DUST AND DOUBT.
THE scheme to visit the dingy church on Wednesday afternoon, and
contribute somewhat to its attractiveness, was carried out to the very
letter. Mrs. Morgan, senior, made sundry dry remarks about not being
aware that any of her family had been hired to put the church in order;
but Farmer Morgan declared that it certainly needed it as much as any
place he ever saw—that he would be ashamed to have a barn look as that
did; and John declared that he had promised to stop the squeak in that
old organ, and he meant to do it, hired or not hired.
Louise, who had not heard him promise, and who had felt much anxiety
lest he would refuse to perform, was so elated over this declaration
that, with her husband's help, she parried her mother-in-law's thrusts
with the utmost good-humour, helped by the fact that, whatever she
might say, that strange woman actually felt glad over the thought of
her young people going off together like other folks.
The efforts of Mrs. Morgan's life had been spent in keeping her
children from being "like other folks," and yet, with strange
inconsistency, she liked to see these approaches to other people's ways
of doing things.
If she could have explained what her sore and disappointed heart had
meant, it would have revealed the fact that she intended her children
to be superior to; not isolated from, the society around them.
Wednesday afternoon proved a real gala time to Dorothy. She entered
with zest into the lamp-cleaning, and after a few lessons from Louise,
developed a remarkable talent for making the chimneys glitter in the
sunlight. The surprised and smiling sexton had done his share, and the
dust from the long unswept room lay thick on pulpit and seat-rail. The
room was comparatively warm too, which, if Louise had but known it, was
a rare thing on Wednesday evening. John swung the old organ around in a
business-like manner, and applied a drop of oil here and another there,
then gave himself to the mending of one of the stops; while Lewis
tacked on the new binding for the desk, and whistled softly an old
tune. Altogether, Louise's plans were working royally. She had managed
a difficult bit of business in the shape of a lunch, which had been
smuggled into the buggy with them.
"What on earth do you want of that!" had Mrs. Morgan exclaimed in
astonishment, when she had been appealed to. "You don't expect to work
so hard that you will get hungry before supper, do you?"
"Why, we want it for our supper," said Louise. "You know we shall not
have time to come back before prayer-meeting, and that will make us
late for supper."
"Prayer-meeting!" No words on paper can express to you the surprise in
the questioner's voice. "Are you going to stay to prayer-meeting?"
"Why, certainly; we want to see whether the lamps are improved. If
Dorrie leaves lint on the glass it will show splendidly when they are
lighted. Besides, I want to hear how that organ will sound when it
doesn't squeak."
"And what is going to become of John-while you are staying to meeting?"
Mrs. Morgan's face had taken on a deeper cloud of disapprobation, and
her voice was glumness intensified.
"Why, John will stay to meeting with us, of course."
This from Louise, in positive tone, albeit she was painfully uncertain
about that very thing; certain only of this, that if John would not
stay, the rest would not. It was no part of her plan to carry him down
to the village, simply to be tempted of Satan, as he always was, at the
street corners.
"Humph!" said Mrs. Morgan, senior, and she went her way, giving no sign
of relief or approval, save that the lunch she prepared and packed for
their united suppers was bountiful and inviting.
So Louise dusted and advised as to lamps and pulpit, and prayed
heartily meanwhile. How was she to prevail on John to stay to
prayer-meeting? Was it a foolish scheme? Would it be better to abandon
it and go home? What if, at the last moment, he should rebel, and go
away and spend the evening in that horrid corner grocery? Recent though
her introduction into the family was, she had already learned how they
dreaded the influence of that corner grocery. She lingered near her
husband and consulted.
"Lewis, how can we prevail on John to be willing to stay to-night until
after the meeting?"
"Oh, he'll be willing enough; no danger of him. He hasn't had an
opportunity to visit his friends at the corner for some time; he will
catch at the chance."
"Oh, but we mustn't have that kind of staying. I mean how can we coax
him to stay here at the prayer-meeting?"
Her husband regarded her curiously. "I don't believe even you can
accomplish such a result as that," he said at last; "and I am willing
to admit that you do accomplish some very extraordinary things."
