A "SENSE OF DUTY."
It is not so easy to get away from ones self as you might think, if you
never had occasion to try it. Ruth Erskine--who honestly thought herself
on the high road to heaven because she had decided to offer herself for
church-membership as soon as she returned from Saratoga--did not find
the comfort and rest of heart that so heroic a resolution ought to have
brought.
It was in vain that she endeavored to dismiss the subject and try to
decide just what new costume the Saratoga trip would demand. If she
could only have gotten away from the crowd of people and out of that
meeting back to the quiet of her tent, she might have succeeded in
arranging her wardrobe to her satisfaction; but she was completely
hedged in from any way of escape, and the inconsiderate speakers
constantly made allusions that thrust the arrow further into her brain;
I am not sure that it could have been said to have reached her heart.
"Who is to blame that you can not all be addressed as _workers_ for
Christ? Who is _your_ Master? Why do you not serve him?"
These were sentences that struck in upon her just as she was deciding to
have a new summer silk, trimmed with shirrings of the same material a
shade darker.
"_Workers_!"
She did not know whether the speaker gave a peculiar emphasis to that
word, or whether it only sounded so to her ears. Did this resolution
that she had made put her among the _workers_? What was she ready to do?
Teach in the Sabbath-school? Involuntarily she shrugged her shoulders;
she did not like children; tract distributing, too, was hateful work,
and out of style she had heard some one say. What wonderful work was to
be done? She was sure _she_ didn't know. Sewing certainly wasn't in her
line; she couldn't make clothes for the poor; but, then, she could give
money to buy them with. Oh, yes, she was perfectly willing to do that.
And then she tried to determine whether it would be well to get a new
black grenadine, or whether a black silk would suit her better. She had
got it trimmed with four rows of knife pleating, headed with puffs, when
she was suddenly returned to the meeting.
Somebody was telling a story; she had not been giving sufficient
attention to know who the speaker was, but he told his story remarkably
well. It must have been about a miserable little street boy who was
sick, and another miserable street boy seemed to be visiting him.
This was where her ears took it up:
"It was up a ricketty pair of stairs, and another, and another, to a
filthy garret. There lay the sick boy burning with a fever, mother and
father both drunk, and no one to do anything or care anything for the
boy who was fighting with death. 'Ben,' said his dirty-faced visitor,
bending over him, 'you're pretty bad ain't you? Ben, do you ever pray?'
'No,' says Ben, turning fevered eyes on the questioner: 'I don't know
what that is.' 'Did you know there was a man once named Jesus Christ? He
come to this world on purpose to save people who are going to die. Did
you ever be told about him?' 'No; who is he?' 'Why, he is God; you have
to believe on him.' 'I don't know what you mean.' 'Why, ask him to save
you. When you die you ask him to take you and save you. I heard about
him at school.' 'Will he do it?' 'Yes, he will _sure_. Them says so as
have tried him.' Silence in the garret, Ben with his face turned to the
wall the fever growing less, the pulse growing fainter; suddenly he
turns back. 'I've asked him,' he said; 'I've asked him, and he said he
would.'"
Ruth looked about her nervously. People were weeping softly all around
her. Marion brushed two great tears from her glowing cheeks, and Ruth,
with her heart beating with such a quickened motion that it made her
faint, wondered what was the matter with every one, and wished this
dreadful meeting was over, or that she had gone to Saratoga on Saturday.
It was hard to go back to the puffs on that grenadine dress in the
midst of all this, but with a resolute struggle she threw herself back
into an argument as to whether she would stop on her way to make
purchases, or run down to Albany as soon as she was comfortably settled
at her hotel. Mr. Bliss was the next one who roused her.
You have never heard him sing? Then I am sorry for you. How can I tell
you anything about it? You should hear Ruth tell it! How his voice
rolled out and up from under those grand old trees; how distinctly every
word fell on your ear, as distinctly as though you and he had been
together in a little room alone, and he had song it for you.
"This loving Savior stands patiently--
Though oft rejected,
Calls again for thee.
Calling now for thee, prodigal,
Calling now for thee;
Thou hast wandered far away,
But he's calling now for thee."
What _was_ the matter with everybody? Was this an army of prodigals who
had gathered under the trees this Sabbath afternoon? Turn where she
would they were wiping away the tears; she felt herself as if she could
hardly keep back her own; and yet why should she weep? What had that
song to do with her? _She_ certainly was not a prodigal: she had never
wandered, for she had never professed to be a Christian.
