your having lived in it? The day is long past when people were
satisfied with a Sunday religion. True Christianity means a daily
consecration of purpose. Look at the men who have made their mark in the
world--reformers, inventors, discoverers, all men of a single purpose;
and Paul says, "This one thing I do." Michael Angelo said, "Nothing
makes the soul so pure, so religious, as the endeavour to create
something perfect, for God is perfection, and whoever strives for it,
strives for something that is God-like." And remember, "perfect has no
clipped edges, no dreary blanks." Little one, I want you to strive to be
a perfect Christian.'
Pauline fell on her knees beside the couch, and buried her face in the
cushions.
'I am not worthy,' she murmured.
Tryphosa laid her hand very tenderly upon the bowed head, as she
repeated in low, triumphant tones:--
'"I will greatly rejoice in the Lord, my soul shall be joyful in my God;
for He hath clothed me with the garments of salvation, He hath covered
me with the robe of righteousness, as a bridegroom decketh himself with
ornaments, and as a bride adorneth herself with her jewels." "This is
the will of God, even your sanctification." "That ye may be holy and
without blame before Him in love." "Be ye perfect as My Father in heaven
is perfect." According to the measure of our capacity, that is the idea,
just as the tiny cup may be as full as the ocean. But for this we must
lay all upon the altar. There must be no closed doors, no reserved
corners in our hearts. We must give Christ the key to every room, so
that He shall be, not merely a guest in the guest-chamber, but the
owner of the house. Are you ready for that, dear child?'
And Pauline answered humbly:--
'I want the very best God has to give me.'
_Chapter VII_
A GREAT SURRENDER
The beautiful summer had slipped away and the glory of October was over
the land. Pauline had crossed the borders and plunged, with all the zest
of her thirsty soul, into the fair world of knowledge which lay
stretched at her feet. Her three months of conscientious study had been
of great service as a preparatory training, and already more than one of
the professors had complimented her on her breadth of view, and the
rapidity with which she was able to grasp an idea.
A subtle sense of power stole over her. Every part of her being seemed
to expand In the congenial atmosphere. A brilliant future seemed
opening before her enraptured gaze. The world should be the better for
her life. God had endowed her with gifts. She would lay them at His
feet. She would devote herself to the up-lifting of others. She would
strive to lift them from the torpor of their common-place into a higher
life. Life was magnificent! Poor Tryphosa, in her narrow sphere of pain,
how could she be so happy!
Belle hurried along the hall and stopped at the door of the blue-draped
chamber.
'My dear Paul, do you know we are all waiting? What have you been doing?
If I could only get a snapshot at you now I should call it "The
Intoxication of Success." You would make a splendid Jeanne d'Arc, with
the light of high and holy purpose in her eyes; but as this is the last
Saturday in the year that we shall have the chance of a ride to Forest
Glen and home by moonlight, I move that we postpone our rhapsodies
until a more convenient season. The boys are waiting below with the
horses, and the servants started long ago with the hampers. Even Gwen
has been wooed by the beauty of the morning to accompany us, though I
think there are about a dozen meetings on her calendar. Here is a letter
for you, but you have no time to read it now.'
'Have I kept you? Oh, I am sorry!' and catching up her silver-mounted
riding whip Pauline threw her habit over her arm, and ran down to where
Richard Everidge held the handsome bay mare which had been her uncle's
gift. The letter she had tossed lightly on the table. It was from her
father, but it would keep. There was never any news at Sleepy Hollow.
Aunt Rutha watched the merry party as they cantered off.
'How well Pauline looks in the saddle. We have been very fortunate in
our adopted daughter, Robert.'
'Yes, she is a sweet girl, and her passion for knowledge is just the
incentive that our lazy little Belle needs. I only hope her father will
never take it into his head to claim her again. She is a blessing in the
house.'
On and on the riders travelled, through the exhilarating autumn air,
until they stopped for lunch on the borders of a forest which Jack Frost
had set ablaze, and which glowed in the sunshine with a dazzling
splendour of crimson and bronze and gold. The hours flew by, and when
they started homewards the sun was sinking in majestic glory, while on
the opposite horizon the moon rose, silver clear. Pauline's every nerve
quivered with delight. It was a perfect ending to a perfect day.
When she went up to her room that night her eye fell on the forgotten
letter. She opened it slowly with a smile on her lips. Suddenly the
smile faded, and a cold chill crept into her heart.