"Lewis, why do you speak in that way, as though I were trying to do
anything wonderful? Can any work be simpler than to seek to get one
interested in prayer-meetings who has no natural interest in such
things? I want you to ask him to stay. You said yesterday that you had
never invited him to attend. Tell him we have a nice lunch, and want
him to stay with us and enjoy the meeting. Perhaps all he is waiting
for is an invitation."
"Louise clear, you don't know John. He would have no enjoyment from
this meeting, even if he stayed, which he will not do; and now, in all
sincerity, I believe he would be much less likely to stay if I were to
ask him than he would under almost any other circumstances. It is a
humiliating fact that he doesn't care to do anything to please me."
Louise turned away with a sigh. Her work was growing complicated.
Meantime the dusting and cleansing went steadily on, and when all was
accomplished the church was certainly improved.
A somewhat weary but gay little company gather under one of the
renovated lamps just at nightfall, and having made their toilets by
folding away large aprons and sweeping-caps and donning hats and shawls
again, sat down to eat the generous lunch.
"Queer way of having a picnic," said John. "I've always supposed the
woods was the place for such gatherings. We might as well go home for
all I can see; our work is about done."
Lewis glanced significantly at his wife. Her face expressed doubt and
anxiety. Certainly it would be better for them all to go home at once
rather than that John should spend his evening at the corners. Just
what should she say at this juncture? She hesitated but a moment, then
said quickly,—
"Why, we are going to stay to prayer-meeting; don't you suppose we want
to see the effect of these improvements on the people?"
"To prayer-meeting!" echoed John; then, beyond a low, suddenly
suppressed whistle, he said no more.
Their departure for the church had been delayed, and the work there had
taken longer than had been anticipated, so that as the short winter
day drew rapidly to its close, the lunch had finally to be disposed
of in haste, in order that two or three unfinished matters might be
accomplished before the hour for prayer-meeting. With very little idea
as to what she should say, or whether it would be wise to say anything,
Louise followed John to the organ corner, while he struggled to make
the organist's broken seat less objectionable.
"The idea of allowing a church to run into shabbiness in this fashion!"
he said with energy, a sneer in his voice; "shows how interested the
people are in it."
"Why doesn't the sexton light the lamps on the other side?" questioned
Louise, unwilling to enter into a discussion concerning the
inconsistencies of the church, and really curious to understand the
movements of that worthy the sexton.
"More than I know. They are all filled and trimmed, I am sure; perhaps
he doesn't know that. He probably economizes by using the lamps on one
side until they are empty, and then taking the other row."
"No," said Louise; "I see what it is done for—to compel the people to
sit close together, and not spread over the entire church. It is a good
idea, too."
"Yes," said John; "shows how many they expect!"
What strange power John had to throw meaning into a few words. This
simple sentence started Louise; she glanced over the large church. What
a very small corner of it was lighted and made habitable. Yet she felt
her own faith was equal to even less than that amount of room; she
struggled for some satisfying explanation.
"But, John, you know this room has to be large enough for the entire
congregation; and a great many of them are in the country, and could
hardly be expected, I suppose, to attend prayer-meeting."
"I know it," said John; "twice as far down to the village on Wednesday
evening as it is on Saturday. On Saturday evenings the stores have to
be kept open until eleven o'clock, so many country people are in town;
but none of them are affected in that way on Wednesday."
"Well," said Louise, trying to speak lightly, "our party will count
four more than are usually here; that is one comfort."
John regarded her furtively from under lowering eyebrows.
"Have you any kind of a notion that I intend to stay to this meeting?"
he asked at last, a curious mixture of sarcasm and sneer in his tones.
There was something in John's voice that was constantly reminding one
of sneers.
A sudden reaction of feeling swept over Louise, or rather the feeling
that she had held in check rose to the surface. A vision of John at the
corner, playing cards, smoking, drinking beer; of the mother at home,
sick at heart, when she saw him and smelled his breath; of the father's
anger and Lewis's gravity, appeared before her, and her voice faltered
and her eyes were full of tears as she answered, from a full heart—
"No, I am afraid you are not going to; and I am so disappointed about
it that I feel as though I could hardly—"
Here the words stopped, and the tears actually dropped—one of them on
John's hand, that was outstretched just at the moment to grasp the
hammer lying beside her. He withdrew it suddenly, a strange expression
crossing his face; he looked at his hand doubtfully, gravely, then
looked back at Louise.
