UP in the loft of St Blank’s Church the young organist had been
practising the whole morning. People paused on the street to listen to
the glorious sounds, and were thrilled by them, as one is only thrilled
when the strong personality of the player enters into the execution.
Down into the committee-room, where several deacons and the young rector
were seated discussing some question pertaining to the well-being of the
church, the music penetrated too, causing the business which had brought
them together, to be suspended temporarily.
“It is a sin to talk while music like that can be heard,” remarked one
man. “You have found a genius in this new organist, Rector.”
The young man nodded silently, his eyes half closed with an expression of
somewhat sensuous enjoyment of the throbbing chords which vibrated in
perfect unison with the beating of his strong pulses.
“Where does she come from?” asked the deacon, as a pause in the music
occurred.
“Her father was an earnest and prominent member of the little church
down-town of which I had charge during several years,” replied the young
man. “Miss Irving was scarcely more than a child when she volunteered
her services as organist. The position brought her no remuneration, and
at that time she did not need it. Young as she was, the girl was one of
the most active workers among the poor, and I often met her in my visits
to the sick and unfortunate. She had been a musical prodigy from the
cradle, and Mr Irving had given her every advantage to study and perfect
her art.
“I was naturally much interested in her. Mr Irving’s long illness left
his wife and daughter without means of support, at his death, and when I
was called to take charge of St Blank’s, I at once realised the benefit
to the family as well as to my church could I secure the young lady the
position here as organist. I am glad that my congregation seem so well
satisfied with my choice.”
Again the organ pealed forth, this time in that passionate music
originally written for the Garden Scene in _Faust_, and which the church
has boldly taken and arranged as a quartette to the words, “Come unto
me.”
It may be that to some who listen, it is the divine spirit which makes
its appeal through those stirring strains; but to the rector of St
Blank’s, at least on that morning, it was human heart, calling unto human
heart. Mr Stuart and the deacons sat silently drinking in the music. At
length the rector rose. “I think perhaps we had better drop the matter
under discussion for to-day,” he said. “We can meet here Monday evening
at five o’clock if agreeable to you all, and finish the details. There
are other and more important affairs waiting for me now.”
The deacons departed, and the young rector sank back in his chair, and
gave himself up to the enjoyment of the sounds which flooded not only the
room, but his brain, heart and soul.
“Queer,” he said to himself as the door closed behind the human pillars
of his church. “Queer, but I felt as if the presence of those men was an
intrusion upon something belonging personally to me. I wonder why I am
so peculiarly affected by this girl’s music? It arouses my brain to
action, it awakens ambition and gives me courage and hope, and yet—” He
paused before allowing his feeling to shape itself into thoughts. Then
closing his eyes and clasping his hands behind his head while the music
surged about him, he lay back in his easy-chair as a bather might lie
back and float upon the water, and his unfinished sentence took shape
thus: “And yet stronger than all other feelings which her music arouses
in me, is the desire to possess the musician for my very own for ever;
ah, well! the Roman Catholics are wise in not allowing their priests and
their nuns to listen to all even so-called sacred music.”
It was perhaps ten minutes later that Joy Irving became conscious that
she was not alone in the organ loft. She had neither heard nor seen his
entrance, but she felt the presence of her rector, and turned to find him
silently watching her. She played her phrase to the end, before she
greeted him with other than a smile. Then she apologised, saying: “Even
one’s rector must wait for a musical phrase to reach its period. Angels
may interrupt the rendition of a great work, but not man. That were
sacrilege. You see, I was really praying, when you entered, though my
heart spoke through my fingers instead of my lips.”
“You need not apologise,” the young man answered. “One who receives your
smile would be ungrateful indeed if he asked for more. That alone would
render the darkest spot radiant with light and welcome to me.”
The girl’s pink cheek flushed crimson, like a rose bathed in the sunset
colours of the sky.
“I did not think you were a man to coin pretty speeches,” she said.
“Your estimate of me was a wise one. You read human nature correctly.
But come and walk in the park with me. You will overtax yourself if you
practise any longer. The sunlight and the air are vying with each other
to-day to see which can be the most intoxicating. Come and enjoy their
sparring match with me; I want to talk to you about one of my unfortunate
parishioners. It is a peculiarly pathetic case. I think you can help
and advise me in the matter.”
It was a superb morning in early October. New York was like a beautiful
woman arrayed in her fresh autumn costume, disporting herself before
admiring eyes.
