AN EMPTY SHRINE
"A humble knowledge of thyself is a surer way to God than a deep search
after learning."
"DEAR DR. VERNON,
"I have been thinking over what you said to me last night, and I have
come to the conclusion that I am unfit for my position, so will you
release me from it? I cannot do what you ask me. You must get someone
else who will be able to carry out your wishes. I cannot pretend to be
what I am not, nor teach what I do not practise myself.
"Yours truly,
"AUDREY HUME."
It was at luncheon time that Dr. Vernon received this note. He knitted
his brows after reading it, slipped it into his pocket, and went
through his daily routine of work as if he had not received it.
Audrey waited all that day for his reply, but did not get it. She was
shy of a personal interview, and hoped he would write his answer. Her
work also occupied her. The weather was stormy and cold. After evening
preparation, the little boys were allowed half an hour's play before
going to bed. They were clamorous this evening for Audrey to join them
in a game of "blind man's buff," and, feeling restless and ill at ease,
she threw herself into the game with unusual zest. The clamour was at
its height, the schoolroom in darkness and confusion—and fourteen boys'
throats can make no slight noise when raised in excitement—when the
door suddenly opened and the doctor's voice was heard:
"Is Miss Hume here?"
The electric light was turned on, and Audrey, who was "blind man," tore
her bandage off in consternation. Her hair was most dishevelled, her
cheeks flaming, her skirt was tucked up high above her petticoat. Never
had she been taken so by surprise.
"I am afraid I have interrupted some fun," said the doctor, smiling
at the small boys, who stood mute and awed at the appearance of their
headmaster.
"Our time is just up," said Audrey, with an effort to speak calmly.
"Bobby and Frank, you must come to bed. Will you give me a few minutes'
grace, doctor? For these little wretches have been pulling me to
pieces."
She left the room with the two smallest boys.
Dr. Vernon sat down and began chatting in his easy, happy fashion to
the boys who remained.
When Audrey returned five minutes later, she found a little group
surrounding the doctor, listening with delighted faces to a stirring
story of adventure and experience of the doctor's boyhood.
"Oh, Miss Hume, do listen!" exclaimed one of them. "You would love to
hear this; he was almost as bad as you and your brother used to be."
"Shut up, you rotter!" was the whispered reproof of another. "The
doctor isn't a he!"
Audrey and the doctor laughed in unison. Then he got up from his seat.
"Can you give me a little of your time, Miss Hume? I came over after
dinner, as I thought these youngsters would be in bed, but I am a
little early."
"I fancy we are a little late," said Audrey. "Will you come into the
drawing-room?"
She led the way, feeling rather nervous of the prospect in front of
her. The room was empty. Dr. Vernon wasted no time.
"I thought I would like to answer your note in person. It surprised me,
though I quite understand your point of view. Shall we sit down and
talk about it?"
"I am afraid that is just what I cannot do," said Audrey in a very
subdued tone. "I only know that I cannot train your small boys in
the way that you desire. I wish I had known before I came what your
principles were. But you did not give me much chance of refusing."
"Perhaps I did not. But, Miss Hume, I do not want to lose you. You are
not an irreligious girl, and I am sure you have thinking powers. Have
you no ideals yourself? Don't you expect to do good and lasting work as
you go through life? Are you one of those who are satisfied with second
best? I want you to use your opportunities. If you do not, you will
assuredly look back to this time with bitter remorse and regret. Half
the world is reaching out or waiting for opportunities that will never
come. The other half have the opportunities, but are not using them.
Why can't you seize yours, and make the best of them?"
"Why?" said Audrey slowly. "Because you must know before you can teach."
"Is it faith that is lacking? Or disinclination to use the faith that
is in you?"
"Oh, I don't know—that I have any at all," said Audrey, looking up
sadly.
All her usual vivacity and sparkle had disappeared. There was a
pathetic droop to her figure that reminded him of the time he saw her
in London.
"May I ask you if you believe in the existence of the Trinity?"
Audrey was silent for a moment, then she said:
"Yes—with my head I believe in the Trinity. I believe my Bible. I read
it every night, but it does not make any practical difference in my
life. I asked myself last night whether I should live any differently
if I were convinced there was no God—and I really am afraid I should
not."
"You are so little concerned in One Who is so wonderfully concerned in
you?"
"I am only a unit," said Audrey, remembering Miss Vernon's words and
applying it to her case.
"But the whole teaching of the New Testament is to show that Christ
deals with units."
There was a pause. Then Dr. Vernon suddenly pointed to a picture on the
wall. It was called "The Empty Shrine," and depicted a little roadway
scene in Brittany, where a group of disappointed peasant pilgrims are
gathered round a shrine which is tenantless.
"I always think that that is a picture of ourselves before we realise
our purpose in this world. We are not containing what we should, and
are a bitter disappointment to those who look to us for help. We fail
when others need us."
"Oh, I know—I know," said Audrey passionately. "I have thought it all
out. I am a failure—a dead certain failure. And, being so, I will stay
here no longer."
"But do you mean to continue one?" said Dr. Vernon. "Why should you not
bring success into your life? Do you always wish to be an empty shrine?"
"What do you mean?"
"May I give you a simple illustration that I heard a clergyman use
once? It just describes the work of the Trinity as far as we ourselves
are concerned.
"Three men were walking up a street.
"The first one came to a corner house.
"'That is my house,' he said with a nod of possession."
"The second man passed the house.
"'That is "my" house,' he said.
"The third one came up to it.
"'That is "my" house,' he said emphatically—and he went into it."
"What a funny illustration! I don't understand it one bit," said Audrey.
"May I add the explanation?
"The first man said, 'That is "my" house, for I built it.'
"The second said, 'That is "my" house, for I bought it.'
