FISHING.
SUNDAY morning dawned at last, with as bright a sunshine as ever May
produced. The air was crisp and clear, and the level road was frozen
hard. Look which way he would, Farmer Morgan would have found it hard
to produce an excuse why the family should not appear in church. To
be sure, he often said that he didn't "feel like going;" and as John
wouldn't go, that had heretofore settled the matter for the mother and
Dorothy, whether they would or not. But on this morning, Louise and
Lewis came from their room evidently dressed for the day; and Louise,
with confident air, remarked—
"What a nice morning for a ride! if one didn't care for church-going,
it would be pleasant to get out to-day."
In Lewis's mind were some doubts as to who of the family could go,
as the small spring-waggon would not accommodate more than four; but
Farmer Morgan settled it by saying in positive voice—
"You'll have to go to-day, John, and drive. I've got a stiff neck, and
I don't feel like going out."
"I guess Lewis hasn't forgot how to drive," John began sullenly: "I
ain't going to church."
"You can go to church or not, just as you like, when you get down
there, I s'pose; but you will have to drive the horses, for the colt
has got to go, and she isn't used to Lewis, and I won't have him drive
her. It would look more decent to go to church, I think; but you've got
so you don't care much about decency, and I s'pose you'll do as you
please.—You going, mother?"
"No!" said Mrs. Morgan promptly; "I'll get the dinner. Dorothy can go,
if she likes."
And the instant glow on Dorothy's cheek told that she "liked." Only
John was sullen; he did not recover during the entire ride; spoke only
to the horses, save when Dorothy gave little frightened jumps when the
colt seemed to her not to be moving with propriety; then the driver
snappishly directed her to "sit still and not act like a simpleton."
Arrived at the church door, he sat still, allowing Lewis to alight and
wait on the ladies.
"Let us wait for John," Louise said, as her husband turned from the
waggon; "it is nicer to all go in together."
John opened his lips, and if ever lips were going to say, "John isn't
coming," his were; but he hesitated, looked down at the young, earnest
face turned with a confident air toward him, then turned away, snapped
his whip, and said nothing.
"You'll be here in a minute, won't you, John?"
"Yes," he said, or rather snapped, as though he was disgusted with
himself for the answer; then giving the colt a smart touch with the
whip, she curveted around the corner in a style which would surely have
made Dorothy scream had she been behind her.
"That is only a little short of a miracle," Lewis said in surprise. "I
never knew John to compromise his dignity by going to church after he
had announced that he wasn't going, and that announcement is the rule
rather than the exception."
"I felt as though he must come to church this morning, somehow," Louise
made answer in a low tone. "I couldn't give it up; it has been the
burden of my prayer all the morning."
To which remark Lewis Morgan had no reply to make; he remembered, with
a sudden sting of conscience, that he had not so much as thought of
his brother's name in prayer that morning. Reasoning upon common sense
principles, how much could he have desired his presence in the church?
It was a quiet little village church, looking natural enough to the
eyes of the usual worshippers; but what a strange feeling it gave
Louise! She was accustomed to broad, soft-carpeted aisles; richly
carved and upholstered seats; costly pulpit furnishing; massive
organ, with solemn tones filling the church. Here her feet trod on
bare floors, and the old-fashioned pew, to which she was ushered, had
neither footstool nor cushion, though it was high enough to demand the
one and hard enough to suggest the other. The red and yellow tassels,
which depended from the pulpit cushion, were frayed and faded; the
sun streamed in unpleasantly from windows that boasted of neither
shades nor blinds; and there was a general air of dilapidation about
everything. She looked around with curious eyes on the congregation:
their appearance was not in keeping with the surroundings; they looked
well-dressed and well-bred, as if the most of them might have come out
from comfortable homes to spend this hour together. To all such, what
a painful contrast between the comforts and the luxuries of their own
homes must the house of God have presented; while to those who came
from desolate homes, if there were any such, what attractions did the
place offer? "It isn't even clean," the new-comer said to herself,
her lip almost curling as she saw the stray bits of paper and card
scattered over the floor, and the dust lying loosely everywhere. "If
they care for the church at all, why don't they keep it in order?"
When the service commenced the feeling of discomfort was not removed.
The little choir, perched high in air away at the back of the church,
would not at that distance and height have been able to "lead the
congregation," had they been so disposed. Their voices were clear and
in fair tone, and the little parlour organ was originally sweet-voiced,
but the whole was so marred by a high-keyed, distressing squeak,
that Louise found it difficult to keep back the frowns. She bowed
her head during the prayer, and succeeded in getting into the spirit
of communion; then waited eagerly for the sermon. The words of the
text rang with a suggestive thought: "The life is more than meat, and
the body more than raiment." But alas for the sermon! What was the
matter with it? It was true; it was well written and well read; it was
carefully logical; it sought to impress upon the minds of his hearers
what a wonderful and glorious and endless thing was life. And John and
Dorothy, those two for whom Louise had most anxious desire, listened—or
appeared to listen—to the wonderful possibilities of this life and the
wonderful certainties of the future, and were as indifferent to the one
as the other, neither serving to lift the bored look from their faces.