What strange logic, that because I have never owned my Father's love and
care, therefore I am not a wanderer from him!
Ruth did not understand it; she felt almost provoked; had she not
decided this very afternoon and for the first time in her life that it
was fitting and eminently the proper thing to do to unite with the
church, and had she not determined upon doing it just as soon as the
season was over? What more could she do? Why could she not now have a
little peace? If this was the "comfort" and "rest" that the Christians
at Chautauqua had been talking about for a week, she was sure the less
she had of them the better, for she never felt so uncomfortable in her
life. Nevertheless, she adhered to her resolution.
So settled was she that it was the next proper thing to do that she
staid at home from the meeting that evening to write a letter to Mr.
Wayne, the gentleman who you will perhaps remember, accompanied the
girls to the depot on the morning of their departure, and expressed his
disgust with the whole plan.
As this is the first _religious_ letter Miss Ruth Erskine ever wrote,
you shall be gratified with a copy of it:
"DEAR HAROLD:
"I am alone in the tent this evening--the girls have all gone to
meeting; but I, finding it exhaustive, not to say tiresome, to be so
constantly listening to sermons, have staid at home to write to you. I
have something to tell you which I know will please you. I am going to
start for Saratoga to-morrow morning. I think I shall take the 10:50
train. Now don't you make up your mind to laugh at me and say that I
have grown tired of Chautauqua sooner than any of the rest. It is true
enough.
"You know my mode of life and my enjoyments are necessarily very
different from Eurie's and Marion's. Those two naturally look upon this
place as an escape from every-day drudgery; in short, as an economical
place in which to enjoy a vacation and see a good deal of first-class
society; for there are a great many first-class people here, there is no
denying that. Not many from our set, you know, but a great many
celebreties in the literary world that it is really very pleasant to
see.
"I am not sorry that I came; if for nothing else I am glad to have come
on the girls' account; they would hardly have ventured without me, and
it is a real treat to them.
"You will wonder what has become of poor little Flossy, and want to know
whether she is going to follow me to Saratoga as usual, but the little
sprite refuses to go! I fancy Marion has been teasing her; you know she
is very susceptible to ridicule, and it suits Marion's fancy to amuse
herself at the expense of those people who weary of Chautauqua. She has
attempted something of the kind on me, but, of course I am indifferent
to any such shafts, having been in the habit of leading, rather than
following, all my life. It seems natural, I suppose, to do so still. I
think well of Chautauqua. It is a good place for people to come who have
not much money to spend, and who like to be in a pleasant place among
pleasant people; and who enjoy fine music, and fine lectures, and all
that sort of thing, and are so trammelled by work and small means at
home that they cannot cultivate these tastes. But, of course, all these
things are no treat to _me_, and I do not hesitate to tell you that I am
bored. There is too much preaching to suit my fancy--not real preaching,
either, for we haven't had what you could call a sermon until to-day,
but _lectures_, which constantly bring the same theme before you.
"Now you are not to conclude from this that I do not believe in
preaching, and Sunday, and all that sort of thing; on the contrary, I
believe more fully in them all than I did before I came. In fact I have
this very afternoon come to a determination which may surprise you, and
which is partly the occasion of my writing this letter, in order that
you may know at once what to expect. Harold, as soon as the season is
over, and I get back home, I am going to unite with the church? Have I
astonished you! I am going to do this from a conviction of duty. You
need not imagine that I have been wrought up to such a pitch of
excitement that I don't know what I am about. I assure you there is
nothing of the kind. I have simply concluded that it is an eminently
proper thing to do. So long as I believe fully in the church and in
religion, and wish to sustain both by my money and my influence, why
should I not say so? That is a very simple and altogether proper way of
saying it, and saves a good deal of troublesome explanation. I wonder
that I haven't thought of it before.
"I do not mind telling you that it was some remarks of Marion's that
first suggested the propriety of this thing to me. You know she is an
infidel and I am not; and she intimated what is true enough, that I
lived exactly as though I thought just as she did; so in thinking it
over I concluded it was true, and that my influence ought to be with the
church in this matter. Now you know, Harold, that with me to decide is
to do; so this is as good as done. I should like it very well if you
choose to come to the same conclusion and unite at the same time that I
do. I am sure Dr. Dennis would be gratified. I don't know why we
shouldn't be willing to have it known where we stand; and I know you
respect the church and trust her as well as I do myself.
