time we were told that he was dangerously ill. How
insignificant at that hour the honors of the world! How sorry I was
that, in order to rival me, he had been obliged to study so hard; how
glad to think that perhaps he might know that he had won, and the
knowledge give him pleasure.
Not long afterwards a messenger came to me from the sick-room. Wright
wanted to see me. I found him lying upon his bed, pale and wasted, the
mere shadow of his former self.
“I wanted to thank you for your sacrifice on my behalf; they told me
all about it;” and his eyes closed languidly. I pressed his thin hand
cordially in my own.
“Nor is that all,” he said, opening his eyes, glistening with deep
feeling. “I want you to forgive my former rudeness. I have always been
ashamed of it; not a moment but I have longed to tell you of my regard;
but you were my rival in study, and I could not bear it.”
Was this Wright, the rich student, the one who had never given me a
word save those dictated by common civility, now asking my pardon, and
saying that he had always regarded me, and had longed to tell me so?
There was no room for deception; there he lay, weak and pale. I could
not restrain my emotion, and before I was aware, I was on my knees, my
arms about him, and my head resting on his pillow.
“Sickness has taught me to see life under a new phase,” he resumed.
“These petty rivalries are unworthy the attention of immortal beings.
I have lived as though this life were all, following a shadow until it
had well-nigh landed me in the grave. Oh what would have become of me
had I died then?” and a shudder passed over his features. “You will
be glad to know that I have found Him whom you have loved for a long
time. I trust my sins are pardoned, that I have given my heart to the
Saviour. You must be my friend now; I cannot rest till I have it from
your own lips.”
“Now, and ever,” I answered, as well as my emotion would allow. A sweet
peace showed itself on his countenance.
“I knew you would forgive me.”
The attendant came in and said that he must rest, and I went out full
of wonder at the power that could humble a proud spirit like Wright’s,
and change him to a meek penitent.
My astonishment was increased when returning health enabled him to go
on with his studies. There was no longer rivalry; a new purpose burned
in his heart, beamed in his eye, and influenced every look and word;
not one that had known him before but was constrained to say that he
had been with Jesus.
My last year in college was a constant delight to me. I was not so much
pressed by pecuniary matters. Above all, I had succeeded in winning the
good-will and esteem of those around me. After Wright’s illness, his
heart clung to me with as much intensity as before he had carefully
avoided me, while Harry Gilmore gave me all a brother’s love, and Frank
Clavers was the same true friend as ever.
At Commencement, when the highest honor was awarded me, I felt a thrill
of satisfaction that was an ample equivalent for long years of labor.
Afterwards, when I stood before the assembled throng, conscious that
many eyes were upon me, and bright, happy faces looking their approval,
I only saw one, a sweet, pure face, with the golden hair parted over a
broad white forehead, while an expression of peace and of trust rested
on the whole countenance. It was a happy day to Jennie. So far my work
was done, and, they said, well done. I looked upon it as only reaching
another stage in my ascent; the first and second heights were won, and
a profession was now to be chosen.
In the evening there was a levee at the President’s house, and for
Jennie’s sake as well as my own I was glad. The good man received me
very kindly, and so far unbent himself as to speak of the courage and
industry of my last three years, then of my success--introducing me to
several men who were there, and whom it was an honor and a privilege to
meet. “Energy is essential,” he said, “but patience and perseverance
are the crowning virtues. You have practised these faithfully. God
grant that you may continue to do the same to the end.”