CORDS UNSEEN.
THE morning service was just over in the great church on Lexington
Avenue. A large company of men and women lingered in the broad aisles,
shaking hands with each other, saying a word here and there in subdued
happy tones. A looker-on, who was familiar with religious meetings,
and who yet had not been present at this one, would have known by the
atmosphere lingering in the church that the worshippers had been having
a happy time. They were loath to leave; they gathered in little knots,
at convenient standing-places, and discussed the events of the hour and
the prospects of the evening. Large numbers of the ladies had packages
of white cards in their hands—not unlike calling-cards in size and
texture, and quite as carefully written on as ever calling-cards were.
The handwriting was peculiar—delicate, gracefully rounded letters,
skilful flourishes. Somebody had considered the work important, and had
bestowed time and skill.
"Estelle dear, won't you go forward and get some of the cards? I see
very few here who will go up Fairmount Street, and you may be able to
reach some who will be otherwise neglected."
So spoke one of the lingerers, a fair-faced woman, with silver-tinted
hair, to a very graceful young woman, who was evidently her daughter,
and who evidently lingered, not so much from personal interest in the
scene as because her mother did. She turned full, wondering, and yet
deprecating eyes on her mother at the question.
"O mamma! I cannot offer those cards to people. I am not one of the
workers, you know; it isn't expected of me. You have some, and that
will be sufficient for our family."
"I am not going up Fairmount Street," the mother answered quietly.
"I have only enough cards to meet my own opportunities, daughter. If
Louise were here, dear, can't you think how she would scatter those
little white messengers?"
"Louise is good, mamma, and I am not, you know; you mustn't expect me
to be Louise. I can no more take her place in that way than I can in a
hundred others."
"Oh yes, you can, my child; it doesn't require any special skill to
hand a card of invitation to a passer-by, or even to speak a word of
encouragement to the half persuaded."
"But, mamma, how would it look for me to invite people to the meetings?
I am not one of the church members. It wouldn't be very consistent, I
think."
The mother's eyes were sorrowful and questioning as they rested on the
face of her fair young daughter. She seemed not to know just what would
be well to answer to this. At last she said,—
"Estelle dear, even though you refuse Christ yourself, don't you wish
that many others might come to him? Poor, sad hearts who have not your
opportunities, nor know the way as you do—shouldn't they have their
chance to choose, and aren't you willing to extend the invitation?"
The young girl's cheeks flushed a deeper pink, and her eyes drooped,
but she answered steadily,—
"Certainly I am, mamma."
Then she went forward and received from the pastor a package of the
beautiful cards, turning them over curiously in her hand, wondering
much how it would seem to pass them out to people, and whether the
cards would be accepted or refused.
Simple little cards they were; nothing pretentious or formidable about
them; just an announcement of daily religious services, giving the
hours of meetings and the name of the preacher; then, on the reverse
side, in the most exquisite penmanship, this simple quotation, "The
Master is come, and calleth for thee." Estelle read it, and the glow on
her cheeks did not lessen. There was certainly something very solemn in
the suggestion. Estelle could hardly help giving a moment's attention
to the inquiry whether the Master really were calling for her. Could
she have brought her heart to the point of believing that such was the
case, it would have been well with Estelle, for she could not have
said the Master nay. The sin in her case was that she would not study
the subject long enough to be able to believe that she was personally
included in the call. Nevertheless she went her way up Fairmount Street
on her unusual errand, a little touch of vexation in her face over the
thought that Louise would have done all this so well, and would so have
delighted in it, while she must bunglingly try to supply her place. It
was about this time that John Morgan turned into Fairmount Street, much
wondering where he was and what he could be expected to do next.
"Will you have a card, please?" And a vision of loveliness fell on his
astonished gaze, and a delicately-gloved hand was stretched forth with
the fair bit of pasteboard. "It is just an invitation to the meetings;
we hope you will come." And still the card was outstretched, and still
John stood and stared. What was there about that face and voice that
seemed familiar to him as one whom he had met in a dream or in the
far-away unreality of some other existence? It bewildered him to the
extent that he forgot either to decline or accept the card, but stood
looking and wondering. Estelle felt the importance of saying something
further to this silent starer. "They have very good singing, and great
crowds come every evening. I think you will like it. Will you take the
card?"
Thus petitioned, John, roused from his bewilderment, put forth his hand
for the proffered card, because for the moment he could not decide what
else to do.