As Louise watched, and saw how little they were getting, Satan appeared
to her, suggesting to her heart that perplexing and harassing question
with which he delights to weary those who have tried: "What good," said
he, "will it do to have those two young people come to this church and
listen to this sermon? Do you believe they have gotten a single new
idea or aspiration? Don't you feel nearly certain that they will go
home less impressible than they came? Because you must remember that
every presentation of the truth either helps or hardens. Of what use
were all your plans and prayers? What availed your little thrill of
thanksgiving over the success of your scheme? Don't you see it will
amount to less than nothing?" Is not it strange that the followers of
Christ will go on, year after year, bending a listening ear to Satan,
while he rings the changes of that old, long ago vanquished falsehood,
"If thou be the Son of God"? "If the Lord had cared anything about
your efforts to serve him," said the tempter on this Sunday morning,
"wouldn't he have planned this whole service differently? You believe
that he could have done it; why didn't he? You know very well that
there hasn't been a thing said that would be in the least likely to
help these two persons."
What should Louise do? Here she was, in the house of God, and here was
this tempting demon at her elbow. Who was it that said, "Whoever else
stays away from church, Satan never does"? Whoever said it, the thought
flashed over this tried soul suddenly, and she bowed her head to speak
a word to that triumphant Conqueror who passed through the conflict
centuries ago, and is "able to succour them that are tempted." Did he
speak again the word of command, "Get thee hence, Satan"? Assuredly he
came himself and stood beside her, and she was enabled to remember that
her part was to plant and water as she could, the fruit thereof being
God's part, and his unchangeable "doubtless" was added to the promise
of success. In the hymn and prayer that followed heart and spirit
joined, and as Louise Morgan raised her head after the benediction, she
felt that this was indeed the house of God and the gate of heaven. He
had verified his promise yet again, and met her in his temple.
Nevertheless, her first spoken words after the service would not have
seemed to many to be in keeping with the hour—
"John, what on earth is the matter with that organ?"
Despite the habitual frown on John's face, he was betrayed into a
laugh, there was so much intensity in the questioner's voice.
"Why, it needs a drop or two of oil," he said promptly; "and has needed
it ever since I can remember. Anybody would think they considered the
squeak an addition to the music, by the way they hang on to it."
"Is it possible that a little oil is all that is needed to stop that
horrible sound? Why don't you fix it?"
"I?" said John, turning full, astonished eyes on her, surprised out of
his reserve and his frowns.
"Why, certainly; how can you endure it for so long? Do, John, fix it
before next Sunday; it spoils the music. I could hardly enjoy even the
words, because of that dreadful sound. How many things there are that
ought to be done here. Why do they leave the church in this shape?
Isn't there a sexton?"
"Why, yes," said John, "I suppose so. Of course there must be; he rings
the bell and makes the fires."
"But never sweeps," added Louise, smiling, "nor dusts. John, if you can
prevail on him to do some sweeping this week, I'll come down with you,
when you come to oil that organ, and do the dusting. Wouldn't that be
an improvement?"
"When you come to oil that organ!" The sentence had so strange a sound
that John repeated it to himself. Was it possible that he was coming to
oil the church organ? She spoke very confidently, quite as though it
were a settled matter. And yet he would almost as soon have expected to
see himself coming to preach the sermon! What would the people think of
his going into the church on a week day? No one remembered better than
he that of late his presence on the Sabbath had been a rarity. He had
been on the verge of telling her that he had not been hired to keep the
church in order, but neither had she been hired to dust it; and he was
quick-witted enough to see that after the dusting scheme was proposed
his subterfuge would not do.
"Oh well," he said to himself, "she'll forget it. Catch me oiling the
church organ! If it groaned loud enough to be heard ten miles off I
wouldn't touch it!" And he honestly thought he would not; he had a
vindictive feeling for that old organ.
This conversation had consumed much less time than it has taken me to
give it. They were passing down the aisle, John having been withheld
from his usual habit of rushing out the instant the Amen was spoken
by the sudden question that had been put to him. Now Louise turned
his thoughts into another channel. Her husband had been waylaid by a
gentleman who seemed anxious to have his opinion on some church matter;
she was therefore at leisure to fish for John.
"I don't want to go home without being introduced to the minister," she
said. "There he comes now. Will you introduce me, John?"
"I don't know him," answered John shortly. The tone added, "And I don't
want to."