'It has been such a happy day,' she had told Aunt Rutha, as, after the
merry supper was over, she had stood by her side in the soft-lighted
library. 'Such a happy day, without a flaw!' And now already it seemed
to be fading into the dim, dim past! And yet it was only a few hours
since Richard Everidge had climbed lightly up after the spray of
brilliant leaves which she had admired, and she had pinned them against
the dark background of her riding habit; even now they were before her
on the table. She looked at them with a dull sense of pain.
'Mother has had a stroke of some sort,' Mr Harding wrote, 'the doctor
doesn't seem to know rightly what. She is somewhat better, but she can't
leave her bed. The children are well, except Polly, who seems weakly.
The doctor thinks her spine has been hurt. Mother had her in her arms
when she fell.'
Pauline shivered. Was this God's 'best' for her? The letter dropped from
her hand, and she sat for hours motionless, her eyes taking in every
detail of the pretty moonlit room, until it was indelibly engraved upon
her memory.
* * * * *
When the morning came she took the letter to Tryphosa. She could not
trust herself to tell the others yet.
The eyes that looked up at her from the open sheet were very tender.
'Dear child, are you satisfied?'
'With what, my lady?'
'With Christ, and the life He has planned for you?'
She hesitated. If it had been this other life that she had been planning
for herself only the day before, how gladly she would have answered:
but, if it should be Sleepy Hollow, could she say yes?
With her keen intuition, which had been sharpened by pain, Tryphosa
divined her thought.
'I am going to give you a new beatitude,' she said, brightly. 'Blessed
be drudgery, for it is the grey angel of success.'
'That is a hard gospel, my lady.'
'Perhaps, but ease and victory are for ever incompatible. The Father
loved the Son, yet He surrendered Him to a life of toil, and Christ
Himself gave His chosen ones the heritage of tribulation, crowned with
the sweet, bright gift of peace. It is the tried lives that ring the
truest. The idea runs all through the Bible. "Silver purified seven
times," and "gold tried in the fire," and "polished after the similitude
of a palace." Have you ever thought of the friction that involves? The
finest diamonds bear the most cutting, and it is the mission of the
diamond to reflect the light. If we would have our lives a success, we
must seek not happiness but harmony.'
'Harmony! With what, my lady?'
'The will of God, dear child. We are out of tune when God finds us. He
puts us in tune with our great keynote Jesus, and then we are like an
Æolian harp. The west and the east winds make music through it, and the
shrieking storm the sweetest music of all. But remember, little one, it
is the "joy of the Lord" which is our strength. We must sit in the
sunshine if we would reflect the rainbow.'
That night Pauline spent upon her knees.
'It is ridiculous,' exclaimed Mr Davis, when, the next morning, she
announced her decision to the family. 'I will send a nurse down by the
early train, but it is not fit work for you, my child, and besides we
cannot spare you.'
Her eyes filled.
'It is so good of you to say that! But my Father has called me, and I
must go.'
'He does not say anything about your going in the letter,' said Mr
Davis, as he ran his eyes over the words.
'I mean my heavenly Father, Uncle Robert.' she said simply. 'The message
came last night.'
After that they could not shake her, although Belle hung about her
tearfully. Russell and Gwen protested, Aunt Rutha looked at her with
sorrowful eyes, and Mr Davis repeated that the very idea was absurd, as
he paced up and down with a strange huskiness in his throat.
* * * * *
'I have come to say good-bye, my lady.'
Tryphosa looked wistfully at the brave, sweet face, which she knew she
would see no more.
'So soon, dear child?'
'I have given Christ the key, as you said, and now I am under orders.'
'Well, I knew it would come. It is only that we must travel by different
roads. We shall meet at the end of the journey.'
'But you never told me that my way to the kingdom lay through Sleepy
Hollow!'
'Surely not, dear child! It is not for me to do the work of the Holy
Spirit. I knew you would hear His voice speaking to you from out the
shadows by-and-by.'
Pauline sighed.
'I have so longed for culture, my lady, and now I must put it by.'
'I am going to quote again. "Blessed be drudgery, the secret of all
culture." Some one has said: "Latin and Greek, and music and art, and
travel, are the decorations of life, but industry and perseverance,
courage before difficulties, and cheer under straining burdens,
self-control and self-denial are the indispensables. It is our daily
task that mainly educates us, and the humblest woman may live
splendidly." And remember, dear child, a life like Christ's is the
grandest thing in the world. Angels may well envy us the opportunity of
living it, for God Himself has lived it in Christ and rejoices to live
it again in each of us. We should glory in the thought that our King
allows us to be the mirror in which the world may see Jesus. May the
Lord keep you as one of His "hidden ones," my darling, and make you to
realise that He who "holdeth the height of the hills," spreads the hush
of His presence over the valleys.'
