presence did much that medicine had failed to do. As he stood talking
to the sick man, his eyes rested a moment on a little red Valentine
that had been inserted between the glass and the frame of the tinselled
mirror.
"I see you're looking at me Valentine," said John.
"Yes! I did notice it."
"Well, sir, many a day the last few weeks I've wondered whether I could
hold out. When a fellow ain't got a job, and money and friends is
scarce, it seems like it's easier for the devil to get th' inside
track. There was some days when it seemed as if all the devils in hell
was after me a-trying to get me back to the old life, and I used to
come up here and look at me Valentine. I've stood before that there
glass a good many times lately, and looked at the red heart what Ruthie
cut out, and said, 'God help me to be faithful to the little gal.'"
After a good deal of persuasion John consented to go to the hospital,
so that he might receive proper care.
For seven weeks the disease, which was a part of "the wages of sin,"
held sway. Once John thought the end was near, and that probably, ere
many days, he must pass away. He expressed his fears in a broken voice
to the nurse, and then asked for the Valentine. Tears filled his eyes
as he gazed at the trifling token of a child's love. With an effort he
controlled his voice and said huskily: "If anything happens, nurse, I
want to have that Valentine with me. You know what I mean, don't you?"
The nurse nodded her head.
"You see, nurse, it was sent me by a little gal--the minister's little
gal. I was pretty far gone a year ago, and if ever God sent an angel
into this world to help lift up a poor wretch of a man, it was when
that little gal started to be my friend. And when them little hands
cut out the heart for my Valentine and sent it to me, and I read 'Ruth
loves John,' I felt as good as if I'd been sent a fortune."
The news of John's sickness had its effect on Ruth's nightly prayer:
"Please, God, make John better, because he's very sick. For Jesus'
sake. Amen."
John's sickness was not unto death. Slowly he regained health and
courage, and as soon as he was able to work he secured a position in a
city factory. Much of his leisure is being given to City Mission Work.
He has often been seen on a street corner joining in an open-air
service. Not long ago he was telling a crowd of men what the Gospel
had done for him. "Say, fellows, when I think of it--think of what I
was--I just know He's able for anything. I'm ashamed of myself, but
I'm proud of Him."
As he finished his testimony a workman in the same factory, who was
standing at the rear of the crowd, called out, "Yes, and John's the
decentest feller in the factory, so he is."
The red heart has faded almost to a brown. It no longer occupies its
place on the mirror. A stranger picking up John Gage's Bible might
wonder why a soiled and worn bit of paper in the shape of a heart
should be pasted on the front inside page; but often a tired workman,
reading his "verses" for the night, turns first of all to the front
inside page, and reads three words that light and time and dirt have
almost effaced--"Ruth loves John."
Sometimes the gaze is long, and sometimes the fading words are still
further dimmed by tears, but the faded Valentine is fragrant with
precious memories of a child's love that resulted in the homecoming of
the prodigal.
THE CORD OF LOVE
A transcontinental express was speeding across the prairies to its
Pacific Coast terminus. Two hours before it shrieked its approach to a
foothill city, the local police received a message which, being
interpreted, read: "Detain Lavina Berson, travelling on No. 96; age
about fifteen, black hair, very attractive. Travelling in company of
two men when train left B----."
When No. 96 pulled into the depôt, two plain-clothes officers boarded
the train and soon located the girl wanted. At first the flashing
black eyes looked defiantly into the face of Staff-Inspector Kenney as
he requested her to accompany him. But the law must be obeyed, and on
being shown a detective's badge the little runaway passed with her
escort comparatively unnoticed into the city street.
At the police-station she sat in the ante-room with the matron, while
the inspector, the staff-inspector and the plain-clothes detective
discussed the case. The girl's youthfulness and attractiveness
appealed to their sympathies.
"It's too blamed bad to send a pretty youngster like that to the
cells," said one.
"Why not send her to that new Rescue Home till we get more particulars?
They'll take care of her. There's a woman there that knows her job
alright."
