A WAR OF WORDS.
"Well, why not?" she said, as she went slowly down the aisle. Of course
all these people would be in heaven together, and why should they not
look forward to a companionship untrameled by earthly forms and
conventionalities, and uncumbered by the body in its present dull and
ponderous state? What a chance to get into the best society! the highest
circle! real best, too, not made up of money, or blood, or dress, or any
of the flimsy and silly barriers that fenced people in and out now. Then
at once she felt her own inconsistency in growing disgusted with the
plainly-dressed, common-looking man. If he did really belong to that
"royal family," why not rejoice over it? Wasn't _she_ the foolish one?
She by no means liked these reflections, but she could not get away from
them.
"How do you do?" said a clear, round voice behind her; not speaking to
her, but to some one whom he was very glad to see, judging from his
tone. And the voice was peculiar; she had been listening to it for an
hour, and could not be mistaken; it belonged to Dr. Cuyler himself. She
turned herself suddenly. Here was a chance for a nearer view, and to see
who was being greeted so heartily. It was the little lady whose society
had been thrust upon her that morning by Flossy. And they were shaking
hands as though they were old and familiar acquaintances!
"It is good to see your face again," that same hearty voice which seemed
to have so much good fellowship in it was saying. "I didn't know you
were to be here; I'm real glad to see you again, and what about the
husband and the dear boy?"
At which point it occurred to Miss Ruth Erskine that she was listening
to conversation not designed for her ears. She moved away suddenly, in
no way comforted or sweetened as to her temper by this episode. Why
should that little bit of an insignificant woman have the honor of such
a cordial greeting from the great man, while he did not even know of
_her_ existence?
To be sure, Dr. Cuyler had baptized and received into church fellowship
and united in marriage the little woman with whom he was talking; but
Ruth, even if she had known these circumstances, was in no mood to
attach much importance to them.
She wandered away from the crowd down by the lake-side. She stopped at
Jerusalem on her way, and poked her parasol listlessly into the sand of
which the hills lying about that city were composed, and thought:
"What silly child's play all this was! How absurd to suppose that people
were going to get new ideas by _playing_ at cities with bits of painted
board and piles of sand! Even if they _could_ get a more distinct notion
of its surroundings, what difference did it make how Jerusalem looked,
or where it stood, or what had become of the buildings?"
This last, as it began dimly to dawn upon her, that it was useless to
deny the fact that even such listless and disdainful staring as she had
vouchsafed to this make-believe city had located it, as it had not been
located before, in her brain.
When she produced the flimsy question, "What difference does it make?"
you can see at once the absurd mood that had gotten possession of her,
and you lose all your desire to argue with any one who feels as foolish
as that. Neither had Ruth any desire to argue with herself; she was
disgusted with her mind for insisting on keeping her up to a strain of
thought.
"A lovely place to rest!" she said, aloud, and indignantly, giving a
more emphatic poke with her parasol, and quite dislodging one of the
buildings in Jerusalem. "One's brain is just kept at high pressure all
the time."
Now, why this young lady's brain should have been in need of rest she
did not take the trouble to explain, even to herself. She sat herself
down presently under one of the trees by the lake-side and gave herself
up to plans. She was tired of Chautauqua; of that she was certain. It
stirred her up, and the process was uncomfortable. Her former composed
life suited her taste better. She must get away. There was no earthly
reason why she should not go at once to Saratoga. A host of friends were
already there, and certain other friends would be only too glad to
follow as soon as ever they heard of her advent in that region. Before
she left that rustic settee under the trees she had the programme all
arranged.
"We will get through to-morrow as we best can," she said, sighing over
the thought that to-morrow being the Sabbath would perforce be spent
there, "and then on Monday morning Flossy and I will just run away to
Saratoga and leave those two absurd girls to finish their absurd scheme
in the best way they can."
And having disposed of Flossy as though she were a bit of fashionable
merchandise without any volition of her own, Ruth felt more composed and
went at once to dinner.
There came an astonishing interference to this planning, from no other
than Flossy herself. To the utter amazement of each of the girls, she
quietly refused to be taken to Saratoga; nor did she offer any other
excuse for this astonishing piece of self-assertion than that she was
having a good time and meant to finish it. And to this she adhered with
a pertinacity that was very bewildering, because it was so very new.
Marion laughed over her writing, to which she had returned the moment
dinner was concluded.
"That is right, Flossy," she said, "I'm glad to see Chautauqua is having
an effect of some sort on one of us. You are growing strong-minded; mind
isn't a bad thing to have; keep to yours. Ruth, I am astonished at
_you_; I shall have to confess that you are disappointing me, my child.
