THE SLAVE OF CONSCIENCE
In the following life-story, our sympathies are strongly drawn to the
conscientious woman who gave so many years of uncomplaining service--a
giving which should have brought its daily reward of satisfaction; yet
she sorrowed through her youth because she lacked the charity that
"suffereth long and is kind," finding which, her problem was met.
The never too attractive Yarnell home was in a mess. Irene, the eight-
year-old child, seemed seriously ill. The doctor had said, the night
before, that they might have to operate if the pain in her side didn't
get better; and the little girl prayed that they would, and prayed
specially that she would die while they were doing it. She didn't want
to live. She wanted to go rather than to stay forever with the new
mother her father had brought home last month. Big Sister wouldn't
stay; she ran away the second week and married Tim Shelby, and had a
good home now with Tim's people--even though her father hadn't spoken
to the Shelbys for years. Aunt Erne had gone too, dear Aunt Erne, her
mother's sister, who had been mother to her ever since her real mother
died--just after she was born--that precious mother, who, Aunt Effie
used to tell her, had died happy that her little girl might live. Aunt
Effie had always taught her a beautiful love, and every night she said
a beautiful prayer for the mother she had never seen. Aunt Effie tried
to stay, too, but couldn't. She left the same day the new mother asked
father, before them all, how he was ever going to keep up with all the
expenses of so many and give a tenth of his salary to the church.
The very night her aunt went away, the step-mother had told Irene that
it was wicked to "do up" her hair in curl-papers, and when she begged
her, "Just this once," because she had a "piece to speak" in school
next day, and cried in her disappointment, her stepmother had shaken
her so hard that something seemed to tear loose in her side. Irene had
never hated any one before--and it was wicked to hate; and so she was
praying her real mother to come and take her before she became a
sinner. But in spite of her prayers, she shrank when her stepmother
came near and chilled whenever touched by her. She couldn't eat the
food she brought, and every time she thought of her, the pain was
worse. Both her father and his new wife seemed so strange. She felt
like some stray, hurt animal, not loved by any one.
The new Mrs. Yarnell had been a maiden-lady many years. During her
spinstership she had given herself without stint to the activities of
her small church, a church belonging to an obscure denomination which
teaches that holiness is nigh upon us; that if we but supplement
conversion by a second act of grace, sanctification here and
forevermore is ours. Hers was not an easy disposition to live with.
She had ably held her own through years of bickerings and wordy
contentions with an overworked, irritable mother. She gave little
love. She received little. But her underdeveloped, souring heart
instinctively craved some drops of sweetness. So, when she listened to
the fervid exhorter, revealing the new highway to heaven, that
glorious way where the good Lord carries all our burdens, if we will
just cast them upon Him, a great light illumined her soul. Why a weary
life of strife and misunderstanding? She would give herself without
reserve, and even in the giving she could feel her burden roll away.
In a flash it seemed, life had changed. She was now the Lord's--mind,
soul and body. He directed; she followed. He could not lead her wrong,
and, as all her impulses and desires were now divine, she could do no
wrong. She could think no wrong. Having given all, she was now saved
to the uttermost. Misunderstood she must be, of course, by those who
knew not the holy leadings of her sanctified soul. Serenely,
supremely, she lived. Her old biting temper was now righteous
indignation. Her dislike for household work was only an evidence that,
like beautiful Mary, she had chosen the better part. What her mother
had always called obstinacy and perversity were now stead-fastness in
the Lord. Oddly, her tart, sarcastic, even flaying tongue was not
softened by any gentleness of divine inspiration. Incidentally, the
Lord had given her a plump figure, and a knack of apparel which had
long appealed to Widower Yarnell's eye. And the Lord approved; in
truth He said "Yes!" so audibly that Miss Spinster hesitated hut one
maidenly minute.
Mrs. Yarnell's sanctification washed dishes, kept house, and nursed
lonely, sick, little children most inefficiently. So, after Aunt Effie
and Big Sister, both willing workers, left, the new bride found
unforeseen difficulties in following the Lord's leadings, which seemed
to call to real back-and-muscle taxing effort for other people--such
was for the world of Marthas. So things in the Yarnell household got
in a mess.
It seemed hard for Irene to recover. But her returning strength found
early tonic in the house-work which was left for her to do. The new
mother's church activities occupied so much of her time that little
was left for any but unavoidable essentials. Irene became a fine
little worker, and should have had all the honors and happiness due
the model child. Neat, rapid, effective, an excellent student, she
developed physically strong, the possessor of that rare and attractive
glow of health, into a thoroughly wholesome looking young woman. Deep
within, however, she had not known peace since the day Aunt Effie
left. For years she had fought smoldering resentment and an
embittering sense of injustice, until at fourteen the deeper depths
were stirred by a slow but irresistible religious awakening. Her
stepmother's church was on the opposite side of town, too far for them
both to attend. Her own mother's church was in the neighborhood, and
throughout the years she had usually been able to attend Sunday-school
there and be home again in time to get dinner. Her young understanding
had long been in a turmoil as to what religion and right are. Aunt
Effie had taught gentleness of conduct and charity of speech, and
forgetfulness of self in service. Mrs. Yarnell constantly proclaimed
that, until the Lord entered her heart to absolutely sanctify it, she
was certain to be miserable, unless she became a hopelessly hardened
sinner.