And so to the Redemptive Home Lavina was sent, the authorities giving
the usual instructions governing such a case. For a few hours the
new-comer was silent, but few girls could long be silent in the
presence of the big-hearted, winsome Superintendent of that Home. It
was a new experience for Lavina; the only kindness she had known was
the traitorous type, and it was hard for her to believe that there was
such a thing as unselfish love. Forty-eight hours from the time she
crossed the threshold of the Home, the hand that was almost ready to
strike any one who seemed to have co-operated in checking her reckless
career was slipped along the forearm of the Superintendent.
"Everybody thinks I'm bad, and I guess I am, but I believe if I had
lived with you I might have wanted to be good."
The words did not come easily, but when the Superintendent stroked the
black hair and put an arm around the wanderer, drawing the head to her
shoulder, she realized that love had won its first battle in that
misguided life.
The following morning a young man rang the door-bell of the Home in an
impatient manner. When the Superintendent appeared he said, "Is this
where Lavina Berson is?"
"Yes," was the reply.
"Well, I want her, and I want her d----d quick. She's a d----d
nuisance. She's never been any good. Nobody can do anything with
her." Then, drawing a rope from his pocket, he said, "I'll bind the
little devil with this, and if that won't do I've something else in
here (putting his hand over his hip-pocket) that will settle her." His
face was red with passion, and his eyes flashed with anger. "Oh! you
needn't tell me," he continued. "I know all about her; I'm her
brother. I'm sick of getting her out of difficulties. I say she's a
d----d nuisance, and I ain't going to let her forget this trip I've had
to take, not on your bottom dollar I ain't. I've got something else to
do than to be chasing over the country after her."
"You cannot get possession of your sister to-day," answered the
Superintendent. "Even if I were not under obligation to the
authorities to detain her, pending their instructions, I could not let
her go with you just now. She is a friend of mine, and I love her.
She has told me her story; she is only just sixteen. Ropes and pistols
and policemen are not the remedy, sir; she needs a brother--a real
brother. If you call in the morning I shall be glad to have a quiet
talk with you."
Ten days later, in her own town, the court-room was crowded when the
case of Lavina Berson was called. The trial resulted in a mass of
evidence to show that she was bad. There seemed no other course open
to the Judge but to send her to a reformatory. She had associated with
the fastest boys and girls, and with the most lawless men and women her
town had known. The policeman, giving evidence, made it clear that the
town would be well rid of her. Not one witness, even to the girl's
mother, had any hopeful word to speak.
In the face of such evidence there seemed only one course open. When
the word "reformatory" reached the girl's ear she broke into a passion
of weeping, so that the Judge hesitated a moment. Then there was some
movement and whispering near the witness-box. The Superintendent
mentioned had journeyed Eastward to be present at the trial, and she
was now conferring with the Morality Inspector.
The weeping girl looked appealingly through her tears at the one who
had befriended her. "Oh, please," she whispered, in a voice broken
with sobs, "don't let them send me to that awful place. It'll only
make me worse; take me with you. I'll do anything you tell me; please,
oh! please, Miss Moffatt."
Turning to the Judge the Superintendent said, "Your Honour, I am a
stranger to you, but as a representative of the Women's Council of the
---- Church in Canada may I say a few words?" The Judge nodded assent,
and with a heart full of love for the wayward, Miss Moffatt made one of
the most impassioned appeals conceivable. In closing, she said, "I ask
your Honour to give this girl into my charge for one year. In view of
the evidence given, may I be allowed to say that she has been brutally
sinned against. No man who has spoken has referred to her partners in
sin, nor has any man suggested that the stronger sex has any
responsibility to be a brother and protector of girls. The evidence
reveals the fact that plenty of men co-operated in her downfall;
apparently not one made any effort to uplift. Some of her betrayers
are still counted as respectable men, while she receives all the blame
and the shame. One remedy does not seem to have been tried, and in the
name of the One who long ago said, 'Neither do I condemn thee; go, and
sin no more,' I ask you to be gracious enough to allow me to try a
corrective which I believe will be more effective than what has been
suggested."
The Judge caught the light in those eyes, and with manifest emotion
addressed the accused: "Lavina, you have found a friend; so long as you
are true to her you will not again be called to appear before this
Court. May Heaven's blessing rest upon such women as the one who has
spoken in your behalf! The case is dismissed."
Once again Lavina journeyed Westward. Once again she was on No. 96,
but no longer with betrayers. By her side was the Superintendent with
her sweet, sheltering influence.