Now, I rather expected this dear little bit of lace and velvet to give
up, conquered, in less than a week, but I said to myself, 'Ruth Erskine
has pluck enough to carry her through a _month_ of camp-life,' and here
you are quenched at the end of four days."
"It isn't the camp-life," Ruth said, irritably. "I am not so much a baby
as to care about those things to such a degree that I can't endure them,
though everything is disagreeable enough; but that isn't the point at
all."
Marion turned and looked at her curiously.
"What on earth is the point then? What has happened to so disgust you
with Chautauqua?"
"The point is, that I am tired of it all. It is unutterably stupid! I
suppose I have a right to be tired of a silly scheme that ought never to
have been undertaken, if I choose to be, have I not, without being
called in question by any one?"
And feeling more thoroughly vexed, not only with the girls, but with
herself, than ever she remembered feeling before, Ruth arose suddenly
and sought refuge under the trees outside the tent.
Marion maintained a puzzled silence. This was a new phase in Ruth's
character, and one hard to manage.
Flossy looked on the point of crying. She was not used to crossing the
wills of those who had influence over her, but she was very determined
as to one thing: she was not going to leave Chautauqua.
"Nothing could tempt me to go to Saratoga just now," she said,
earnestly.
"Why?" asked Marion, and receiving no answer at all felt that Flossy
puzzled her as much as Ruth had done. However, she set herself to work
to restore peace.
"This letter is done," she said, gayly, folding her manuscript. "It is a
perfectly gushing account of yesterday's meeting, for some of which I am
indebted to the Buffalo reporters; for I have given the most thrilling
parts where I wasn't present. Now I'm going to celebrate. Come in, Ruth,
we are of the same mind precisely. I would gladly accompany you on the
afternoon train to Saratoga with the greatest pleasure, were it not for
certain inconveniences connected with my pocket-book, and a desire to
replenish it by writing up this enterprise. But since we can't go to
Saratoga, let's you and I go to Mayville. It is a city of several
hundred inhabitants, six or eight, certainly, I should think; and we can
have an immense amount of fun out of the people and the sights this
afternoon, and escape the preaching. I haven't got to write another
letter until Monday. Come, shall we take the three o'clock boat?"
Neither of these young ladies could have told what possible object there
could be in leaving the lovely woods in which they were camped and
going off to the singularly quiet, uninteresting little village of
Mayville, except that it was, as they said, a getting away from the
preaching--though why two young ladies, with first-class modern
educations, should find it so important to get themselves away from some
of the first speakers in the country they did not stop to explain even
to themselves. However, the plan came to Ruth as a relief, and she
unhesitatingly agreed to it; so they went their ways--Flossy to the
afternoon meeting (since Eurie declared herself so far convalescent as
to be entirely able to remain alone) and the two of the party who had
prided themselves up to this time on their superiority of intellect down
to the wharf to take the boat for Mayville.
The ride thither on the lovely lake was almost enough to excuse them for
their folly. But the question what to do with themselves afterward was
one that burdened them during all that long summer afternoon. They went
to the Mayville House and took a walk on the piazza, and the boarders
looked at them in curiosity, and wondered if it were really a pleasanter
walk than the green fields over at Chautauqua.
They ordered dinner and ate it at the general table with great relish,
Ruth rejoicing over this return to civilized life. One episode of the
table must be noted. Opposite them sat a gentleman who, either from
something in their appearance, or more probably from the reasonable
conclusion that all the strangers who had gathered at the quiet little
village were in some way associated with the great gathering, addressed
them as being part of that great whole.
"You people are going to reap a fine harvest, pecuniarily, to-morrow;
but how about the fourth commandment? You Christians lay great stress on
that document whenever a Sunday reading-room or something of that sort
is being contemplated, don't you?"
The remark was addressed to both of them, but Ruth was too much occupied
with the strangeness of the thought that she was again being counted
among "Christian people" to make any answer. Not so Marion. Her eyes
danced with merriment, but she answered with great gravity:
"We believe in keeping holy the Sabbath day, of course. What has that to
do with Chautauqua. Haven't you consulted the programme and read: 'No
admission at the gates or docks'?"
The gentleman smiled incredulously.
"I have read it," he said, significantly, "and doubtless many believe it
implicitly. I hope their faith won't be shaken by hearing the returns
from tickets counted over in the evening."
There was a genuine flush of feeling on Marion's face now.
"Do you mean to say," she asked, haughtily, "that you have no faith in
the published statement that the gates will be closed, or do you mean
that the association have changed their minds? Because if you have heard
the latter, I can assure you it is a mistake, as I heard the matter
discussed by those in authority this very morning; and they determined
to adhere rigidly to the rules."