"I told Marion to-day 'I did not see how a person with brains could be
an infidel,' or something to that effect--and I _don't_. I think that is
such a silly view to take of life. Just as if everything _could_ come by
chance! And if God did not make everything, who did? I have no patience
with that sort of thing, and I am glad to remember that you have no such
tastes.
"By the way, are the Arnotts in Saratoga? I hope not, for they are such
fanatics there is no comfort in meeting them, and yet one has to be
civil.
"Seems to me you do not enjoy the opera as well as usual, nor the hops
either. What is the matter? Do you really miss me? If there is any such
foolish fancy in your heart as that, prepare to enjoy yourself next
week, for I shall be with you at every one of them after Tuesday. It
will take me until then to get something decent to wear.
"I hear the girls coming up the hill, and I must leave you.
"_Au revoir_,
"RUTH."
Folding and addressing this epistle with a satisfied air, and still full
of the spirit which had prompted her to write a _religious_ letter,
Ruth, finding that Marion had come in alone, and that Flossy and Eurie
were still loitering up the hill, gave herself the satisfaction of
communicating her change of views.
"I have been thinking a good deal about what you said this afternoon,
Marion, and there is truth in it. I do not think as you do, and I ought
to take some measures to let people know it. I have the most perfect
respect for and confidence in religion, and I mean to prove it by
uniting with the church. I have decided to attend to that matter as soon
as I get home again after the season is over. I am surprised at myself
for not doing so before, for I certainly consider it eminently proper,
in fact a duty."
Now, it was very provoking to have so religious a sentence as this
received in the manner that it was. Marion tilted her stool back against
the bed, and gave herself up to the luxury of a ringing laugh.
"Really," Ruth said, "you have returned from church in a very hilarious
mood; something very funny must have happened; it can not be that
anything in my sentence had to do with your amusement."
"Yes, but it has," squealed Marion, holding her sides and laughing
still. "Oh, Ruthie, Ruthie, you will be the death of me! And so you
think that this is religion! You honestly suppose that standing up in
church and having your name read off constitutes Christianity! Don't do
it, Ruthie; you have never been a hypocrite, and I have always honored
you because you were not. If this is all the religion you can find, go
without it forever and ever, for I tell you there is not a single bit in
it."
Her laughter had utterly ceased, and her voice was solemn in its
intensity.
"I don't know what you mean in the least," Ruth said, testily. "You are
talking about something of which you know nothing."
"So are you. Oh, Ruthie, so are you! Yes, I know something about it; I
know that you haven't reached the A, B, C, of it. Why, Ruthie, do you
remember that story this afternoon? Do you remember that little boy in
the garret, how he turned his face to the wall and asked God to save
him? Have you done that? Do you honestly think that _you_, Ruth Erskine,
have anything to be saved from? Don't you know the little fellow said,
'_He answered_.' Has He answered you? Why, Ruth, do you never listen to
the church covenant? How does it read: 'That it is eminently fit and
proper for those who believe that God made them to join the church?'
Ruth Erskine, you can never take more solemn vows upon you than you will
have to take if you unite with the church, and I beg you not to do it. I
tell you it means more than that. I had a father who was a member of the
church and he prayed--oh, how he prayed! He was the best man who ever
lived on earth! Every one knew he was good; every one thought he was a
saint; and it seems to me as though I could never love any God who did
not give him a happier lot than he had as a reward for his holy life.
But do you think he thought himself good? I tell you he felt that no one
could be more weak and sinful and in need of saving than he was. Oh, I
know the people who make up churches have more than this in them. _I_
think it is all a deception, but it is a blessed one to have. I know
these people at Chautauqua have it, hundreds of them. I see the same
look in their faces that my father had in his, and if I could only get
the same delusion into my heart I would hug it for my blessed father's
sake; but don't you ever go into the church and subscribe to these
things that they will ask of you until you have felt the same need of
help and the same sense of being helped that they have. If you do, and
there is a God, I would rather stand my chance with him than to have
yours."
And Marion seized her hat and rushed out into the night, leaving Ruth
utterly dumbfounded.