And so life began again for Lavina in the Redemptive Home. In view of
her past life, it was worth crossing a continent to see the gladness in
her eyes when one day Miss Moffatt put her hand upon her shoulder and
said playfully, "Lavina is my right-hand girl; I think she'll soon be
Assistant Superintendent."
As one of the workers was passing along the hallway upstairs some
months later she was arrested by the sound of a pleading voice--some
one was offering a prayer. Noiselessly she drew near the room from
which the voice came. The last petition was being uttered, "O God,
please help the other girls to be good like You helped me, for Jesus'
sake. Amen." The little dark-eyed girl was kneeling by the bedside
with arm around the shoulder of a young Hungarian maiden who had been
rescued from a life of shame. It developed later that these two
rescued ones were daily praying for others who were being sheltered in
the Home.
How it all reminds one of that far-away scene! "No man could bind him;
no, not with chains; because that he had been often bound with fetters
and chains, and the chains had been plucked asunder by him, and the
fetters broken in pieces: neither could any man tame him.... Jesus
said unto him, Come out of the man, thou unclean spirit." And the
modern evil spirit and its rebuke is like unto that. "Nobody can do
anything with her; I've got this rope to bind the little devil with."
And then this: "O God, please help the other girls to be good like You
helped me, for Jesus' sake. Amen." On the heels of the failure of all
others Jesus comes and reveals Himself to-day, as of old, as the master
of demons.
What the future days hold for Lavina Berson we know not, but the height
of her ambition to-day is that she be accepted for training, so that
some day she may work among those of the class to which she once
belonged.
NELL'S HOME-GOING
St. Andrew's Church was losing its respectability. It was one of the
oldest in the Province, and the town in which it was situated had for
some years prided itself in being a "Society" town. The select few who
had for so long been undisturbed by the "common" people were having to
endure the presence, in near-by pews, of some who had no entrance into
the best social circles--and the shocking part of it was that the new
minister, who was reported to have come from one of the best families
in Montreal, rather gloried in this condition of affairs.
Two families had already withdrawn from the membership of St.
Andrew's--two of the wealthiest and gayest--and that within six months
of the minister's induction. The withdrawal of the Farsees and Shunums
happened on this wise. A few Sabbath evenings previous to the
"interview" that Mrs. Farsee had had with the minister, a young woman
of unsavory reputation had dared to enter St. Andrew's. Perhaps the
minister was not aware of what he did, but there was no denying the
fact that he shook hands with the said young woman, and hoped she would
"always feel welcome at St. Andrew's." After seeing, with her own
eyes, a second and a third visit, and a second and a third welcome,
Mrs. Farsee, with the moral backing of Mrs. Shunum, had her now
much-talked-of interview with the Rev. Thomas Fearnon.
"Mr. Fearnon," she commenced in an agitated tone, "there is a matter
that so greatly affects our church that, although it is rather a
delicate subject, I felt I must be frank enough to speak with you about
it. Do you know--but of course you don't know--the character of the
young woman who has been sitting in Mrs. Greatheart's seat for the past
three Sunday evenings, and to whom you have given three distinct
welcomes to St. Andrew's?"
"Yes," was the reply, "I think I know something of her character and
past, and it is very sad."
"But, Mr. Fearnon," exclaimed Mrs. Farsee, "you surely cannot sanction
her attendance at _our_ church! What _will_ people say?"
"Mrs. Farsee," was the quiet rejoinder, "I wonder what my Master would
say if I did not sanction the presence of any for whom He died. For
whom are our services, if not for the sinful?"
"Yes, but, Mr. Fearnon, that kind of person should go to some other
place--for instance, there's the Salvation Army."
"Thank God there is the Salvation Army, but so long as Thomas Fearnon
is pastor of this church, yonder doors shall never be too narrow to
admit the sin-burdened." Thomas Fearnon's voice thrilled with emotion
as he uttered these words.
"Well, I suppose it's no use saying anything more," said Mrs. Farsee
with an injured air, "but it's hard to hear people sneer at one's
church, and twice lately I've heard people--and prominent society
people too--say that our church was getting to be a 'House of Refuge,'
and I tell you that kind of thing goes hard with people who have taken
the pride we have in St. Andrew's Church."