Unhappy the child surely was. Her conscience was a sensitive one; it
seemed ever to chide, and often to condemn. No matter how faithfully
she followed duty, her failure to receive that wonder-working "second
blessing" left her feeling as an unworthy one outside of the fold.
Then, when she neglected, even for an hour, her household duties or
school-work for church-socials or class-picnics, her conscience, and
usually her step-mother, pounced upon her mercilessly. At early
fourteen, she was feeling the chilling shadows of a morbid conscience.
Her stepmother was away for two weeks attending a denominational
conference, and it seemed to Irene that she had more time than usual;
so she talked her perplexities over with the pastor of her mother's
church. A good man he was, but far from being an expert physician of
the soul. He did not seem to sense her deeper problem-the one daily
hurting her sensitive spirit, but asked a number of questions, her
answers to which convinced him that she was entirely ready to join the
church, which he definitely advised her to do, believing thereby she
would find the peace she sought. So without delay, even before her
stepmother's return, and without consulting her, she followed the
minister's advice. Unhappily, her business-burdened father had no
special interest in the welfare of any one's soul. Mrs. Yarnell
henceforth treated Irene as a religious inferior. High school brought
more work and little play. The unsuccessful father died with bad
arteries when Irene was eighteen. He left little beside the mortgaged
place; so Irene took up bookkeeping, and before she was twenty had a
bank-position which, through her ability and merit and trustworthy
conscientiousness, she has held through the years and the
vicissitudes, supporting herself and her stepmother. Irene's play days
had been rare. Her conscience was a grim-visaged angel whose flaming
sword she ever saw barring each path to pleasure.
The president of her bank was also an elder in her church. His mind
was pretty well filled with business, still he took occasional thought
for his employees, and the summer Irene was twenty-three, he asked her
how she would spend her two vacation weeks. "No," she was not going to
leave Wheeling. "Yes," it was hot, but she had much sewing to do, and
if she could save for two years more, the mortgage would be paid. The
banker noticed, even as they talked, the slight tremor of fingers and
lips which bespeaks tension; and that not a little of her appearance
of reserve and strength had slipped away through the grind of the
years.
Three delegates were to be sent to the Chautauqua Assembly for a two
weeks' special conference, and somehow it turned out that, with those
of Mrs. Crumb, the pastor's wife, and Matthew Reynolds, a theologic
student the church was helping educate, Irene Tarnell's name was read.
Two weeks at Chautauqua, her railway-fare paid both ways!-a score of
the best people of the church assuring her that it was her duty-and an
envelope with the banker's personal check for twenty dollars, endorsed
"for incidentals as delegate"! Thus Irene set forth on her first
foreign mission, her first trip out into this big, busy world, about
which she had, wrongfully, of course, wasted a few minutes now and
then in dreaming. Who could have been more companionable than Matthew,
or who more thoughtful and self-eliminating than Mrs. Crumb whose
thrifty, matronly heart early sensed the promise and wisdom-and
excitement, too, of a romance en route. And dear Mrs. Crumb was deft,
and Matthew supremely susceptible, and Irene-she was in the clouds!
How like a story-book, the kind that ends happily, it would have
worked out, if alas! Matthew had not been quite so susceptible. There
was a Pittsburgh girl who had the advantage of prior association and,
unfortunately, the young student's pledge of eternal devotion. Still,
Irene was a mighty good-looking girl; in fact, Matthew admitted, the
third day of their trip, when her fine color began to flash back, that
she was better looking than his promised, and so refreshingly free
from worldly-mindedness. Mrs. Crumb did not know of Matthew's
entanglements, while the devotion of his attentions, a certain
lighting of his eyes, and gentleness of speech and demeanor convinced
her that all she wished was going very well. So convinced was she that
she made bold, early the second week, to express her belief in Irene's
almost unequaled qualifications for a minister's wife, to which
dutiful Matthew gave unreserved assent.
Nothing of importance was scheduled for Wednesday afternoon, and Mrs.
Crumb showed that she was not lacking in an understanding of young
folks' human nature when she planned the little excursion which was to
offer ample opportunity for the consummation she believed so
impending. They had all taken some tramps together. She was not quite
equal, she said, to the walk around to Mayfield, but it would make a
fine afternoon trip for the young folks. She would go down on the
steamer, and they could all come back and enjoy the refreshing,
evening water-trip together.
Matthew had certainly been attentive, giving an attention which Irene
had never before received. For days she had been happy, the first joy-
days she had known since she was eight. The very near future loomed
large with intoxicating promise. Mrs. Crumb had talked to her, also,
of Matthew, and of his fine record at college, and of his gentle
nature. The early afternoon was hot; they walked slowly; they loitered
when they came to shade. Then out of the west came booming black
clouds, and they were caught in a mid-summer thunderstorm. He helped
her as they ran for shelter, but, almost blinded by the pelting rain,
she tripped and fell awkwardly, twisting her ankle cruelly. She
probably fainted. Matthew was frightened, and in his helplessness lost
his head. She was roused by him chafing her hands, and his importunate
"Dear Irene," bundled stunned senses, soaked, chilling apparel and
stabbing ankle into one unutterable confusion of unspeakable joy. And
"devil-inspired fool" that she was, she reached up, drew his tense
face, so near, against hers, and "hateful bliss," it stayed there a
full minute. Then life went black, for he tore himself away, almost
savagely putting her arm aside. "It is wrong; you have made me sin!"