Then Estelle, her mission accomplished and her embarrassment great,
flitted away from him around the corner. "What a strange-acting
fellow!" was her comment. "How he did stare! One would suppose he had
never seen a lady before. Dear me! He looks as though he needed a
friend. Somehow I can't help feeling sorry for him. I really hope he
will go to the meeting; but of course he won't." And Estelle Barrows
actually realized that for such a dreary, friendless-looking person as
he the love of Christ would be a great transformation. She did not mean
that she, Estelle Barrows, in her beauty and purity, surrounded by the
safeguards of her high position, had no need of Christ; neither did she
realize that this was the logical conclusion of her reasoning.
"What in the name of common sense has got into all the people to-day?
They are running wild on cards." This was John Morgan's comment. He
was ashamed and vexed to think he had so forgotten his sullenness and
indifference as to stare at the fair young face. He read the card
carefully, more to get away from his present thoughts than from any
interest in it; but the verse on the reverse side held his attention
for a few minutes, from the fact that the words were the very same
as those on the card given him by the old lady who had supplied his
breakfast. It struck him as a strange coincidence. Presently he thrust
the bit of pasteboard into his pocket, and dismissed the incident from
his mind.
Not again did it recur to him until he was passing, during that same
evening, a brightly-lighted building, from whence there issued sounds
of music. Something in the strains recalled, he knew not how or why,
the incident of the morning and the card of invitation. "I wonder if
this is the place?" he queried. "It would be rather queer if I had
blundered on the very building, without the least notion of doing any
such thing." He paused before the door, listening to the roll of the
organ as it sounded on the quiet air. "That organ doesn't squeak,
anyhow," he said grimly, recalling the organ scene in the old church
at home, and Louise's pleasure in its improved condition after he had
taken hold of it. Thoughts of her suggested the card again, and he
brought it forth from his pocket, and by the light of a friendly lamp
compared the name on the card with the name on the building before him.
Yes, they agreed; chance or Providence, according as you are accustomed
to view these matters, had led him to the very spot. Still he had no
intention of going in. "Pretty-looking object I am to go to church,"
he said, surveying himself critically, something between a smile and
a sneer on his face. "I would create a sensation, I fancy. I wonder
if the bit of silk and lace that gave me the card is in there? And I
wonder if she expects to see me? And I wonder where I have seen her
before, and why her face haunts me?"
The organ had been silent for some minutes; now it rolled forth its
notes again, and voices, that to John seemed of unearthly sweetness,
rang out on the quiet:—
"Come home! Come home! You are weary at heart;
And the way has been long,
And so lonely and wild!
Oh, prodigal child, come home! Oh, come home!"
Was John Morgan homesick? He would have scorned the thought. Yet at
the sound of these tender words a strange choking sensation came over
him, and something very like a mist filled his eyes. He felt, rather
than realized, how long and lonely and wild the way had been; still he
had no intention of going in. He would step nearer and listen to that
music; those voices were unlike anything he had ever heard before. He
drew nearer under the light of the hall lamp. He could see into the
church. The doors stood invitingly open; the aisles even were full.
Some were standing, not well-dressed people all of them, by any means;
but some were so roughly clad that even he would not attract attention
by the contrast. A young man, well-dressed, with an open hymn-book in
his hand, stood by the door, almost in the hall. He turned suddenly,
and his eyes rested on John; he beckoned him forward, then stepped
toward him.
"Come right in, my friend; we can find standing-room for you, and the
sermon is just about to commence."
"I'm not dressed for such places," said John, imagining that he spoke
firmly.
"Oh, never mind the dress; that is not of the least consequence; there
are plenty of men in here in their rough working-clothes. Come right
in."
"Come home, come home," sang out the wonderful voices. And John Morgan,
still with no intention of going in, yet impelled by a force which he
no more understood than he understood his own soul, stepped forward and
followed the young man into the crowded church. The singing ceased, and
the minister arose and immediately announced his text, "Friend, how
camest thou in hither, not having on a wedding garment?"
The sentence was spoken so like a personal question that John looked
about him, startled. Could it be possible that the man was addressing
him—actually referring to his uncouth dress? This only for an instant;
then he discovered that no one was paying the least attention to him,
and that his dress, rough enough, was not worse than that of some
by whom he was surrounded. But the preacher's manner was so new and
strange, so unlike anything that John Morgan had ever met before,
that, despite his own half-formed determination to get out of this, he
stayed, and looked, and listened.