"To me," said Mr. Fearnon, "that report is encouraging, and I covet
that intended sneer as a permanent tribute to any church of which I may
be pastor--a House of Refuge is what I want St. Andrew's to be. Surely
the young woman you have named needs a place of refuge?"
"Then I understand you will still allow her to attend our church,
despite the wishes of two of the most loyal and best-giving families
you have, Mr. Fearnon?" Mrs. Farsee placed an unmistakable emphasis on
"best giving."
"Your understanding is quite correct, Mrs. Farsee, and if ever St.
Andrew's Church closes its doors on any man or woman, in like
circumstances to the one you refer to, I care not how sinworn and
wretched, it closes them at the same time on Thomas Fearnon--we go out
together."
"If that is your decision," replied Mrs. Farsee haughtily, "please
remove the names of Mr. and Mrs. M. T. Farsee and Miss Lucy Farsee from
the membership roll, and I am also authorized by Mrs. Shunum to tell
you that all the Shunums withdraw from the church for the same reason."
Thomas Fearnon retired that night sad at heart--not that the loss of
these two families from the membership roll gave him much concern, for
to tell the truth he was more concerned to know how they ever came to
be put on the roll, but he was concerned to find that kind of spirit
among the membership of the congregation to which he had come with such
high hopes, fresh from college. So far as losing members was
concerned, he reminded himself that, in God's arithmetic, subtraction
often produced an increase. Perhaps of his congregation the words of
Scripture were true, "The people are yet too many." Nevertheless, the
offended families needed His Saviour and the ministry of the church as
much as, perhaps more, than the poor creature whose very presence they
thought defiled their heretofore select congregation.
The following Sabbath morning the text was Luke xix. 10, "For the Son
of Man is come to seek and to save that which was lost." Those who had
attended Mrs. Farsee's "afternoon bridge" on the preceding Thursday
knew that the sermon was the outgrowth of the "interview." None of
them used their favourite adjective "lovely" of Thomas Fearnon's sermon
that morning; the mission of the Master and the consequent mission of
His church was presented with a clearness and an earnestness that made
not a few decidedly uncomfortable.
"I charge you, my fellow workers," he pleaded, "never to degenerate
into dilettante church parlour triflers, but strike out for God in hard
work to recover the lost. There are those whose life's roses are
turned to ashes, those who have almost forgotten how to smile, those
from whose hearts all music has fled. What an incomparable joy to tell
them of, and seek to lead them to, the One who with divine delicacy
said, 'Neither do I condemn thee; go, and sin no more.' That welcoming
Saviour would speak through us to those whom too often we, professedly
His followers, would cast out. If every individual in this world
treated the fallen as you do, my friend, would it be easy or hard for
that one to get into the Kingdom of God? Where shall the wanderers be
welcome if not in the Father's House? Where shall those whom He
created and for whom He died find friendship and help, if not in that
company of worshippers who cry 'Our Father'?"
To not a few the message of that morning seemed intensely personal. In
that inner judgment hall, where the prisoner and the judge are one,
some verdicts were arrived at, and the verdicts were "guilty."
"If every individual in this world treated the fallen as you do, would
it be easy or hard for that one to get into the Kingdom of God?"
Thomas Fearnon had asked that question with an intensity of feeling
that revealed itself in the whispered words, and that produced a
profound silence throughout the sanctuary. And it was not in vain that
he had put his best into prayer and preparation for that morning's
message. At least one in the congregation asked to be forgiven for
passing by, like priest and Levite, needy ones to whom there should and
could have been a ministry of mercy.
Jessie Buchanan saw the "vision splendid" that morning, and no longer
could she be satisfied with her life of elegant ease. From that very
hour her life and all the trappings of life were promised fully to her
rightful Lord--no longer would she hope to have Him as _Saviour_ but
reject Him as _Lord_.
* * * * *
A peaceful Sabbath day's services had closed, and in the quiet of her
beautiful and cosy little "den" Jessie Buchanan sat talking to a friend
before the flickering embers in the fireplace. Three months had passed
away since Thomas Fearnon's sermon on Luke xix. 10: three months of
sometimes perplexing but always joyous service to Jessie Buchanan.
Already several lives had been gladdened and helped by the radiating
influence of her consecrated life.
