“WHAT WOULD YOU DO, DEAR?”
She joined in his laugh albeit, there was a tender look in her eyes.
After a moment, she said, gently:--
“It is not scheming, Evan; I am only trying to set about the work for
which I have been chosen. I'll tell you how it all came to me. I was
reading--my morning reading, you know--after you had gone; taking little
dips here and there in the fashion that you think is so unsystematic,
and I came upon this verse: 'He is a chosen vessel unto me,' you know,
about Paul? Well, it came to me with a sudden sense of awe and beauty,
the being chosen of God to do a great work. I stopped reading to think
it out; what a grand moment it must have been to Paul when he realized
it. And I began to feel almost sorry that we lived in such different
times, with no such opportunities! I stopped right in the midst of my
folly to remember that I was as certainly chosen of God as ever Paul
was; for assuredly I did not come to him of myself, nor begin to love
him of myself, and therefore he must indeed have chosen me; and I
wondered whether probably each Christian had not a work to do as
definite as Paul's--a work that would be given to no other, unless
indeed the chosen one failed. I did not want to fail, and I asked God
not to let me. Then, of course, I set to wondering what my work, or my
part of some other person's work, could be. It was the morning after you
had told me that about Ester Ried. You cannot think how that impressed
me. I could not get away from the wonderment as to how her work was
prospering, and whether there were chosen ones enough, or if there
might possibly be a little place for me. I couldn't settle anything, and
finally I decided to look at Paul's work a little while. Of course, it
was not reasonable to suppose that the duties of the great apostle had
anything in common with my bits of effort; still, I said, the directions
given him may help me a little. And Evan, what do you think was the
first thing I found? Why, this: 'The God of our fathers hath chosen
thee, that thou _shouldst know his will_.' Surely, so far, the things
for which both he and I were chosen were parallel. I looked further:
'And see that Just One.' That was the very next. Was not I, too, chosen
for that? 'Thine eyes shall see the King in his beauty.' I said over the
beautiful promise to assure myself that it was true, and went on:
'And shouldst hear the voice of his mouth.' Was it not strange, Evan?
Certainly I shall hear my King speak, often and often, when I get home.
Only think of it; so far Paul was not ahead of me. I hurried to find
another reference to Paul's work, and I found this; let me read it to
you.” Her bit of dainty sewing was suddenly pushed one side, and up from
the depths of the rose-lined work-basket came a small, plainly-bound
Bible, much marked; a rapid turning of the leaves, and the eager
disciple read: “I have appeared unto thee for this purpose, to make thee
a minister and a witness, both of these things which thou hast seen, and
of those things in the which I will appear unto thee. Now, Evan, you
know the veriest child can be a witness if he knows anything about the
facts; and I do certainly know some wonderful things about Jesus to
which I could witness; and besides, isn't it reasonable to suppose that
he will appear to me every day with things for me to witness to? And
then I read this; Paul sent to the Gentiles, you know, but for what: 'To
open their eyes, and to turn them from darkness to light, and from the
power of Satan unto God, that they may receive forgiveness of sins and
inheritance among them which are sanctified, by faith that is in me.'
Evan, was there ever a more wonderful work to do in the world than that?
And yet I cannot tell you how it made me feel to discover, or at least
to realize, that a great deal of it was my work! Of course, I naturally
began to ask myself, what Gentile was there for me to reach? Whose eyes
must I try to open? Do you know, that very afternoon I met Mr. Ried, and
heard of those boys? They interested me from the first, and what he told
me about his sister increased the interest. Then when I saw them!--Evan,
if ever boys were in the power of Satan they are; and to think that they
may have an inheritance among them which are sanctified! This morning
when I saw where some some of them lived, and imagined how they lived, I
fell stunned for a moment. It seemed to me impossible. What means
could possibly be found of sufficient power to fit them for such an
inheritance? And then directly came the closing words of the commission:
'Through faith that is in me.' Evan, God will save them; and I think he
will let me help.”
“Amen!” said Mr. Roberts, and his voice was husky. When his wife was in
one of her exalted moods he always admired her with a sort of reverence.
He had been for years an earnest worker. He carried business plans and
business principles into the work; he studied cause and effect, and
calculated and expected certain results to follow certain causes, like
a mathematical problem; not that he by any means forgot the power
of faith, or in any sense attempted to do his work alone. He was a
Christian who spent much time on his knees; but little Flossy brought
so much of the childlike, unquestioning spirit into her work, that
sometimes he stood in awe, not knowing whether he could follow her. It
was not so much a mathematical problem to be worked out, as it was the
faith that can remove mountains.
“As a little child relies
On a strength beyond his own:
Knows he is neither strong nor wise,
Fears to stir a step alone--”
Mr. Roberts often found himself quoting these lines when his wife gave
him glimpses of her heart; and at such times he had no hesitancy in
deciding that the steps she took were not alone, but the Lord was with
her.
