"Avoid it, pass not by it, turn from it, and pass away."
Over and over in his mind did Tip repeat this verse; it seemed to sound
all around him, and mixed up with everything he did. And yet he went out
of the house that evening, and turned straight down the street in the
direction leading to the tented circus grounds, walking along slowly,
talking to himself.
"It won't do any harm just to listen to the music. I don't mean to go
in--of course I don't! Suppose I'd do _that_, after all I said to Kitty!
Besides, I couldn't if I would; I haven't got any ticket. I'm just going
to walk down that way, and see if there's lots of folks going, and if the
music sounds nice."
"Avoid it, pass not by it." Oh yes, Tip knew; he heard the voice, yet on
he went; beginning to walk swiftly, only saying in answer, "I ain't going
in; I couldn't if I wanted to; and I don't want to."
By and by he came within sight of the tents and within sound of the
music, which, to his untaught ears, was wonderfully beautiful; came up
even to the very door of the large tent, bewitched to go just a step
nearer, though he didn't mean to go in, not he.
Yes, the people were crowding in. Mr. Douglass stood by the door. Tip
knew him very well; that is, he knew he lived in a large house and had
plenty of money; and he knew, when the men were trying to raise any
money, some one was sure to say, "Go to Mr. Douglass; he's always
ready to give."
Everybody liked Mr. Douglass. He turned around now from looking down the
road, and looked down at Tip.
"Well, Tip," he said, "going to the circus?"
Tip shook his head.
"What's the matter?--no money? Pity to get so near and not go in;
isn't it, pet?"
This last to the dainty little girl whose hand he held.
"Yes," she answered, with a happy smile. "Papa, why don't mamma come?"
"Oh, she'll be along soon. Here, sir," to the doorkeeper, handing him
twenty-five cents, "let this ragamuffin in. In with you, Tip, and
practise standing on your head for a month to come."
It was all done in a hurry; the doorkeeper stepped aside, the crowd
jostled and pushed against him, the music burst forth in a new loud
swell. A moment more, and Tip stood in the brightly-lighted room, staring
eagerly around him. There was enough to see; the seats were filling
rapidly with gaily--dressed ladies and gentlemen. He knew them, many of
them, had seen them on the streets often and often; had seen some of them
in Sabbath school, seated before their classes.
Tip was speedily giving himself up to enjoyment, hushing the small voice
in his heart. One of the nicest men in town had let him in; yes, and
there he was now with his wife and little girl; Mrs. Douglas was not
only a teacher in the Sabbath school, but a member of the church. If she
could go to the circus, why couldn't he? So Tip reasoned, and nobody
told him that his lamp said, "Every one of us shall give account of
_himself_ to God."
Presently the wonderful little shaggy ponies trotted out; and back behind
the curtains was one of the riders; he got a peep of her every now and
then in her splendid dress; he knew she would be out pretty soon, and
then she would ride.
Oh, that music! how it rolled around the ring! Tip was too busy looking
and listening to keep out of people's way; he stepped back, still jostled
by the crowd who were pouring in, and stepped directly in front of a man
who was trying to make his way through the crowd around the entrance. Tip
knew him in an instant; he was one of the circus men,--the one with the
ugly face that he had noticed in the morning; it was ugly still, and red
with liquor. He turned a pair of fiery eyes on Tip, and a dreadful oath
fell from his lips as he swung him angrily out of his way.
Oh, Tip Lewis! No wonder your heart fairly stops its beating for an
instant, then bounds on with rapid throbs. Only a few days ago you
listened to the story of a bleeding, dying Saviour, bleeding and dying
for you; and you promised, with honest tears, that for this you would
love and serve and honour Him for ever. And yet, to-night, here you are,
watching the tricks of men who can speak that sacred name in such a way
that it will make even you, who are used to this, shudder and turn cold.
"In the name of the Saviour whom you love, what do you here?"
It was to Tip as if Christ Himself had asked that question. He turned
suddenly, and, with both hands pressed to his ears, fairly fought his way
through the crowd.
"Let me out! let me go!" He fairly shrieked the words at the astonished
doorkeeper, who stood aside to let him pass. Up the hill with swift,
eager steps he ran, trying still to shut out the ring of that awful oath,
the sound of that hateful voice, speaking the name which had so lately
become to him the one dear and precious name in earth or heaven. On, on,
up the hill, and then down on the other side, stopping finally at the
great tree under the hill, just across the pond. Stopping and sitting
down, he tried to think. What had he done? He had been warned, he had
been tempted, and he had _fallen_. It didn't help him now to think that
good men and women were there. Perhaps God had not so plainly shown them
the wrong. Perhaps they had never found that verse: "Avoid it, pass not
by it." Perhaps--oh, _anything_--it was nothing to him now. This much was
certain: he had done wrong. Such a heavy, _heavy_ heart as Tip had
to-night. "What _should_ he do? What would Kitty say, if she found it
out? Oh, what would Mr. Dewey think, or Mr. Holbrook? and then, above
all else, came the thought, What could Jesus, looking down on him now
from heaven, what could _He_ think of him? This thought brought the
bitter tears, but it brought him also on his knees; and he said,--
"Oh, Jesus Christ, in spite of it all, you _know_ I love you. Won't you
forgive me and let me try again?" Long he knelt there, trying to get
close to Christ, and his Saviour did not leave him alone. It was only
yesterday he had learned the verse, and it came to him softly now: "Thou
art a God ready to pardon, gracious and merciful, slow to anger, of great
kindness."
In his sore trouble, Tip's lamp had not failed him.