"THEIR WORKS DO FOLLOW THEM."
Marion went alone to the services the next morning. It was in vain that
she assured Eurie that Miss Morris was going to conduct one of the
normal classes, and that she had heard her spoken of as unusually
sparkling. Eurie shook her head.
"Go and hear her sparkle, then, by all means I won't. Now that's a very
inelegant word to use, but it is expressive, and when _I_ use it you may
know that I mean it; I am tired of the whole story, and I have been
cheated times enough. Look at yesterday! It was a dozen prayer-meetings
combined. No, I don't get caught this morning."
"But the subject is one that will not admit of sermonizing and
prayer-meetings this morning," Marion pleaded; "I am specially
interested in it. It is 'How to win and hold attention.' If there is
anything earthly that a ward school-teacher needs to know it is those
two items. I expect to get practical help."
"You needn't expect anything _earthly_; this crowd have nothing to do
with matters this side of eternity. As for the subject not admitting of
sermonizing, look at the subject of blackboard caricatures. What came of
that?"
So she went her way, and Marion, who had seen Miss Morris and had been
attracted, looked her up with earnest work in view. She had an ambition
to be a power in her school-room. Why should not this subject help
_her_?
The tent was quite full, but she made her way to a corner and secured a
seat. Miss Morris was apparently engaged in introducing herself and
apologizing for her subject.
"I tried to beg off," she said; "I told them that the subject and I had
nothing in common; that I was a primary class teacher, and in that line
lay my work. But there is no sort of use in trying to change Dr.
Vincent's mind about anything, so I had to submit. But for once in my
life I remind myself of Gough. I once overheard him in conversation with
a committee on lectures. They were objecting to having him lecture on
temperance, and pressing him to name some other subject. 'Choose what
subject you please, gentlemen,' he said at last, 'and I'll lecture on
it, but remember what I _say_ will be on temperance.' So they have given
me this subject and I have engaged to take it, but I want you to
remember that what I _say_ will be on primary class-teaching."
By this time Miss Morris had the sympathy of her audience, and had
awakened an interest to see how she would follow out her programme, and
from first to last she held their attention. Certain thoughts glowed
vividly. I don't know who else they influenced, but I knew they roused
and startled Marion, and will have much to do with her future methods of
teaching.
"Remember," said the speaker, "that you can not live on skim-milk and
teach cream!" The thought embodied in that brief and telling sentence
was as old as time, and Marion had heard it as long ago as she
remembered anything, but it never flashed before her until that moment.
What an illustration! She saw herself teaching her class in botany to
analyze the flowers, to classify them, to tell every minute item
concerning them, and she taught them nothing to say concerning the
Creator. Was this "skim-milk" teaching? She knew so many ways in which,
did she but have this belief concerning heaven, and Christ, and the
judgment, in her heart, she could impress it upon her scholars. She had
aimed to be the very _cream_ of teachers. Was she? She came back from
her reverie, or, rather, her self-questioning, to hear Miss Morris say:
"Why, one move of your hand moves all creation! and as surely does one
thought of your soul grow and spread and roll through the universe. Why,
you can't sit in your room alone, and think a mean thought, or a false
thought, or an unchristian thought, without its influencing not only all
people around you, not only all people in all the universe, but nations
yet unborn must live under the shadow or the glory that the thought
involves."
Bold statements these! But Marion could follow her. Intellectually she
was thoroughly posted. Had she not herself used the illustration of the
tiny stream that simpered through the home meadow and went on, and on,
and on, until it helped to surge the beaches of the ocean? But here was
a principle involved that reached beyond the ocean, that ignored time,
that sought after eternity. Was she following the stream? Could she
honestly tell that it might not lead to a judgment that should call her
to account for her non-religious influence over her scholars? Marion was
growing heavy-hearted; she wanted at least to do no harm in the world if
she could do no good. But if all this mountain weight of evidence at
Chautauqua proved anything, it proved that she was living a life of
infidelity, for the influence of which she was to be called into
judgment.
No sort of use to comfort herself with the thought that she talked of
her peculiar views to no one; it began to be evident that the things
which she did _not_ do were more startling than the things which she
did.