"Why in the name of common sense do you care whether I stay to
prayer-meeting or where I go?"
"I care," said Louise, brushing away the treacherous tears and raising
earnest eyes to his face, "a great deal more than I can explain to you.
I never had a brother; I have always wanted one, and I looked forward
to having pleasant times together with my brother John. But you won't
do anything to please me."
"How do you know I won't?" His voice was gruff now, gruffer than it had
been during the day, and he seized the hammer and pounded so vigorously
that she could neither speak nor hear. She turned from him in doubt
and anxiety still, and immediately joined her husband, who had come to
say that the pounding must cease—the people were beginning to come to
prayer-meeting. Nevertheless the pounding did not cease until two more
nails were in place. Then did John, without any effort at quiet, stalk
down the uncarpeted aisle and seat himself in the Morgan pew, Dorothy
edging along for the purpose, and looking her undisguised astonishment.
Louise tried to feel triumphant; but as the hour dragged its slow
length along her heart was very heavy. What a strange meeting it
was—strange, at least, to her who had been used to better things. In
the first place, the number, all told, counting the four who filled the
Morgan pew, amounted to twenty-three. Now, when twenty-three people are
placed in a room designed for the accommodation of three hundred, the
effect, to say the least, is not social. Then these twenty-three seemed
to have made a study of seating themselves in as widespread a manner
as the conditions of light and darkness would admit. Dorothy saw this,
and lost herself in trying to plan where the congregation would have
been likely to sit had the other lamps been lighted. That condition
of inability to sing, which seems to be the chronic state of many
prayer-meetings, was in full force here. Mr. Butler announced a hymn,
read it, and earnestly invited a leader; but none responded. Louise
felt her cheeks flushing in sympathy with the minister's embarrassment,
and never more earnestly wished that she could sing. Even Dorothy,
conscious that she could sing, was so far roused by sympathy that she
felt the bumpings of her frightened heart, caused by the courageous
question, "What if I should?" Not that she had the least idea of doing
so, but the bare thought made her blood race through her veins at
lightning speed. At last a quavering voice took up the cross, and made
a cross for every one who tried to join in the unknown and uninviting
melody.
This prayer-meeting does not need a lengthy description; there are,
alas! too many like it:—Two long prayers, called for by the pastor,
between two silences, which waited for some one to "occupy the time." A
few dreary sentences from Deacon Jones, who is always in every meeting,
detailing his weary story of how things used to be when Mr. Somebody
Else was our pastor. Another attempt at a song of praise, which made
John's lip curl more emphatically than the first one had; and then the
pastor arose to make some remarks. How interesting he could be at the
supper-table; how bright and pleasant he could be when roasting apples
and popping corn! These things the Morgans knew; so did nearly every
one of the other nineteen.
Why was he so uninteresting in the prayer-meeting? Louise tried to
analyze it. What he said was true and good; why did it fall like empty
bubbles on her heart or vanish away? His theme was prayer. Did he mean
the words he was repeating, "If ye shall ask anything in my name, I
will do it"? Did he understand what those words meant? If so, why
did not he explain them to others? Dorothy wondered at this; she had
not gotten so far as to doubt them—that is, she knew they were Bible
words; she saw Mr. Butler open his Bible and read them from it; but,
of course, it didn't mean what it said. "If it did," said poor Dorothy
to herself, "I would ask—oh, I would ask for ever so many things." And
then her mind went off in a dream of what it would ask for, if only
those words meant what they said! And Mr. Butler talked, generalized,
told wonderful and blessed, ay, and solemn truths, much as a boy might
tell over the words of his spelling lesson. Did the pastor feel those
words? Did he realize their meaning? Had he been asking? If so, for
what? Had he received it? If he had not received, and still believed
the words he read, why did not he set himself to find the reason for
the delay? Poor Louise! Her mind roved almost as badly as Dorothy's,
only over more solemn ground. As for John, his face told, to a close
observer, just what he thought: he did not believe a word, not a word,
of what had been read, nor of what was being said. More than that, he
did not believe that the minister believed it. Was there any good in
getting John to stay to prayer-meeting?