If I could I would tell you about that sermon; but sermons on paper,
reported by a second party, are so very different from the words that
come burning hot from the heart of the preacher, that on second thought
I have deemed it unwise to make the attempt.
To John Morgan the entire service was like a revelation of mysteries.
That which had seemed to him bewildering and contradictory, and finally
actually exasperating in the plan of salvation, was made as clear as
the sunlight, and one by one his own daring subterfuges were swept from
him, so that before the sermon closed he felt that he indeed stood
unclothed and speechless before the King. What next? Where should he go
now? Whither flee? Was he not sufficiently wretched before? Had he need
to feel these truths in order to make his condition less endurable?
The sermon closed, the few words of solemn prayer followed, and the
choir took up the service. Strangely clear, at least to John's ears,
were the voices that spoke the tenderly solemn words:—
"Oh, do not let the word depart,
And close thine eyes against the light;
Poor sinner, harden not thine heart;
Thou wouldst be saved, why not to-night?"
Among the singers he had no difficulty in singling out one face and
voice. It was a voice of unusual sweetness and power, and it was a face
that haunted him. He could not yet tell why. There she was, the fair
young beauty who had given him his card. How strange it was that he
had accepted her invitation after all! After the song, instead of the
benediction which John expected, came another invitation.
"Now I know," said the preacher, "there are some in this room to-night
who feel that they are without the wedding garment, and who believe
that if the King should ask them why they would be speechless. Do
not all such wish to settle the question? You mean to settle it some
time. You do not mean to go up to that guest-chamber unclothed. Why
not settle it to-night? Why not come up here, all of you who think the
question unsettled, and who believe that it is important enough to be
attended to? Come, and let us ask the Holy Spirit to help you to settle
it to-night."
Did John Morgan intend ever to settle the question? He looked the
thought, for almost the first time, squarely in the face. He believed
that the man who had been speaking was in earnest. He believed that
he knew what he was talking about. Somehow the network of unbelief in
which this foolish young wanderer had intrenched himself so long would
not bear the piercing light of one solemn Bible question, one gospel
sermon; it slipped away from him and left him refugeless.
"Come," said the preacher. "Be men now and be women. Be worthy of
your position as reasonable beings. Take steps toward the better
understanding of this important matter. Do what you can. Rest assured
that the King will see to it that the rest is done for you. Come now."
Had John Morgan the least idea of going? He told himself that he had
not. He told himself that he did not believe in these things, that
they were not for him, and even while he said so his heart said back
to him, "That is not true." How came he to leave his station away back
by the door, and to follow the throng who were moving up the aisle,
and to kneel down there before that gray-haired man? Neither then nor
afterward did John Morgan understand it. He had not intended to go—at
least he supposed he had not; and yet he went. He did not believe
that he had any feeling on the subject; he believed that he hated
religion and all religionists. No, not all; there was Louise—he had
tried to hate her, and failed. There was that fair girl who gave him
the card, and that wrinkled old woman who had given him the card. What
was the use in hating them? He did not believe that he did. Then this
gray-haired, earnest, clear-brained preacher. No, he found nothing like
hatred in his heart for him. But what was the use of going up there? He
did not want to be prayed for. Yes he did, or at least he was not sure
but he did. He wanted something; he could not be certain what it was;
and before it was reasoned out, or before he understood what motive
impelled him or quite what he meant, he had been slowly impelled—he
could almost have said "pushed forward"—by a something, or by some one,
stronger than himself, to whom he felt impelled to yield.
It was just as the city clocks were striking the hour of nine. He
did not know that at that hour four people, in three separate rooms,
were kneeling and presenting his name before the King, begging for
him the wedding garment—Louise and Lewis in the quiet of their own
room, Dorothy in John's own hall chamber, Carey Martyn in his own room
over the kitchen, each, according to the covenant into which they had
entered, breathing the same name, united in the same desire. "While
they are yet speaking, I will hear." Did the King say that of them
that night? Did a message go from the palace that night, "Clothe John
Morgan in the wedding garment, and write his name among the guests who
have accepted the invitation"? There are those, even in the so-called
Christian world, who would fail to see the connecting link between this
conference held nightly with the King and these strange leadings which
John Morgan had called chance.
Yet is it not blessed, after all, to remember that the witnesses are
daily increasing who can testify to just such claims as these—chains
reaching even to the Infinite Arm, and moving that Arm to reach down
and pluck some stranded, sin-surrounded soul, lifting its feet from the
mire and setting them firmly on the Rock, even the Rock of Ages?