"Don't you? Oh, he's a new-comer. Well, then, let's introduce
ourselves."
He was just beside them now, and aided her plans, holding out his hand
with a genial "Mrs. Morgan, I believe." He was a young, bright-faced
man, cheery of voice and manner, and more winning, apparently, anywhere
else than he was in the pulpit. Louise returned his hand-clasp
cordially, and hastened to say—
"My brother, Mr. Morgan; my sister, Miss Morgan. We are all strangers
together, I believe. You have been here but a short time, I understand?"
"Why, yes," the minister said, flushing slightly—he was comparatively
a new-comer—remembering, meantime, the embarrassing fact that he had
been there quite long enough to get acquainted with that portion of his
flock which seemed to him worth cultivating. "I have not gotten out to
Mr. Morgan's yet, but I hope to do so this week. What day will you be
most at leisure, Mrs. Morgan?"
"Oh," said Louise brightly, "we shall be glad to see you at any time;
suppose you come on Tuesday," thinking, meantime, of one or two
little pet schemes of her own. "Shall we expect you to tea?—John, we
would like to have him take tea with us, wouldn't we? You haven't an
engagement for Tuesday, have you?"
Thus appealed to, what was there for John but to stammer out an answer,
over which he ruminated half the way home. Was it possible that he
had engaged to be at home on Tuesday, to meet the minister, and had
actually seconded his invitation to tea? How came he to do it? What
were the words he said? How happened he to say them? He felt very much
bewildered, somewhat vexed, and just a very trifle interested. There
was certainly nothing in the minister to like, and he did not like
him; moreover, he did not mean to like him. What was it, then, that
interested him? He did not quite know. He wondered what loophole of
escape he could find for Tuesday; also he wondered whether he really
and truly was determined to escape. Altogether, John did not understand
his own state of mind.
"O Lewis," said Mrs. Morgan, just as they were nearing home, "do you
suppose anybody would object if you were to cut those dreadful-looking
yellow tassels from the pulpit and tack a neat little braid, such as
upholsterers use, around it? John and I are going down there, some day
this week, to fix up things, and you may go along and upholster the
pulpit if you want to."
"John and you!"
The astonishment in her husband's voice made Louise's eyes laugh; but
her tones were steady. "Yes, he is going to stop that dreadful squeak
in the organ; isn't that terrible? It just spoiled the music, and it
would have been good but for that. I've promised to dust if there can
be some sweeping done. O John, did you speak to the sexton? No? Well, I
am not sure that it is very Sunday work; but when can you see him?"
Then Dorothy roused to the occasion—
"The sexton comes every morning to get a can of milk for some of his
customers at the village."
"Oh, does he? Then you can see him. John, you will attend to it
to-morrow morning, won't you? And have it done before Wednesday,
because then the church will be warmed for prayer-meeting, and we can
get it ready more comfortably. I wonder if those lamps don't smoke?
They look as if they might."
"They used to smoke fiercely enough when I knew them last," her husband
said. "I haven't been down in the evening since I came home from
Australia."
Here was certainly a revelation to Louise. Her husband had not been to
the church prayer-meeting since he came from Australia, eight months
before! But she made no comment. Dorothy, having once determined to
speak, had more to say—
"They look as though they hadn't been washed for forty years! I never
saw such black things in my life!"
"Suppose you enlist with us, Dorothy? Go down on Wednesday, and let's
put the lamps in order. We'll let Lewis buy some wicks and chimneys for
his share. I saw that two of the chimneys were broken; those two lamps
will smoke, of course."
John laughed outright.
"I believe you saw every crack and corner of the church," he said,
speaking almost good-naturedly.
And Dorothy spoke her troubled thought—
"I don't know anything about kerosene lamps. I don't suppose I could
fix one to save my life."
"I know all about them; papa used to have one in his office that I took
care of, and mamma used one for sewing. I can show you all about them
in five minutes. Will you go?"
"Well," said Dorothy, veiling her eagerness as well as she could, "I'd
be willing, but I don't believe mother will."
"Yes, she will; I'll look out for that."
It was neither Lewis nor Louise that made this startling promise, but
John himself!
"Was it quite according to Sunday observance to make all those
plans?" Louise asked her husband, smiling, but a shade of trouble,
nevertheless, in her voice. "Sometimes those things trouble me. I had
Sunday plans at heart, but I'm afraid they didn't show very plainly."
"Well, I don't know: to brighten the church, so that it shall be a more
tolerable spot, is important, certainly. It is a very desirable thing
to accomplish, Louise. But I don't see how you coaxed John into it."
"I want the church to look better, it is true," Louise said,
thoughtfully; "but, after all, that is secondary. Lewis, I want John
and Dorothy."