"I DON'T KNOW."
JUNE brought the roses and Estelle—herself the fairest rose among them
all. There had been much planning in the Morgan household preparatory
to her coming. Many things had changed in the farmhouse since Louise
first came home to it—subtle changes many of them were, too slowly
brought about to be recognized as changes; new ways, slipped into
gradually, insensibly; little refinements, touches here and there;
trifles every one of them, and perhaps the only method of proving to
the family what a difference they made in the home would have been
to have dropped suddenly back into the old ways for a week. That
experiment no one seemed inclined to try. Louise took great pleasure in
making the large old-fashioned room, with its quaint furniture, into a
very bower of beauty for the sweet rose that was to bloom there, and
smiled joyfully when she thought of what blissful surprises the wealth
of June flowers and the smell of June clover would be to the city
maiden. Many a plan she had for Estelle, many a hope having to do with
this two months' sojourn in the farmhouse—hopes, however, that were not
indulged without anxious little sighs being woven in among them.
She had hoped so long and waited so eagerly and in vain. She told John
about it one evening, as they sat in the vine-covered porch together,
waiting for Lewis and Dorothy to have done with the problem in algebra
that was vexing the latter.
"John, I have such a strong hope that you will be able to help Estelle
this summer; it has a great deal to do with my joy in her coming."
John bestowed anxious eyes on her for a moment, and was silent.
Presently he said,—
"Once I should have thought that you were saying that for effect, but
I have learned to know that you never say things simply for effect.
Having said it, you must mean it; so it makes me anxious. I cannot see
how it would be possible for me to influence your sister in any way, to
say nothing of the folly of hoping to help her; I don't understand what
you can mean."
"She isn't a Christian, you know, John."
"I know, and I understand that it is about such help that you speak.
But what puzzles me is, how you could possibly expect that anything
which I might do or say could influence her when she has had you all
her life."
"That is easily explained," Louise said, smiling. "In the first place,
you are in the mood just now to overrate my influence over people. I
have some with Estelle, but that it is not great is plainly shown in
the fact that, in this most important of all matters, she has chosen
her way and I have chosen mine, and we have walked separately for a
good many years. Don't you know, John, that sometimes the people whom
we meet but once, with whom we really have very little to do, are given
a word to say or an act to perform that shall influence all our future
lives?"
"Yes," John said, with sudden energy and emphasis; he certainly knew
that as well as any person could. And his thoughts went immediately
back to the fair young girl who had held out her hand, and whose
winning voice had said, "Won't you have a card?"
"Well," Louise said, "I cannot help hoping that the Holy Spirit will
give you a word or look that will influence Estelle. It doesn't seem to
me that I can have her wait any longer."
There were tears in her eyes. Then John felt savage toward Estelle; he
said to himself that he didn't believe he should be able to endure her;
she must be a little simpleton. To have grown-up under the influence
of such a sister, and yet to have deliberately chosen a course that
would grieve her, argued ill for her heart or her sense or something.
Altogether, though he desired to help, Louise was not awakening very
hopeful sentiments toward helpfulness. There was a good understanding
established between this brother and sister. For that matter, the
reconstructed household understood each other well during these
days—had begun to realize something of what the family relation meant.
John was certainly "a new creature in Christ Jesus." It is not always
that the new life has so plain a chance of showing itself as his
former life had given. No Christian doubted the presence of the unseen
Guest who had come to abide with him. As for the father, while keeping
absolute silence in regard to the matter, he kept also keen eyes, and
told himself, a dozen times a day, that "whatever had come over John,
he was another person." By slow degrees the Morgan family had settled
into definite plans for the future—plans that were not matured without
some soreness of heart, and even, on Louise's part, a touch of tears.
The giving up of future prospects of usefulness in the church had been
a trial to Lewis, and the giving up had been done by inches. At last,
however, it had been made plain that, if he would keep what health and
strength he had, he must be content with an active outdoor life. This
settled beyond probability of a change, the father was found entirely
willing to loose his hold on John, and give him, what had been the
desire of his heart, a medical education. At least, he said that for
this reason he was willing. Those of the family who watched him closely
strongly suspected that there was very little that the father would not
have been willing to give John during these days.
The father, in himself, was somewhat changed. There were other things
that he was willing to do. For instance, he invited Lewis, one bright
winter day when they happened to come home together, to take Louise out
and pick out the spot where he would like to build a house, and they
would see what kind of a one could be built one of these days. Now,
strange to say, the desire to have a home of their own was less intense
than it had been. They talked it up; they said it would be "nice," in
fact, delightful; and then, in the same breath, Lewis wondered what
mother would do when Dorothy went away; and Louise wondered whether
Dorothy wouldn't need her help right there at home for the next year
or two; and finally, though they made no objection to picking out the
site, and even planned the house—built it, indeed, on paper a good many
times—still they unanimously agreed that nothing definite could be
done about it until spring. The truth was, the necessity for a home by
themselves was not so apparent to this young couple as it had been. Now
that spring, yes, even summer, was fairly upon them, the question of
house came up again, brought forward by Farmer Morgan himself.