Then she drew her close in a long, last farewell.
_Chapter VIII_
IDEALISING THE REAL
'If you cannot realise your Ideal, you can at least idealise your Real.'
As the train slackened speed, Pauline lifted her eyes from the book
which Richard Everidge had laid on the seat beside her, after giving her
that last strong handshake, to see her father standing in front of the
Sleepy Hollow Station. A great pity filled her heart--how worn and old
he looked!
They had all wanted to accompany her part of the way, and Belle had
pleaded to be allowed to go and help nurse, but she had said them nay.
She knew the accommodations of Hickory Farm, and it was easier to leave
them where she had met them first, at the entrance of what would always
be to her the city of delights.
Abraham Lincoln and the spring waggon! Had the whole beautiful summer
been one delicious dream? Could it be only a week since she had stood
entranced in that forest of flame? Here the leaves hung brown and
shrivelled on the denuded branches, stray flakes of snow were in the
air, and the early twilight fell chill and dreary.
'I'm terrible glad to see you, Pauline, though I hated to spoil your
visit,' said Mr Harding, as he gave Abraham Lincoln a taste of the whip.
Pauline leaned towards him, and laid both hands upon his arm.
'Poor father! I am so sorry for you! Now tell me all about it.'
And the tired man turned to the daughter who for his sake had left ease
and beauty and friends, and shifted to her shoulders the burden which
he found too heavy for his own.
The children crowded to meet her as she stumbled through the narrow
hall-way into the kitchen. How dark it was! Her quick glance
comprehended the whole scene, and the contrast between it and that other
home-coming smote her with a keen sense of physical pain. She looked at
the solitary lamp with its grotesquely hideous ornament of red flannel,
at Susan's expressionless, freckled face, at the boys in their
copper-toed boots and overalls, at the good-natured, but hopelessly
common-place Martha Spriggs, with her thin hair drawn tight into a knob
the size of a bullet, and her bare arms akimbo. 'Idealize her real!'
Would it be possible to idealize anything at Sleepy Hollow?
She got her welcome in various fashions.
'It's about time you were getting back!' exclaimed Mrs Harding from the
bed on which she was forced to lie, in bitterness of spirit, with Polly
by her side. 'I suppose nothing less than a stroke would have brought
you. It beats me how people can be such sponges! I'm thankful I was
never one to go trailin' about the country after my relations. I never
was away from home more than a day in my life till I was married, and
it's been nothing but work ever since, and now to be laid here like a
useless log, with everything going hotfoot to destruction! It's a good
thing you've come at last, for the children are makin' sawdust and
splinters of every bit of crockery in the house, and that Martha Spriggs
has no more management than a settin' hen. I don't suppose you'll be
much better, though. You never did hev much of a head, an' now you've
been up among the clouds so long, you'll be more like to sugar the
butter and salt the pies than before.'
Pauline lifted Polly from her uncomfortable position with a warm glow
about her heart, which all the sick woman's bitterness was powerless to
quench. If she could see Richard Everidge, she would tell him that she
did believe in altitudes now. It was possible even in the valleys to
live above the clouds. 'Do not seek happiness,' Tryphosa had said, 'but
harmony with God's will,' and God's will for her was Sleepy Hollow. 'It
is not what we do, but what we are, dear child,' she seemed to hear her
saying. She remembered reading that 'the smallest roadside pool has its
water from heaven, and its gleam from the sun, and can hold the stars in
its bosom, as well as the great ocean.' God could make a 'perfect
Christian' even in Sleepy Hollow.
'I'm powerful glad ye've cum, Pawliney,' said Martha Spriggs, as she
followed her into the dairy after the meal was over. 'I'm that beset I
dunno where I'm standin', for Miss Hardin's been as crooked as a snake
fence, an' as contrairy as a yearlin' colt, an' the childern dew train
awful.'
'Yer've got to tell me stories all night, miles of 'em,' said Lemuel, as
he bestowed his small person on the floor, with his legs in the air.
'No, no, Lemuel, you're going right to bed, like a good little brother,
so Polly can get to sleep. Poor Polly is so tired,' and Pauline walked
up and down the floor of her tiny room trying to soothe the weary child.
'Hi! Poll's no 'count; she's only a gurl. I ain't goin' ter sleep
nuther. I'm goin' ter stay up fer hours an' hours, an' if yer don't keep
right on tellin' stories quick, I'll holler, an' that'll make mar mad,
an' then she'll send par up with a stick ter beat me. I don't care, he
don't hit ez hard as she duz, anyhow.'