"It is wrong; you have made me sin!" were burned in loathsome black
across the face of her conscience, accusing cruelly, unendingly
accusing. Tears passed-those years that drag, and she never knew of
the girl in Pittsburgh. She did not know other than that she had
transgressed and tempted a fine, good man; that she had tempted him
from the sanctity of great religious purpose-and her branded, sick
conscience proved itself a poison to mind and body.
Dazed, the hurt woman returned to the loveless home. Mechanically, for
months, her hands made that home comfortable and toiled on at the
bank. We wonder how the break could have been held back so long, in
one so sensitive. The staunch body and well-trained mind must have
carried her on through mere momentum. But it had to come. Self-
condemnation and self-depreciation gave birth to false self-
accusation. She began to question the worth of all she did. Repeatedly
she must add and re-add a column of figures; even the evidence of the
adding-machine had to be proven. She wakened at night questioning the
correctness of her entries, and her work became slow and inaccurate.
All she did, physically and mentally, became a dread. The very act of
walking to and from the bank seemed to drain her waning strength. She
refused a vacation suggested by her employer, who gradually became
genuinely concerned about her health. He knew but little of the affair
at Chautauqua. Mrs. Crumb was too good a woman to let drop any hint of
what she may have surmised; she actually knew only of the storm and
sprained ankle.
One morning Mrs. Yarnell called a neighboring doctor. She couldn't
waken Irene. It was found that her sleep had become so poor that she
had bought some powders from the druggist. Never having taken
medicine, she was easily influenced, and the ordinary dose left her
confused for twenty-four hours. Two weeks' rest at home, if one could
rest in Mrs. Yarnell's company, found the girl no stronger. The banker
and the doctor had a conference. She must be gotten away from home.
The banker had a doctor-friend, a man whose means made it unnecessary
for him to give his years of strength to the unceasing demands of a
general practice. He had long been keenly interested in the
complicated and growing problem of nervousness. He owned a beautiful
place down the Ohio River where, for years, he had been taking into
his home a few deserving, nervous invalids. He had learned to enter
into their lives with a specialist's skill-with a father's
understanding. Thus he gave largely--to some it would seem, of his
substance, but the true giving was his discerning, constructive
comprehension of human problems. Into this atmosphere, God and the
banker sent Irene.
For nearly twenty years this oversensitive girl had known few hours of
understanding and sympathy. For a week or two she merely rested; then
one evening, it seemed precipitate, but some way it was as easy as
anything she had ever done, she told the story we have heard. There,
revealed, was the defect of a life, a problem to be worked out by the
analytic student of mankind. Was it to introduce a little saving
recklessness, the redeeming truth of honesty and justice to self, or
the neutralizing of self-negation by the acceptance of merited worth!
Even through our weaknesses are we sometimes healed. If any reason
existed which could merit one self-accusing thought, the doctor found
it when he uncovered the resentment which had never healed toward the
usurping stepmother--"a woman who had proved her limitations and
should be mercifully judged thereby," he told Irene.
"Yes," the doctor said, "you have missed the 'second blessing'; you
have missed a thousand blessings because the generosity of your years
of fine doing were lacking in the gentleness of feeling which Aunt
Effie taught you, and which made your mother so beloved. Lacking this,
even in the fulness of your much giving, you have failed. You have
been seeking the true religion. Your mother had it-the kind that
lightens the dead heaviness and puts heaven's color into the dull,
dark hours at home. Herein, only, have you fallen short."
The doctor knew men, and he was able to show her how utterly innocent
she was of the slightest hint of wrong in her relations with Matthew,
how impossible that her spontaneous act could have wrought a second's
harm to any good man. There was much more said helpfully, but the most
good, unquestionably, came from the unspoken influence of the
thoughtful personal consideration and discerning kindness of this
scientific lover of his kind. Three months Irene spent with them, the
doctor and his equally good wife; she returned home radiant.
The years pass. During the Great War, when trained men were scarce,
our restituted woman acted as cashier and drew almost a cashier's
salary. The mortgage is paid. Two women live in the little house. The
older is very religious. She still attends many church services; she
dutifully gives her tenth to the cause, and, in and out of season,
proclaims her way as the perfect road to the heights beyond. Old and
practically unchangeable, she is not lovable and she never has been,
but near-by tenderness has softened some of her self-satisfied
asperities. Still radiant is the younger woman-the righteous woman
whose righteousness has put unfailing cheer in service most of us
would call "fierce," a righteousness which has learned to be
charitably blind where most of us would see and resent, a
righteousness which has brought abiding happiness to a life that had
long suffered, a slave to its conscience. Cleverness and wealth-having
not charity-have sought such happiness in vain through the ages.