"Not that I am in a hurry," he said, with a little embarrassed laugh;
"in fact, I hope it will be about five years in getting built, and you
five more or so getting moved. I've no notion of what this house would
be without you; but what I'm after is, I've made up my mind it is your
right to have your own house, and I mean you shall have it."
So the house was a settled fact; and Lewis and his wife were undeniably
pleased, yet nobody hurried. The necessity for haste in the matter was
past.
So, as I say, they had journeyed into June, when Estelle was to make
her first visit at the farmhouse. She was to have come the summer
before, but home matters had detained her; and Louise, as she arranged
roses in the white vases of her room, rejoiced that it had been so,
and smiled over the different dress the home and family wore from that
which they would have worn to Estelle only a year before. These were
the closing touches to the adornments; for Lewis had already gone
to the train to meet his sister, accompanied by Dorothy and little
Nellie. Louise, under plea of escaping from the afternoon sun, declined
the ride; in reality, feeling not sure of herself, lest when she got
that bright young sister in her arms again she might not disgrace the
welcome by crying outright. Who would have supposed that the months of
separation would have stretched themselves out so! Louise was to have
gone home certainly in a year from the date of her departure, and yet
she didn't. It often happens in this world that, with all our planning,
our lives move in exactly different lines from what we have prepared.
So Louise had really never looked upon the face of her beautiful young
sister since that morning when she became a bride. It is surely not
much wonder that her heart beat hard at the sound of carriage-wheels,
and it seemed to her, for a moment, that she could not get down the
stairs.
It was not until just as daylight was fading that John came to be
introduced to the new-comer. He had planned differently; but unexpected
business had detained him at the village until a late hour, then he had
taken his supper alone, and came to the piazza to meet Estelle, just as
they were about adjourning to the house.
"Come," Louise said; "these insects must be shut out and you must be
shut in. Oh, here comes John."
At that moment Dorothy brought the large lamp, and the glow of it fell
full on Estelle's face. John had decidedly dreaded this ordeal. His
life had been spent so much in shadow that there were certain creations
before whom he was unreasonably timid—among these were young ladies;
and to meet one, too, whom he was expected to help was formidable.
Still, John's strong point was decision of character. What had to
be done was to be done promptly, and with as little appearance of
shrinking as possible. So he advanced boldly and raised his eyes to
Estelle's fair, bright face. But instead of the greeting, in every
way cordial, which he had planned, he gave Estelle the benefit of
a prolonged astonished stare; and at last the words, uttered in an
explosive tone, as by one from whom they were forced by astonishment,
were,—
"You are the very one!"
"Of course," said Estelle, mischief shining in every line of her
beautiful face; and, nothing daunted by this strange greeting, she held
out her hand cordially, while Louise looked on amazed. "Did you think I
was somebody else? Shake hands, won't you?"
"Is it possible that you remember me?" John said at last slowly, as one
awakening from a dream, and then looking from her to Louise, then back
again to her, studying the two faces like one who had been puzzled, but
who had just found the answer to his riddle.
"Not in the least," Estelle said promptly. "I don't think I ever saw
you before in my life; but since you seem to be acquainted with me, I
thought I would be friendly."
"You have seen me before," John said, recovering his natural manner,
and giving the small white hand a cordial grasp; "and it is your
resemblance to Louise which gave me such a vivid impression of your
face and so strange a feeling of having seen you before somewhere."
Then Estelle laughed. "What an idea!" she said gaily. "I don't look
the least in the world like Louise, and never did; and, what is more
trying, I am not in the least like her, as you will find to your
sorrow. Where did you see the being whom you think I am? I'd like to
have a glimpse of her."
Nothing but bright, thoughtless mischief in voice or manner; but John
was still earnest and eager.
"Louise," he said, turning to her for sympathy, "isn't it strange that
it should happen so? She is the very young lady who gave me that card
on that miserable and memorable night, and invited me to the meeting."
A vivid blush overspread Estelle's face. She had given some curious
thoughts to the forlorn specimen of humanity whom she had invited to
the meeting; it was the only attempt she had ever made at evangelistic
effort, and it stood out in her memory. She had commented upon his
appearance to her mother; she had given a laughing description of him
to her young friends. Now it seemed a most improbable thing that this
well-dressed, nice looking young man and her forlorn tramp were one and
the same!