'If you'll get undressed right away, Lemuel, I'll tell you about a
little boy who lived with an' old, old man, and one night he couldn't
sleep, but----'
'Huh! that's a Bible story. This ain't Sunday. Par never reads the Bible
'cept Sunday. I want 'em 'bout lions an' tigers, an' men tumblin' down
mountains, and boys gettin' eaten by bears.'
'What did you do when I was away, Lemuel?'
His lower lip protruded ominously.
'Ain't had nuthin'. Martha Spriggs don't hev any. She only knows "the
cow that jumped over the moon," an' that's no good: 'tain't true,
nuther, fer our cows don't do it.'
No time the next morning for the long hours of delightful study. It was
churning day, and there was baking to be done, and the mending was
behindhand, and the children needed clothes; besides the numerous 'odd
jobs' which Mrs Harding had deferred, but which she was prompt to
require done as soon as she had some one besides Martha to call on. Then
her meals must be given to her, and nothing tasted right, and the
children were so noisy, and the older boys so uncouth.
Wearily Pauline toiled up the narrow stairs with Polly as the clock
struck nine. She laid the sleeping child on her bed softly, so as not to
wake Lemuel, and knelt down by the window. Not a sound broke the
stillness. Her thoughts flew to the blue-draped chamber, and the soft
lighted library, where she could almost see Uncle Robert and Aunt
Rutha, and Belle and Richard, and Russell and Gwen. But they might not
be there yet; they had set apart this night, she remembered, to run over
for a look through the big telescope. Last week that was, before she had
decided to come to Sleepy Hollow, and broken up all their happy plans.
Only last week! Then she thought of Tryphosa, lying with closed eyes in
her darkened room, waiting patiently for the sleep which so often
refused to come, while the angel of pain brooded over her pillow. Then
her eyes sought the stars.
'You dear things!' she whispered. 'God put you in your places and told
you to shine, and for all these hundreds of years you've just kept on
shining. Oh! my lady, ask God to help me to make this dark place
bright.'
She knelt on in the clear, cold moonlight until at last the hush of
God's peace crept into her heart, and there was a great calm.
The winter crept on steadily. Jack Frost threw photographs of fairyland
upon the windows, and hung the roofs with fringes of crystal pendants,
while the snowflakes piled themselves over the fences and made a shroud
for the trees, and every day Pauline, with this strange peace in her
heart, did her housework to the glory of God.
There were bright spots here and there, for the Boston letters came
freely, and the magazines which she had liked best, and now and then a
book, as Belle said, 'to keep Mr Hallam company.' They would not let her
drop out of their life, these kind friends, and she took it all
thankfully, though she could only glance at the magazines, and never
opened the books. There would be time by-and-by, she said to herself
cheerfully. There was so much waiting for her in the beautiful
by-and-by.
'It beats me,' said Mrs Harding fretfully, as Pauline hushed Polly to
sleep, 'what you do to that child. I used to sing to her till my throat
cracked, but you just smooth her hair awhile with those fingers of
yours, and off she goes. I wish you'd come and smooth me off to sleep.
I'm that tired lying here, I don't know what to do. That new doctor's no
more good than his powders are. I don't see what old Dr Ross had to die
for, just before I was goin' ter need him.' And the sick woman groaned.
Pauline laid Polly in her cot with a smile. This grudging praise was
very sweet to her. To make darkness light, that was Christ's mission,
and hers. She was putting her whole soul in the effort.
'What makes P'liney so different?' queried Leander of Stephen and John,
as they rested from their daily task of cutting wood. 'She used ter be
as mad as hops if yer mussed up yer clothes, an' now she only laughs an'
sez, "Never mind, if it's a stain that soap will conquer."'
'An' she's always singin' too,' said John thoughtfully; 'if mother
didn't scold so it would be real pleasant.'
'I'd like to know why it is, though,' repeated Leander thoughtfully.
'Because she belongs to the King,' said the clear, sweet voice of his
step-sister from the doorway, 'and she wants you all to belong to Him
too.'
When she went back into the house, she found Lemuel brandishing a
broomstick over the frightened Polly.
'Why, Lemuel, what are you doing?'
'I've casted the devils out of her,' exclaimed that youth triumphantly,
'an' they've gone inter the pig pen, whole leguns of 'em, an' they're
kickin' orful!'