"I have no doubt they will, so far as lies in their power," the
gentleman said, with an attempt at courtesy in his manner. "But the
trouble is, the thing is absurd on the face of it. If I hold a ticket
for an entertainment, which the Association have sold to me, it is none
of their business on what day I present it, provided the entertainment
is in progress. They have no right to keep me out, and they are
swindling me out of so much money if they do it."
"You have changed your argument," Marion said, with a flash of humor in
her eyes. "You were talking about the amount of money that the
Association were to earn to-morrow, not the amount which you were to
lose by not being allowed to come in. However, I am willing to talk from
that standpoint. If you hold the _season_ ticket of the Association, and
are stopping outside, you will be admitted, of course. It is held to be
as reasonable a way to go to church as though you harnessed your horses
at home and drove, on the Sabbath, to your regular place of worship. But
you buy no ticket _for_ the Sabbath, and none is received from you; and
if you choose not to go, the Association neither makes nor loses by the
operation, and, so far as money is concerned, is entirely indifferent
which you decide to do. What fault can possibly be found with such an
arrangement?"
"Well," said the gentleman, with a quiet positiveness of tone, "I
haven't a season ticket, and I don't mean to buy one, and I mean to go
down there to meeting to-morrow, and I expect to get in."
"I dare say," Marion answered, with glowing cheeks. "The grounds are
extensive, you know, and they are not walled in. I haven't the least
doubt but that hundreds can creep through the brush, and so have the
gospel free. There is something about 'he that climbeth up some other
way being a thief and a robber;' but, of course, the writer could not
have had Chautauqua in mind; and even if it applies, it would be only
stealing from an Association, which is not stealing at all, you know."
"You are hard on me," the gentleman said, flushing in his turn, and the
listeners, of whom there were many, laughed and seemed to enjoy the
flashing of words. "I have no intention of creeping or climbing in. I
shall present the same sort of ticket which took me in to-day, and if it
doesn't pass me I will send you a dispatch to let you know, if you will
give me your address."
"And if you _do_ get in, and will let me know, I will report at once to
the proper authorities that the gate-keepers have been unfaithful to
their trust," said Marion, triumphantly.
"But, my dear madam, what justice is there in that? I have paid my
money, and what business is it to them when I present my ticket? That is
keeping me out of my just dues."
"Oh, not a bit of it; that is, if you can read, and have, as you admit,
read their printed statement that you are not invited to the ground on
Sunday. Your fifty-cent ticket will admit you on Monday. And you surely
will not argue that the Association has not a right to limit the number
of guests that it will entertain over the Sabbath?"
"Yes, I argue that it is their business to let me in whenever I present
their ticket."
Marion laughed outright.
"That is marvelous!" she said. "It is wicked for them to receive payment
for your coming in on the Sabbath, and it is wicked for them not to let
you in on your ticket. Really, I don't see what the Association are to
do. They are committing sin either way it is put. I see no way out of it
but to have refused to sell you any tickets at all. Would that have
made it right?"
The laugh that was raised over this innocently put question seemed to
irritate her new acquaintance. He spoke hastily.
"It is a Sabbath-breaking concern, viewed in any light that you choose
to put it. There is no sense in holding camp-meetings over the Sabbath,
and every one agrees that they have a demoralizing effect."
"Do you mean me to understand you to think that the several thousand
people who are now stopping at Chautauqua will be breaking the Sabbath
by going out of their tents to-morrow and walking down to the public
service?"
The bit of sophistry in this meekly put question was overlooked, or at
least not answered, and the logical young gentleman asked:
"If they think Sabbath services in the woods so helpful, why are they
not consistent? Let them throw the meeting open for all who wish to
come, making the gospel without money and without price, as they pretend
it is. Why isn't that done?"
"Well, there are at least half a dozen reasons. I wonder you have not
thought of one of them. In the first place, that, of course, would tempt
to a great deal of Sabbath traveling, a thing which they carefully guard
against now by refusing to admit all travelers. And in the second place,
it would give the Chautauqua people a great deal to do in the way of
entertaining so large a class of people. As it is, they have quite as
much as they care to do to make comfortable the large company who belong
to their family. And in the third place--But perhaps you do not care to
hear all the reasons?"
He ignored this question also, and went back to one of her arguments.
"They don't keep travelers away at all, even by your own admission. What
is to hinder hundreds of them from coming here to-day and buying season
tickets in order to get in to-morrow?"
He had the benefit of a most quizzical glance then from Marion's shining
eyes before she answered.
"Oh, well, if the people are really so hungering and thirsting for the
gospel, as it is dispensed at Chautauqua, that they are willing to act
a lie, by pretending that they are members _who have been and are to be
in regular attendance_, and then are willing to pay two dollars and a
half for the Sunday meeting, I don't know but I think they ought to be
allowed to _creep_ in. Don't you?"