The postman's ring broke in on their quiet.
“I hope there are letters from home to-night,” Mrs. Roberts said, “real
long ones. It is a week since we have heard.”
“And I ought to hope that they would require a first reading in
private,” her husband answered, as he seized his neglected pen. “It is
the only way in which these business letters will get answered. I find
the temptation to talk to you irresistible.”
One letter! but that was of comfortable dimensions and weight.
“It is from Marion,” Mrs. Roberts said, delight in her voice, after the
first glance at the familiar writing. She was presently lost in its many
pages, and the business of letter-writing went on uninterruptedly for
some time.
Mrs. Marion Dennis had not forgotten her fondness for her pretty little
Flossy: nor forgotten that,--softly-innocent little creature though she
was, she possessed a wisdom far above those who are credited with having
keen insight; even a wisdom so subtle, and withal so tender, that its
source could only be Infinite Wisdom. So she, in company with many
others, was learning to turn to the friend so much younger than herself,
as one in whom she could safely confide.
“Dear little Flossy,” so the letter ran, “I suppose, though you should
live to be a white-haired old lady, sitting with placid face and fluted
cap and spectacles, in your high-backed arm-chair, in the most treasured
corner mayhap of some granddaughter's choicest room, I, writing to you,
would still commence 'Dear little Flossy.' That I have to cover it from
prying eyes by the dignified and respectable 'Mrs. Evan Roberts,' is
almost a matter of amusement to me. I fancy I can see you making
a journey through some of the Chautauqua avenues, picking your way
daintily towards Palestine, bending lovingly over the small white stones
that mark the village of Bethany,--a pink on your cheek, born, as I
thought, of the excitement of being among those tiny photographs of the
wonderful past, but born in part, I now believe, of the fact that Mr.
Evan Roberts joined us in our walk. Oh, little mousie, how quiet you
were!
“Well, many things have since transpired. We are old married women, you,
and Ruth, and Eurie and I. I suppose the contrast in our lives,--the
outward portion of them, I mean,--is still as strongly marked, perhaps
more so, than it was when we were in Chautauqua together. We were girls
then; we are matrons now, and with the taking on of that title, Ruth and
I took special and great responsibilities. To-night it rains. Mr. Dennis
has been called to the upper part of the city,--away out to Springdale,
in fact,--to see a sick and dying man, and I am alone and almost lonely.
If I could summon any one of the three to my aid and comfort I would.
I am almost as lonely as I was on some of those evenings in the old
boarding-house. Still there are differences; the smoky old stove is not;
a summer warmth floats through the house, born of steam; no ill-smelling
kerosene lamp offends your aesthetic friend to-night, but the softest
of shaded drop-lights sheds a halo around me. Isn't that almost poetic?
Moreover, oh blessed thought! I have no examination papers to prepare,
no reports to make up; nothing to do but visit with you. Also, I will
admit just to you, that this is another and most blessed difference
between this and my lonely past. At almost any moment now I may hope
for Dr. Dennis' ring, and when he comes all sense of loneliness will
instantly depart. Ah! Flossy, dear Flossy, this is such a difference as
even you cannot appreciate! You had your mother and father, and all your
dear home friends, and I had no one; and besides,--here I hesitate, lest
you may be too obtuse to understand the reasoning,--you have only added
Mr. Roberts to your circle of treasures. He is grand and good, I know,
and I like him without even a mental reservation; but, my dear, I have
added Dr. Dennis! Can human language say more?
“Nonsense aside, sweet little woman, God has been very good to you and
me. Yet, Flossy, do you remember how, during those last months in which
we were together, I fell into the habit of telling you a great deal
about the thorns, and admitted to you once that they pricked less when
they had felt your smoothing touch? I want to tell you something. Our
Gracie--I am so sorry for her, yet I don't know what to do. She is
living a most unhappy life, and of course she shadows our lives also. I
told you, dear, about Prof. Ellis. He is still trying to convince
poor Gracie, that I, being her step-mother, must be her natural enemy;
reminding her that before I came into the family her father was entirely
willing to receive his calls, and allowed her to accept his attentions.
Don't you see, it isn't strange at all that the poor little girl should
believe him, and turn from me? She has many judicious helpers in her
father's congregation. There are those who sigh over her almost in my
hearing. 'Poor Gracie' they say, 'how changed she is! She used to be so
bright and happy. There is something unnatural in these second-mother
relations; all high-spirited children rebel.' Imagine such talk helping
Gracie! Meantime, what do you suppose can be Prof. Ellis' motive? I
cannot think that he cares for her; I almost do not believe that there
is enough purity left in him even to admire a pure-hearted young girl;
certainly not one with such high ideals and earnest ambitions as Gracie
had. 'Why does she admire him?' I fancy I hear you asking. My dear, she
doesn't; she thinks she does, and at seventeen such thoughts sometimes
work irreparable mischief; but left alone, one of these days she would
make the discovery that she was flattered by his attentions, because
he is nearly fifteen years older than she, and is brilliant in
conversation, and quoted as the finest musician in the city. I wish I
knew more things about him; what I do know shows me plainly enough the
sort of man he is; but with these guileless young things it seems as
though one had to unmask wickedness very thoroughly before they will
believe that it is anything but gossip or misrepresentation. He has gone
away for a six weeks' vacation; I don't know where, nor does Dr. Dennis.