"The third man said, 'That is "my" house, for I live in it.'
"God the Father says of your soul, 'That is My soul, for I made it.'
"God the Son says, 'That is My soul, for I redeemed it.'
"God the Holy Ghost says, 'That is My soul, for I have the right to
live in it.'"
Audrey made no response for a few moments, then she said slowly:
"You have hit the nail on the head, Dr. Vernon. I am an empty shrine,
and I never knew or realised it so deeply as I do now."
"Well," said Dr. Vernon, rising and speaking more briskly, "you must
forgive me if I don't accept your notice to leave me. In any case, you
must stay out this term. By the time Christmas comes, you may think
very differently from what you do now. Work the subject out with your
Bible before you, and you will find light. Only don't be content with
half measures. And look up, Miss Hume."
He left her. And for a moment, Audrey felt dazed.
"He takes my breath away!" she exclaimed to herself. "Oh, what an
illustration! Made, and bought to live in, and yet I know I am
tenantless. What a failure I am!"
She searched her Bible that night as she had never searched it before.
Her whole soul was stirred and alive with passionate unrest and
yearning. But light and comfort did not seem to come. Her perplexities
and despondency rather increased, and as days went by, her voice lost a
little of its merry ring, and her lighthearted gaiety and enthusiastic
fervour seemed to be fading away.
Mr. Oates was still pertinacious in his attendance upon her, and at
last, one afternoon, when he sauntered across the playing fields to
her, she turned upon him.
"Look here, Mr. Oates, I am very sorry, but I would rather you kept
away. It's very ridiculous, of course, but I find that even in a boys'
school tongues will wag. I have my province, and you have yours. I have
to walk very warily."
"It is indeed ridiculous," he said indignantly, "that we cannot have a
little conversation together. I have brought you this new book. Have
you read it? It is by a new author. It isn't a library book. The doctor
is a little old-fashioned in his notions of books, but, of course, he
has boys to consider. I saw this advertised, and bought it. You know
what a temptation new books are to me."
Audrey took it into her hand and looked at it rather absently. The
title, "Life from My Outlook," attracted her.
"Thank you," she said. "I shall like to look at it, and I will return
it as soon as I have done with it. No, don't say you will come and
fetch it, for that is just what you mustn't do."
"Neither you nor I need be in such bondage!" he said hotly. "Who has
been talking? You don't care for women's spite, do you?"
Audrey shook her head at him.
"I am not my own mistress," she said, "and my work here demands my
constant and undivided attention. Look at those imps! What are they
doing?"
She darted forward to extricate the smallest boy from a medley of arms
and legs in a writhing mass on the muddy ground. Six bigger boys were
trying to wrest a football from him, and he was decidedly the worse for
their efforts.
Mr. Oates shrugged his shoulders and walked away.
But he did not heed her warning, and Audrey soon began to dread the
sight of him.
As time passed and the Christmas holidays drew near, she began to
wonder where she could go. The school was virtually going to be closed.
Dr. Vernon and his sister were going up to Scotland to spend Christmas
with some relations. The Tates were going to London. Mr. and Mrs. Ross
were the only ones left, and they had one or two Indian boarders who
wanted a home. Mrs. Bonar was going to her married daughter.
Audrey asked what would become of two of their small boys who had no
home to which they could go.
"Well," said Mrs. Bonar, "the doctor was speaking to me about them
the other day. He said, of course, you would be wanting to go to your
friends. But he will arrange for Mrs. Ross to take them into her house
and look after them."
"Hadn't I better stay?"
"Oh, no, my dear. Why should you? I don't think the doctor would like
to leave you alone here. You are very young, you know."
"I don't feel so," said Audrey, laughing.
But she was perplexed and troubled at the prospect in front of her. Her
old home was still let. Lodgings in London did not sound attractive
after her recent experience there. She was too proud to hint to Pauline
in her frequent letters to her that she was wanting a home.
And then one morning came a letter from Mrs. Daventry.
"MY DEAR AUDREY,
"I am sure it is nearly holiday time. Now, will you come to me and
cheer me up this Christmastide? All your old friends are wanting to see
you. I shall be very quiet, for I have no guests coming to me. But I
don't want to lose touch with you, and letters are a poor substitute
for your fresh young voice and eager personality.
"Tell me what day to expect you, and I shall give you a warm
welcome.—Your affectionate old friend,—
"MYRA DAVENTRY."
Audrey thankfully and gratefully accepted this invitation. She had an
intense longing to revisit her old "backwater," and the prospect of
long talks with Pauline filled her heart with content. She went about
with such a bright air that Dr. Vernon, meeting her in the quadrangle
one day, said, smiling:
"Your school time will soon be over now. I suppose you, like the rest
of us, are going to enjoy your time of leisure?"
"I don't think I am very fond of leisure at present," said Audrey,
sobering at once. "Of course, I am glad to see old friends again. But I
love a busy life. I hate idleness."
Then she added, with a world of wistfulness in her grey eyes:
"I may not come back, you know. I have not forgotten our talk."
"But you must not fail me if you can help it," Dr. Vernon said
earnestly. "Be what you are meant to be, and what you profess to be. I
only want sincerity in my workers. You are a Christian by profession;
don't rest till you are a genuine one."
"But," said Audrey impatiently, "you might as well tell one of your
boys to be the Prime Minister. I can't make myself a genuine Christian."
"No, but you know that simple little verse I often repeat to the boys:
"'Without Me ye can do nothing.'
"That is the locked gate. The key that opens it is:
"'I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me.'"
He said no more, but Audrey sighed deeply when he left her.
"I can't get hold of it," she said mournfully.
And it was in this spirit that she left the college and went to Mrs.
Daventry.