The Buchanan home on the hillcrest had gladly opened its doors during
these three months to some who had never expected to cross its
threshold. And so to-night, for the third time, the young woman who
had unknowingly caused the departure of two families from St. Andrew's
Church, sat in the fire-light with her new-found friend.
Wisely and unostentatiously Jessie Buchanan had made her acquaintance,
and their meetings had been invariably away from the public eye. But
into the broken life was coming the conquering power of an unselfish
love. To-night, as the flames diminished, the young woman unfolded a
little of her life.
"Please don't hate me for it--I had to tell some one. Oh! if only some
one like you had helped me when I first went to the city; but it was my
own fault. Still, if you do wrong, there seem so many more to help you
to keep on in the same way than there are to help you back."
For some minutes she talked on, and then Jessie Buchanan moved her
chair a little closer and laid a hand sympathetically upon the girl's
shoulder.
"You think my name is Flossie, don't you, Miss Buchanan?" the girl
asked slowly. "Well, it isn't. Nobody here knows either of my right
names, but I'm going to tell you: my right name is Nellie Gillard; and
Miss Buchanan, I want to be good again, and maybe get back home
soon--only, I am afraid, for I haven't even written for nearly a year."
Tears were wiped away as the memory of the old home was revived in the
light of new desires.
* * * * *
Another week was nearing its close, and Jessie Buchanan was as usual
making her plans for a hospitable Sunday. Glancing down the driveway,
she was surprised to see Nellie Gillard approaching the house. This
was the first daylight visit Nellie had made, and Saturday morning was
so unusual a time that Jessie Buchanan was at the door before the
bell-handle could be pulled. A cordial greeting and Nellie was
accompanied to the now familiar den. As the door closed the visitor at
once made known the purpose of her visit. "Miss Buchanan, I'd like to
go home, but I cannot--I dare not go alone."
"Oh! I'm so glad you have decided. How soon do you wish to go, dear?"
Jessie Buchanan's voice and face revealed her joy and thankfulness.
"I'd like to go right away" was the reply.
Within a few hours Nellie and her new-found friend were on their way to
the railway station.
The "local" was nearly three hours late when almost at midnight it
pulled into a little flag station in North-Western Ontario. It was
over two miles to the Gillards' home, and Jessie Buchanan suggested the
desirability of getting the station agent to assist them in procuring a
vehicle and driver.
The night was clear and bright, and Nellie urged that if it was not too
tiring for her companion she would much rather walk. "I know every
step of the way, and--and--well you are the only one I want with me
just now."
In the moonlight of that early October night two young women might have
been seen walking along the fifth concession.
At a turn of the road Nellie pointed to a little building: "There is
the schoolhouse I attended." When a church spire stood out clear
against the sky, there was a sob in the voice, "I used to teach in that
Sunday School and sing in the choir."
The gate of the old homestead was reached at last. The wanderer's hand
clung for a moment to the top rail and the head rested on her forearm.
"I wonder--I wonder if Father will let me in; I don't deserve it, but I
believe he will." And she was not mistaken.
At the side of the old roughcast dwelling, two bedroom windows had been
raised a few inches. Beneath these the only daughter of the home
called out in a trembling voice, "Father." There was no response.
Could anything have happened? A second time on the silent night the
voice anxiously uttered the same word. Immediately thereafter they
heard a movement and a man's head appeared at the window. "Father!
it's Nell: I want to be your Nell again. Will you let me come home?"
"Let you come home? You bet I will, Nell--you bet I will." The last
words were re-uttered after the head had disappeared.
The only other words they heard were, "Ma! Ma!" uttered in a voice
trembling with joy.
No pen can adequately describe that home-coming. Jessie Buchanan was
forgotten for the moment, but as she saw the daughter's head resting
first on father's and then on mother's shoulder, and heard the old man
say again and again, "My Nell: oh! my Nell," her cup of joy was full.
It was not what one could call a praying home, but on that early
Sabbath morning four people knelt in the little sitting-room, and
Jessie Buchanan's first audible prayer was offered in thanksgiving for
the home-coming of the wanderer. And to-day, in the little church in
the grove, one of the regular worshippers is Nellie Gillard.
End of Project Gutenberg's Trail-Tales of Western Canada, by F. A. Robinson