Gracie knows, but does not enlighten me. Flossy, dear, could you give me
a little wholesome advice, do you think? I wonder, sometimes, whether I
was not too complacent over my proposed duties. Such schemed as I had!
I was going to be the blessedest step-mother that girl ever had. That
would not be saying much, possibly. Don't we all incline to think that
the second mothers must be wrong, and the sons and daughters poor abused
darlings? But I loved Gracie, you know, and she seemed to love me, and
to be so happy over the thought of our near relationship. There is very
little happiness from any such source during these days. Gracie has
retired into dignity. She can be the most dignified young woman on
occasion that I ever beheld. She is not rude to me, on the contrary
she is ceremoniously polite; calls me Mrs. Dennis, and all that sort of
thing, when necessity compels her to call me anything; but she speaks
as little as possible; sits at table with us three times a day, when she
cannot secure an excuse for absence that her father will accept; says
'Yes, sir,' and 'No, sir,' obediently to him, and 'No, ma'am, thank
you,' to me, and that is the extent of our conversation. Generally her
face is pale and her eyes red, and at the first possible moment she begs
to be excused, and retires to the privacy of her own room and locks her
door. Her father has stopped her music lessons; at least she preferred
to have them stopped rather than take lessons of any other person, so
she practices no more. She continues her German and French, and secures
good reports from the professors, but there is an air of weariness and
dreariness about everything she does that makes one alternate between a
feeling of deep pity for her, and a desire to box her ears or shut her
up in a corner until she can behave herself. As a rule, however, I am
sorry for her. I was young once myself. I was undisciplined, I had no
mother, and I had a thousand wild fancies, any one of which might have
ruined me. What do you think you would do, dear, if Mr. Roberts had a
daughter, and you were her mother? You are all in a flush, now, and have
lain down this sheet and said aloud: 'What an idea! Marion does say the
most absurd things!' Well, then, if you were Marion Dennis, and stood
before God in the place of mother to Grace Dennis, what do you imagine
you would do? I'll tell you my policy; I am uniformly cheerful in her
presence--gay, if I can make gayety out of anything; not toward her
father, you understand, because I can fancy that might irritate her.
I really try to be gay toward Gracie herself; but can you imagine an
attempt to be cheery with a tombstone? I study as much as I can, her
tastes, in the ordering of dinner and desserts, and arrange the flowers
that I know she likes best, and in short try to do all those little bits
of nice things that I feel certain you would do in my place; and just
here I may as well own that I learned these small prettinesses, studying
you; never should have thought them out for myself. Flossy, Dr. Dennis
is one of the most patient and long-suffering of men, but it is very
hard for him to be patient with poor Gracie; harder than it is for me;
first, because I know by personal experience just what a turbulent young
creature a miss of seventeen or eighteen can be, and secondly, because
it is upon me her displeasure falls most heavily, and that naturally he
resents.
“Why am I writing all this to you? I don't, know, childie, really, save
that I remember what a curious way you have of telling Jesus all about
your friends and their trials, and I remember with great comfort that
you are my friend. Don't imagine me as miserable; I can never be that
so long as Christ is the present Helper that he is to me now; and you do
not need to be told that I daily thank him for giving me my husband.
But I think you will understand better than many would how earnestly
I desire to fill the place of mother, to my bright young motherless
Gracie, with her dangerous beauty and her dangerous talents and her
capacity for being miserable. Oh, I want to do more than my duty; I want
to love her with all my heart, and to have her love me. If it were not
for that man, who always hated me, and who, I believe in my heart, has
sought her out and is pressing his attentions upon her because he sees
a possibility of stinging me through her, I might hope to fill the place
in her heart that I thought I could.”
The letter closed abruptly at this point, and was finished a few days
afterwards in a different strain, giving plenty of home news, and being
full of the brightness which always sparkled in Marion's letters; but it
was the first two or three pages to which Mrs. Roberts turned back, and
which she thoughtfully re-read. Then she interrupted the busy pen:--
“Evan, are not the business letters nearly done? I want to read this to
you, and then I want to talk to you.”
“Delightful prospects, both of them,” he said with energy, as he added
the last hurried line, signed and delivered to his wife to enclose in
its envelope, then pushed aside writing materials and sat back to enjoy.
“It isn't all delightful,” his wife said, shaking her head. “I did hope
that poor Marion was going to have a few years of rest. Her life has
been such a hard one.”