On the whole, no comfort came to her troubled soul through this morning
session. To herself she seemed precisely where she was when she went
into that tent, only perhaps a trifle more impressed with the solemnity
of all things.
But, without knowing it, a great stride had been taken in her education.
She was not again to be able to say: "I injure no one with my belief; I
keep it to myself." "No Man liveth to himself."
The verse came solemnly to her as she went out, as though other than
human voice were reminding her of it, and life began to feel like an
overwhelming responsibility that she could not assume. When one begins
to _feel_ that thought in all its force the next step is to find one who
will assume the responsibility for us. She met Ruth on her way up the
hill.
"Flossy has deserted me," Ruth explained as they met; "Eurie carried her
away to take a walk. Are you going to hear about John Knox? I am
interested in him chiefly because of the voice that is to tell of him
to-day; I like Dr. Hurlburt."
Marion's only reply was: "I don't see but you come to meeting quite as
regularly, now that you are at the hotel, as you did when on the
grounds."
Then they went to secure their seats. I am not to attempt to tell you
anything about the John Knox lecture; indeed I have given over telling
more about the Chautauqua addresses. It is of no sort of use. One only
feels like bemoaning a failure after any attempt to repeat such lectures
as we heard there. Besides, I am chiefly interested at present in their
effect on our girls.
They listened--these two, and enjoyed as people with brains must
necessarily have done. But there was more than that to it; there were
consequences that will surely be met again at the last great day.
Ruth, as she walked thoughtfully away, said to herself: "That is the
way. _Live_ the truth. It is a different day, and the trials and
experiences are different, but _life_ must be the same. It is not the
day for half-way Christianity nor for idling; I will be an earnest
Christian, or I will not dishonor the name and disgrace the memory of
such men as Knox by claiming to be of their faith."
While Marion, as she turned her flushed cheeks hastily away from Ruth,
not willing to show one who knew nothing about this matter, save that
it was expedient to join a church, had gotten one foot set firmly toward
the rock.
"The power that enabled _that_ man to live _that_ life was certainly of
God," she thought. "It _must_ be true. God must be in communication with
some of the souls that have lived. Is he now, and can I be one of them?
Oh, I wonder if there are a favored few who have shone out as grand
lights in the world and have gone up from the world to their reward? And
I wonder if there is no such thing now? If the blundering creatures who
call themselves by his name are nothing but miserable imitations of what
was _once_ real?
"Such lives as that one can understand; but how can I ever believe that
Deacon Cole's life is molded by the same influence, or, indeed, that
mine can be? Must I be a Deacon Cole Christian if I am one at all?"
The afternoon clouded over, and a mincing little rain began to fall.
Marion stood in the tent door and grumbled over it.
"I wanted to hear that Mr. Hazard," she said; "I rather fancy his face,
and I fancy the name of his subject. I had a curiosity to see what he
would do with it, and here is this rain to hinder."
Ruth and Flossy had come over for the day, and were waiting in the tent.
"Haven't you been at Chautauqua long enough to catch one of its cardinal
rules, never to stay at home for rain?" Flossy said.
Marion looked around at her. She was putting on her rubbers.
"Are you really going?" She asked the question in great surprise. "Why,
Flossy, it is going to rain hard!"
"What of it?" said Flossy, lightly. "I have waterproof, and rubbers, and
umbrella, and if it gets to be too wet I can run to a tent."
"If you were at home you wouldn't think of going to church. Why, Flossy
Shipley, I never knew you to go out in the rain! I thought you were
always afraid you would spoil your clothes."
"That was because I had none already spoiled to wear," Flossy answered,
cheerily; "but that difficulty is obviated; I have spoiled two dresses
since I have been here. This one now is indifferent to the rain, and
will be for the future. I have an improvement on that plan, though; I
mean to have a rainy-day dress as soon as I get home. Come, it is time
we were off."
"I believe I am a dunce," Marion said, slowly. "I think it is going to
rain hard; but as I have to go, at home, whether it rains or shines, I
suppose I can do it here. But if this were a congregation of respectable
city Christians, instead of a set of lunatics, there wouldn't be a dozen
out."