_Chapter IX_
A LOST LETTER
Seven years had gone by, and every day of each successive month had been
full to overflowing of hard work for Pauline.
'Dear Tryphosa,' she whispered to herself with a smile, 'you little
thought, when you gave me that new beatitude, what constant friends the
grey angel of Drudgery and I were to be.'
She climbed slowly up the narrow stairs to her room, and shaded the lamp
that it might not disturb Polly's troubled sleep,--poor Polly, who would
be an invalid for life. Then she sat down with a sigh of relief to read
Belle's last letter. It had been a hard day, her step-mother had been
more than usually restless, and the farm-work had been very heavy, for
Martha Spriggs was home on a visit; every nerve in her body seemed to
quiver with the strain.
'My dearest Paul,' Belle wrote, 'I can hardly see for crying, but I
promised her that you should know at once.
'Tryphosa went away from us to "the other shore" last night. We were all
there--her "inner circle" as she used to call us--all except you, and
she seemed to miss you so. I never knew her to grow fond of any one in
so short a time, but she took you right into her heart from the first.
If I had not loved you so much I should have been jealous, but who could
be jealous of you, you precious, brave saint?
'I have heard of the gate of heaven, but last night we were there.
'Dick was supporting her in his arms, poor Dick, he was so fond of her,
and it was so hard for her to breathe--and we were all gathered round
her, our hearts breaking to think it was the last time. She has suffered
terribly lately, but at the last the pain left her, and she lay with the
very rapture of heaven on her dear face, talking so brightly of how we
should do after she had gone. It was just as if she were going on a
pleasure trip, and we were to follow later. She turned to me with her
lovely eyes all aglow with joy, and said:--
'"Give my Bible to the dear child in the valley" (that was what she
always called you), "and tell her 'the miles to heaven are but short and
few.'"
'She had a message for us all, and then, suddenly, just as the dawn
broke, a great light swept over her face and she turned her head and
whispered, "Jesus!" just as if He were close beside her, and then--she
was gone.
'I shall never forget it. I have always thought of Death as the King of
Terrors, but last night it was the coming of the Bridegroom for His
own.'
With a low cry Pauline's head dropped. There could never be anyone just
like 'my lady,' and she had gone away.
The hours passed silently, as she sat benumbed in the grasp of her great
sorrow.
Suddenly she sprang up. Her father was calling her from the foot of the
stairs.
'Mother's had a bad turn. Send Stephen for the doctor, and come, quick!'
She hurried down, and mechanically heated water, and did what she could
to help the stricken woman, but before the doctor could reach the house,
the Angel of Death had swept over the threshold, and Pauline and her
father were left alone.
* * * * *
'Here's a letter for yer, Pawliney. Don't yer wish yer may git it?' and
Lemuel, the irrepressible, waved it at her tantalisingly from the top of
the tall hickory, where he had perched himself, like the monkey that he
was.
She saw the Boston post-mark, and stretched out her hands for it
longingly.
'Bring it down, there's a dear boy.'
'Not much! I bet Leander that I could make you mad, an' he bet his new
jack-knife that I couldn't. I'm goin' to chew it up. It's orful thin,
'taint no good anyhow. You won't miss it, P'liney,' and crushing the
letter into a small wad he put it into his capacious mouth.
It was, as Lemuel said, 'awful thin,' not much like the volumes which
Belle usually wrote. She had not been able to distinguish the writing,
but, of course, it must be from Belle. The two cousins had grown very
near to each other as the years rolled by, and a summer never passed
without some of her uncle's family spending a week or two in Sleepy
Hollow. Those were Pauline's red-letter days--the bright, scintillating
points where she was brought into touch again with the world of thought
and light and beauty.
'Throw it down to me, Lemuel, dear.'
'Can't,' said the boy coolly, 'I'm goin' ter tie it to Poll's balloon,
an' let go of the string, an' then it'll go straight to heaven,' and,
with the letter reposing in his cheek, he began to sing vociferously:--
'"I want ter be an angel,
An' with the angels stand;
A crown upon my forehead,
A harp within my hand."
'Git mad now, P'liney, quick, fer I want that knife orful.'
A cry from Polly made Pauline hurry into the house to find that Martha
Spriggs had slipped while passing the child's couch, and upset a bowl of
scalding milk, which she was carrying, right over the little invalid's
foot. In the confusion which followed, Pauline forgot Lemuel and her
longed-for letter. When she went out to look for him he was gone.
'Give it to me now, Lemuel,' she said, as he came into supper; 'you've
had enough fun for to-day.'