"O LORD, TAKE DIRK TOO!"
SHE found her standing before the mirror. By reason of the fact that
she understood no pretty trick of braid or curl, her long yellow hair
hung just as nature had made it, with no waves or ripples save those
which had grown with its growth. It fell about her now like a sunset
cloud. She had taken from the vase near at hand a rose, which she had
pushed in among the masses of hair, with no knowledge as to how it
should be arranged, or indeed thought; yet the effect was something
which made Mrs. Roberts give an involuntary start of admiration.
Still it was evident that, though apparently gazing at herself, she was
thinking away beyond herself. It is doubtful if at that moment she saw
the flower or her own reflection, or knew that she was looking. Her
eyes had the faraway expression which one sometimes sees in great power
on faces like hers.
She turned as Mrs. Roberts, having softly knocked and received no
answer, softly entered. And her first words indicated the intensity of
her thought, whatever it was.
"Dirk has 'got' to go there!"
"Go where?" asked Mrs. Roberts, startled out of the words she meant to
speak—startled by the hint of power in the voice and manner. "Of whom
are you thinking, my dear girl, and where do you want him to go?"
"I'm thinking about Dirk, ma'am; I thought about him all the
evening—the man made me; and I've made up my mind. He's 'got' to go to
heaven!"
I suppose I cannot give you an idea of the force in her voice. It was
as though a resolution, from which there could be no appeal, had been
taken, and the person resolving felt her own power to accomplish. It
was altogether an unexpected answer to Mrs. Roberts. She did not know
whether to be half-frightened or to laugh.
She sat down in one of the easy-chairs to study the girl, and consider
what answer to make. Mart, meantime, turned back to the survey of
herself in the mirror, or to the survey of whatever she saw there, and
continued talking:—
"I never knew much about heaven. You may guess that if you have ever
been in our alley. Only lately, Sallie Calkins she's been telling me
what you told her, and I had a kind of notion that you must know what
you was talking about, and that it was for rich folks and grand folks
like you; but the man told about that Madge, you know, to-night—an
awful drunkard and swearer, and all that—how she reformed and went to
heaven.
"Dirk ain't no drunkard, but he will be. Everybody says he will,
because father is such an awful one. Mother, she's never had no hope of
him. She says father didn't drink till he was most twenty, and then he
begun; and she's looking for Dirk to begin, and I haven't thought he
could help it either. What if he doesn't care for it much yet? He will,
it's likely. I've never told nobody that, not even Sallie; and I've
been mad at mother every time she said any such thing. But all the time
I've been expecting him to begin; and I know well enough when once they
begin how it goes on.
"But that man to-night told things that made a difference. He says that
God can keep them from wanting to drink, and help them right straight
along; and that they can go to heaven as well as the best one. I've
wanted nice things for Dirk all my life; but I never saw no way to get
them, and it made me mad. To-night I saw a way, but I never had no kind
of a notion how heaven looked till I come into this room, and see the
light and the flowers and the shine, and another room spread out there
in the glass; and now I know, and Dirk shall go."
Mrs. Roberts was in no mood for laughing; the tears were dropping
slowly on the flower she held in her hand. Mart saw in the glass just
then a sight which seemed to add to her surprise. She turned wondering
eyes on her hostess.
"What are you crying for?" she asked. "Don't spoil the flower; it is
like the one Dirk brought me once. He said you sent it to me. I kept
it 'most a week. I took it over to Sallie's, and she got fresh water
for it every day, somehow; and it was then she begun to tell me what
you said about heaven, and I thought if God had made such flowers as
that for you, it was likely he had made a heaven for you. But I didn't
believe it was for Dirk till to-night, and I didn't have no kind of
a notion how it looked till just now. Do you believe what that man
said—that folks like Dirk can go? Of course, if Madge went, why, Dirk
would have a right. He is bad, just because he has to be. He never had
no chance to be anything else; and he ain't very bad, anyhow—nothing to
compare with some." Her voice was almost fierce in its earnestness; she
was beginning to resent the creeping doubt that Mrs. Roberts's silence
suggested.
Careful words must be spoken now. What if this awakening soul should be
turned aside? No wonder that the unspoken words were prayers.
"Dirk 'has' a right to go to heaven," she said steadily, sweetly;
"there is not the shadow of a doubt as to his right. No one in the
world—not Satan himself—can deprive him of it; and it is not only his
right, but his 'duty' to go."
"Then he shall!"
I wish I could give you an idea of the strength in the girl's voice. It
almost carried conviction with it to Mrs. Roberts's heart.
"Come and sit down," she said, and she drew her towards one of the low
cushions.
If Mart sat on that, her head would be just where a gentle hand could
stroke the masses of hair.