Absorbed in each other’s society, their pulses beating high with youth,
love and health; the young couple walked through the crowded avenues of
the great city, as happily and as naturally as Adam and Eve might have
walked in the Garden of Eden the morning after Creation.
Both were city born and city bred, yet both were as unfashionable and
untrammelled by custom as two children of the plains.
In the very heart of the greatest metropolis in America, there are people
who live and retain all the primitive simplicity of village life and
thought. Mr Irving had been one of these. Coming to New York from an
interior village when a young man, he had, through simple and quiet
tastes and religious convictions, kept himself wholly free from the
social life of the city in which he lived. After his marriage his entire
happiness lay in his home, and Joy was reared by parents who made her
world. Mrs Irving sympathised fully with her husband in his distaste for
society, and her delicate health rendered her almost a recluse from the
world.
A few pleasant acquaintances, no intimates, music, books, and a large
share of her time given to charitable work, composed the life of Joy
Irving.
She had never been in a fashionable assemblage; she had never attended a
theatre, as Mr Irving did not approve of them.
Extremely fond of outdoor life, she walked, unattended, wherever her mood
led her. As she had no acquaintances among society people, she knew
nothing and cared less for the rules which govern the promenading habits
of young women in New York. Her sweet face and graceful figure were well
known among the poorer quarters of the city, and it was through her work
in such places that Arthur Stuart’s attention had first been called to
her.
As for him, he was filled with that high, but not always wise, disdain
for society and its customs, which we so often find in town-bred young
men of intellectual pursuits. He was clean-minded, independent, sure of
his own purposes, and wholly indifferent to the opinions of inferiors
regarding his habits.
He loved the park, and he asked Joy to walk with him there, as freely as
he would have asked her to sit with him in a conservatory. It was a
great delight to the young girl to go.
“It seems such a pity that the women of New York get so little benefit
from this beautiful park,” she said as they strolled along through the
winding paths together. “The wealthy people enjoy it in a way from their
carriages, and the poor people no doubt derive new life from their Sunday
promenades here. But there are thousands like myself who are almost
wholly debarred from its pleasures. I have always wanted to walk here,
but once I came and a rude man in a carriage spoke to me. Mother told me
never to come alone again. It seems strange to me that men who are so
proud of their strength, and who should be the natural protectors of
woman, can belittle themselves by annoying or frightening her when alone.
I am sure that same man would never think of speaking to me now that I am
with you. How cowardly he seems when you think of it! Yet I am told
there are many like him, though that was my only experience of the kind.”
“Yes, there are many like him,” the rector answered. “But you must
remember how short a time man has been evolving from a lower animal
condition to his present state, and how much higher he is to-day than he
was a hundred years ago even, when occasional drunkenness was considered
an attribute of a gentleman. Now it is a vice of which he is ashamed.”
“Then you believe in evolution?” Joy asked with a note of surprise in her
voice.
“Yes, I surely do; nor does the belief conflict with my religious faith.
I believe in many things I could not preach from my pulpit. My
congregation is not ready for broad truths. I am like an eclectic
physician—I suit my treatment to my patient—I administer the old school
or the new school medicaments as the case demands.”
“It seems to me there can be but one school in spiritual matters,” Joy
said gravely—“the right one. And I think one should preach and teach
what he believes to be true and right, no matter what his congregation
demands. Oh, forgive me. I am very rude to speak like that to you!”
And she blushed and paled with fright at her boldness.
They were seated on a rustic bench now, under the shadow of a great tree.
The rector smiled, his eyes fixed with pleased satisfaction on the girl’s
beautiful face, with its changing colour and expression. He felt he
could well afford to be criticised or rebuked by her, if the result was
so gratifying to his sight. The young rector of St Blank’s lived very
much more in his senses than in his ideals.
“Perhaps you are right,” he said. “I sometimes wish I had greater
courage of my convictions. I think I could have, were you to stimulate
me with such words often. But my mother is so afraid that I will wander
from the old dogmas, that I am constantly checking myself. However, in
regard to the case I mentioned to you—it is a delicate subject, but you
are not like ordinary young women, and you and I have stood beside so
many sick-beds and death-beds together that we can speak as man to man,
or woman to woman, with no false modesty to bar our speech.