They found hundreds out, however. Indeed, it proved to be difficult to
secure seats. That address was heard under difficulties. In the first
place it _would_ rain; not an out-and-out hearty shower, that would at
once set at rest the attempt to hold an out-door meeting, but an
exasperating little drizzle, enlivened occasionally by a few smart drops
that seemed to hint business. There was a constant putting up of
umbrellas and putting them down again. There was a constant fidgeting
about, and getting up and sitting down again, to let some of the more
nervous ones who had resolved upon a decided rain escape to safer
quarters. Half of the people had their heads twisted around to get a
peep at the sky, to see what the clouds really _did_ mean, anyway.
Our girls had one of the uncomfortable posts. Arrived late, they had to
take what they could get, and it was some distance from the speaker, and
their sight and sound were so marred by the constant changes and the
whirl of umbrellas that Marion presently lost all patience and gave up
the attempt to listen. She would have deserted altogether but for the
look of eager attention on Flossy's face. Despite the annoyances, _she_
was evidently hearing and enjoying. It seemed a pity to disturb her and
suggest a return to the tent; besides, Marion felt half ashamed to do
so.
It was not pleasant to give tacit acknowledgment to the fact that poor
little, unintellectual Flossy was much more interested than herself. She
gave herself up to an old and favorite employment of hers, that of
looking at faces and studying them, when a sudden hush that seemed to be
settling over the hither to fidgety audience arrested her attention.
The speaker's voice was full of pathos, and so quiet had the place
become that every word of his could be distinctly heard. He was
evidently in the midst of a story, the first of which she had not heard.
This was the sentence, as her ears took it up:
"Don't cry, father, don't cry! To-night I shall be with Jesus, and I
will tell him that you did all you could to bring me there!"
What a tribute for a child to give to a father's love! Flossy, with her
cheeks glowing and her eyes shining like stars, quietly wiped away the
tears, and in her heart the resolve grew strong to live so that some
one, dying, could say of her: "I will tell Jesus that you did all you
could to bring me there!"
Do you think that was what the sentence said to Marion? Quick as thought
her life flashed back to that old dingy, weather-beaten house, to that
pale-faced man, with his patched clothing and his gray hairs straggling
over on the coarse pillow. _Her_ father, dying--her one friend, who had
been her memory of love and care all these long years, dying--and these
were the last words his lips had said:
"Don't cry, little girl--father's dear little girl. I am going to Jesus.
I shall be there in a little while. I shall tell him that I tried to
have you come!"
Oh, blessed father! How hard he had tried in his feebleness and weakness
to teach her the way! How sure he had seemed to feel that she would
follow him! And how had she wandered! How far away she was! Oh, blessed
Spirit of God, to seek after her all these years, through all the weak
and foolish mazes of doubt, and indifference, and declared
unbelief--still coming with her down to this afternoon at Chautauqua,
and there renewing to her her father's parting word.
She had often and often thought of these words of her father's. In a
sense, they had been ever present with her. Just why they should come at
this time, bringing such a sense of certainty about them to her very
soul that all this was truth, God's solemn, _real_, unchangeable truth,
and force this conviction upon her in such a way that she was moved to
say, "Whereas I _was_ blind, now I see," I can not tell.
Why Mr. Hazard was used as the instrument of such a revelation of God to
her I can not tell. Perhaps he had prayed that his work at Chautauqua
that rainy afternoon might, in some way, be blessed to the help of some
struggling soul. Perhaps this was the answer to his prayer--unheard,
unseen by him, as many an answer to our pleading is, and yet the answer
as surely comes. Who can tell how this may be. I do not know. I know
this, that Marion's heart gave a great sobbing cry, as it said:
"Oh, father, father! if your God, if your Christ, will help me, I
will--I will _try_ to come."
It was her way of repeating the old cry, "Lord, I believe, help thou
mine unbelief." And I do know that it is written, "Blessed are the dead
which die in the Lord from henceforth: Yea, saith the Spirit, that they
may rest from their labors; and their works do follow them." It was
fifteen years that the weary father had been resting from his labors,
and here were his works following him.
I have heard that Mr. Hazard said, as he folded his papers and came down
from the stand that afternoon, "It was useless to try to talk in such a
rain, with the prospect of more every minute. The people could not
listen. It would have been better to have adjourned. Nothing was
accomplished." Much _he_ knew about it, or will know until the day when
the secrets of all hearts shall be revealed!