"Are you an adept at masquerades?" she asked at last. "You certainly
played the character of a woe-begone street wanderer to perfection; or
else you are doing the well-dressed young man very well. Which is the
assumed character?"
Viewing it from John's standpoint, there was no comical side to this
episode in his life. He answered her with intense gravity,—
"The street wanderer was a real, and certainly a sufficiently dreary,
wanderer; he thought himself a hopeless case; but he will never cease
to thank God for sending you to put out a rescuing hand that night."
The flush that had been fading from Estelle's face became vivid again;
how was she going to jest with one who took matters so solemnly? She
did not know what to say to him, and turned away embarrassed. Now
indeed was John roused. Intensity was a part of his nature; what he did
at all, he did with all his might. Louise, looking on, anxious as to
what this revelation would effect, was presently satisfied that it had
roused his interest in her as nothing else could have done. The fact
that the one who had been the direct means of bringing him into the
light of Christ was herself walking in darkness filled him with pain.
From that hour he fixed upon her as the subject for his constant
prayer; he brought her before his Master only as one can who has
learned the sweetness of being a servant of Christ, and who longs to
call in others. Now and then a word with her, as opportunity offered,
but the most of his strength spent on his knees.
It chanced that on the way to the district prayer-meeting, which, by
the way, had been started, and which had flourished. John was Estelle's
companion. It was really the first time he had seen her alone. He had
not to waste time in trying to make up his mind to speak to her on the
subject; he was eager to speak.
"I was so surprised," he said. "I had been so accustomed to pray for
the one who gave me that card as one would for a saint almost. I had
not thought of the possibility of your not being a Christian."
"And now all those prayers have been lost—so much wasted strength!
What a pity!" Estelle did not really mean to be wicked, although her
tone was mischief itself. She had accustomed herself to parrying
personalities on this subject in some such jesting way; the usual
effect was to shock into silence the person addressing her, and so give
her freedom for the time being. She did not even mean irreverence; she
meant simply fun, and to be let alone. John, however, was not used to
sparkling nonsense in conversation. Since he began to converse at all,
he had talked nearly always with earnest people, and been tremendously
in earnest himself. So he answered her as if the remark had been made
in all gravity.
"No, I don't think that; for of course God know just where you were,
and he accepted the spirit of the prayer. But isn't it strange that
with Louise for a sister you have lived so many years without Christ?"
Louise was a person about whom Estelle did not jest; she could be
flippant to her, but not about her, so to this sentence she had no
answer at first but silence; then she rallied.
"Come now, isn't it strange that with Lewis for a brother, and Mrs.
Morgan for a mother, you lived so many years without paying any
attention to these things? Didn't you ever hear that people who live in
glass houses shouldn't throw stones?"
"Ah, but," said John eagerly, "I didn't believe in it; I didn't think
there was any such thing as conversion, nor any reality in religion.
I was a fool, to be sure, but I was an honest one; I really didn't
believe in these things. But you had a different bringing up. My mother
is a young Christian, you know. You had no such doubts to trammel you,
had you?"
"No," said Estelle slowly, reluctantly obliged to be truthful before
this truthful young man; thinking of her mother, of her father, of her
sister Louise, she must say, "No."
"Then why haven't you been a Christian these many years?"
"I don't know."
"Then why don't you be one now?"
"I don't know."
John was betrayed into an exclamation not unlike the half sneer with
which he used to express his entire disapproval of an act, and his
tones were very significant as he said, "Seems to me if I were you I'd
find out."
Estelle was silent; this to her was an entirely new way of approaching
the subject. This grave young man gave her some thinking to do. She had
had her bit of scepticism to struggle with, albeit she did not know
it by that name. In her heart she had believed that some persons were
by nature religious in their youth; mamma was, and Louise was like
her. Mamma said that Louise, when just a baby, would lie quiet by the
hour to be read to from the Bible; while she, Estelle, never lay quiet
at any time for anything but sleep. She was not by nature religious,
she argued; some time, when she was old and gray-haired, it would
become natural to her to think about these things. Some people were
called in their youth, and some in later life; it must be that she was
designed for a middle-aged Christian. Into the face of this theory came
John—young, keen, intense, fierce by nature, as irreligious by nature
as a man could be, as far-away from even outward respect for the cause
as a scoffer could be. Louise, whose intuition had shown her somewhat
of this reasoning, had taken pains to explain in detail John's past
life and John's intense nature. Here was a problem that Estelle must
work out for herself; that she had begun to work at it was evidenced by
her grave, sincere answer, "I don't know."