“A very sad case has come to my knowledge of late. Miss Adams, a woman
who for some years has been a devout member of St Blank’s Church, has
several times mentioned her niece to me, a young girl who was away at
boarding school. A few months ago the young girl graduated and came to
live with this aunt. I remember her as a bright, buoyant and very
intelligent girl. I have not seen her now during two months; and last
week I asked Miss Adams what had become of her niece. Then the poor
woman broke into sobs and told me the sad state of affairs. It seems
that the girl Marah is her daughter. The poor mother had believed she
could guard the truth from her child, and had educated her as her niece,
and was now prepared to enjoy her companionship, when some
mischief-making gossip dug up the old scandal and imparted the facts to
Marah.
“The girl came to Miss Adams and demanded the truth, and the mother
confessed. Then the daughter settled into a profound melancholy, from
which nothing seemed to rouse her. She will not go out, remains in the
house, and broods constantly over her disgrace.
“It occurred to me that if Marah Adams could be brought out of herself
and interested in some work, or study, it would be the salvation of her
reason. Her mother told me she is an accomplished musician, but that she
refuses to touch her piano now. I thought you might take her as an
understudy on the organ, and by your influence and association lead her
out of herself. You could make her acquaintance through approaching the
mother who is a milliner, on business, and your tact would do the rest.
In all my large and wealthy congregation I know of no other woman to whom
I could appeal for aid in this delicate matter, so I am sure you will
pardon me. In fact, I fear were the matter to be known in the
congregation at all, it would lead to renewed pain and added hurts for
both Miss Adams and her daughter. You know women can be so cruel to each
other in subtle ways, and I have seen almost death-blows dealt in church
aisles by one church member to another.”
“Oh, that is a terrible reflection on Christians,” cried Joy, who, a born
Christ-woman, believed that all professed church members must feel the
same divine spirit of sympathy and charity which burned in her own sweet
soul.
“No, it is a simple truth—an unfortunate fact,” the young man replied.
“I preach sermons at such members of my church, but they seldom take them
home. They think I mean somebody else. These are the people who follow
the letter and not the spirit of the church. But one such member as you,
recompenses me for a score of the others. I felt I must come to you with
the Marah Adams affair.”
Joy was still thinking of the reflection the rector had cast upon his
congregation. It hurt her, and she protested.
“Oh, surely,” she said, “you cannot mean that I am the only one of the
professed Christians in your church who would show mercy and sympathy to
poor Miss Adams. Surely few, very few, would forget Christ’s words to
Mary Magdalene, ‘Go and sin no more,’ or fail to forgive as He forgave.
She has led such a good life all these years.”
The rector smiled sadly.
“You judge others by your own true heart,” he said. “But I know the
world as it is. Yes, the members of my church would forgive Miss Adams
for her sin—and cut her dead. They would daily crucify her and her
innocent child by their cold scorn or utter ignoring of them. They would
not allow their daughters to associate with this blameless girl, because
of her mother’s misstep.
“It is the same in and out of the churches. Twenty people will repeat
Christ’s words to a repentant sinner, but nineteen of that twenty
interpolate a few words of their own, through tone, gesture or manner,
until ‘Go and sin no more’ sounds to the poor unfortunate more like ‘Go
just as far away from me and mine as you can get—and sin no more!’ Only
one in that score puts Christ’s merciful and tender meaning into the
phrase and tries by sympathetic association to make it possible for the
sinner to sin no more. I felt you were that one, and so I appealed to
you in this matter about Marah Adams.”
Joy’s eyes were full of tears. “You must know more of human nature than
I do,” she said, “but I hate terribly to think you are right in this
estimate of the people of your congregation. I will go and see what I
can do for this girl to-morrow. Poor child, poor mother, to pass through
a second Gethsemane for her sin. I think any girl or boy whose home life
is shadowed, is to be pitied. I have always had such a happy home, and
such dear parents, the world would seem insupportable, I am sure, were I
to face it without that background. Dear papa’s death was a great blow,
and mother’s ill health has been a sorrow, but we have always been so
happy and harmonious, and that, I think, is worth more than a fortune to
a child. Poor, poor Marah—unable to respect her mother, what a terrible
thing it all is!”
“Yes, it is a sad affair. I cannot help thinking it would have been a
pardonable lie if Miss Adams had denied the truth when the girl
confronted her with the story. It is the one situation in life where a
lie is excusable, I think. It would have saved this poor girl no end of
sorrow, and it could not have added much to the mother’s burden. I think
lying must have originated with an erring woman.”
Joy looked at her rector with startled eyes. “A lie is never excusable,”
she said, “and I do not believe it ever saves sorrow. But I see you do
not mean what you say, you only feel very sorry for the girl; and you
surely do not forget that the lie originated with Satan, who told a
falsehood to Eve.”