"Let me talk with you about this. You are mistaken in one thing. Dirk
is very bad. He is bad enough to shut him out of heaven for ever."
The girl started, and tried to fling off the caressing hand.
"So are you," said the gentle voice.
"Oh 'me'! Don't talk about me. Who ever said I wasn't bad? Let me go; I
want to go home. I don't care how hard it rains."
"And so am I," continued the gentle voice.
The girl on the cushion ceased struggling to free herself from the
caressing touch, and remained motionless. "Let me tell you of something
that we have each done a great many times. We have been asked and urged
and coaxed, day after day and year after year, to accept an invitation
to go to this very heaven, and we have paid no attention at all; and
this after Jesus Christ had given his life to make a way for us to go.
Is not that being bad?"
"Dirk he never had no invitation—never heard anything about it."
"Yes, he has," speaking with quiet firmness. "The Lord Jesus Christ
told me to invite him, and I have done so a great many times, and he
has made no answer; and Sallie Calkins has invited you, and you have
treated it in just the same way."
"I didn't believe it."
"Isn't that being bad? What has He ever done that you should refuse to
believe his word, when he died an awful death to prove to you that he
was in earnest?"
"You said Dirk had a right to go."
"So he has. Jesus Christ has given him a right if he will. I have
invited you to my house, and asked you to spend the night in this room,
and sleep in this bed. Has any person a right to keep you from doing
so?"
"No." An emphatic nod of the head, and a lingering, almost loving look
at the white bed behind her.
"Then cannot you truthfully say that you have a right to be here?
My dear girl, it is so faint an illustration of what Jesus Christ
has done to give you a right to heaven, that I almost wonder at your
understanding it. But can you imagine something of how I should have
felt had I urged you to come to me night after night, for weeks and
years, and you had turned from me with no answer, or else with scorn?"
"You wouldn't have kept on asking me." Mart spoke with the assurance of
one who had firm faith in her statement.
"No, I presume I should not. I would have said, after the third or
fourth invitation, 'If she really will not have anything to do with me,
I cannot help it.' And I should have tried to forget you. This is one
of the many differences between Christ and me. He waits, and asks, and
'asks.' How long will you keep him waiting?"
I have given you only the beginning of the conversation. It was long
ere it was concluded.
Downstairs Mr. Reid waited as long as he could, curious to know the
result of Mart's first impressions. Then he went away, and Gracie went
to her room, and the house settled into quiet. And Mr. Roberts in the
library waited for his wife, while she told over again, with tender
words and simple illustrations, the "old, old story," so fitted to the
wants of the world.
How many times has there been a like result!
It was midnight when they knelt together, the fair child of luxury and
the child of poverty; but the Saviour, who intercedes for both, bent
his ear, and heard again the cry of a groping soul seeking him out of
darkness, and held out his loving, never-failing arms, able to reach
down to her depth, and received her to himself. Who can tell that
story? Who can describe how heaven seemed to the girl just then?
It was not what Mrs. Roberts had expected. I cannot even say that it
was what she had hoped for. Her faith had not reached to such a height
at all. She could hardly have put into words what she hoped. When she
ventured to try to tell it to the friends in the parlour and to you, I
doubt whether you understood. She thought to get a hold on the girl;
to show her something of God's beauty and love, as it shone through
herself; to make her long after something her life did not give, and
to gradually lead her to seek after satisfaction in Christ. A long
process—something that should unfold gradually, with many discouraging
drawbacks, and some days that would look like utter failures. She had
schooled herself to be prepared for this; but she had not looked for
Him to exert his mighty power to save in a moment. How it had touched
her to find a soul hungry, not for itself, but for a brother, I shall
not attempt to tell.
The first words she said, after she went back to her waiting husband a
little after midnight, were these:—
"'He could not do many mighty works there because of their unbelief.'
I think that is what is the matter with the world to-day. I wonder
if He would not be pleased with one who could throw herself at his
feet with a childlike abandon of faith, and expect wonders, yes, and
impossibilities, just as a child feels that anything can be done
by father? God has shamed my faith to-night. It is as though I had
asked for a crumb of bread, and he gave me the entire loaf. That girl
upstairs has not heard of him before as a Saviour for her—has never
thought of such a thing, or, at least, dreamed of its possibility; and
yet she has given herself to him. And, Evan, what do you think were the
first words she said?
"'O Lord, take Dirk too!'
"She is on her knees at this moment praying for him. If you could have
seen her face when it first dawned upon her that she could tell God
about him, and ask for his mighty power to be exerted in his behalf, it
would have been a picture for your lifetime. O Evan, Evan, why can we
not expect great things of God?"