THE NEW PASTOR.
IN the mean time, in the spacious chamber assigned to the clergyman,
a terrible conflict was raging. Possessed of the keenest
susceptibilities, with a morbid sense of his own unworthiness,
he was, alas, too well aware of the impression left upon his hearers
by his morning's discourse.
"God forgive me!" he ejaculated, his hands pressed to his head.
"Deliver me from this terrible burden. Make known to me thy will.
Thou knowest my heart. I thought I heard thy voice. Show me the way
in which I should walk. How can I, laden with sorrow, stand in God's
stead and preach the gospel of salvation? Make haste to help me,
O Lord! All my trust is in thee."
A light tap at his door disturbed his meditations. He presented
to Annie a face so pallid and suffering that she started back,
exclaiming,—
"You are ill, Mr. Angus: let me call mother."
"Oh no! I am not ill,—I mean not much. Certainly, I have a
headache."
"I came to say that dinner is ready. Mother will give you something
for your head."
"Thank you. I will be down-stairs directly."
He turned to his washstand and dashed cold water on his burning
forehead, then, crushing back the wretched doubts and fears which
had oppressed him, he presented himself in the parlor.
His pallid countenance confirmed Annie's statement of his illness.
Mrs. Asbury, with true motherly kindness, ordered a cup of coffee
with out milk or sugar, but postponed an examination of the case
until a more fitting opportunity.
Seated opposite Mr. Angus at the table was fairy little figure,
introduced to him as "Our baby Ethel." She had large gray eyes shaded
and deepened by long, black lashes. Raising her eyes timidly at
first, she glanced at the stranger, gave a little start at the
expression which beamed in his face, then her whole countenance—eyes,
cheeks, and lips—grew radiant and, to the utter astonishment
of all present, the shy, timid little one, whose caresses were so
daintily given, so highly prized, exclaimed,—
"I love you!"
"Why, Ethel!" began her father. "Why, Baby!" repeated the mother;
but Annie, catching a glimpse of intense, yearning love in the face
of the clergyman, wondered in silence.
After dinner, one look of entreaty brought the little miss to the
clergyman,—no longer a stranger,—when, to the undisguised
astonishment of her parents, she allowed herself to be folded in his
arms, her long flaxen curls floating over his breast. Nestling close
to his side, with her eyes uplifted to his, she remained, quietly
listening to the conversation which followed, rewarded occasionally
by a smile so sweet, so full of tender yearning, that not only the
child's but the mother's heart was wholly won.
Mr. Asbury had asked some questions concerning Mr. Angus's mission
work in the city, and then said to his wife,—
"Marion will like to hear about this: she loves such work."
"She is a real missionary herself," urged Annie.
"I love Marion," lisped the child. "She is my Marion."
"Is she your daughter, Mr. Asbury?"
"Not exactly," laughing, "though she is as near as a daughter. She is
the daughter of Mrs. Asbury's cousin, now deceased. Indeed she has
lost both her parents, and we have adopted her. She calls us uncle
and aunt."
"I want Marion to come home quick, pa." Then, turning again to look
in the face above her, Ethel said, "I'll let my Marion love you too."
"A great piece of condescension on Ethel's part, Mr. Angus," added
the mother, laughing heartily. "The little puss is extremely jealous
in her affection for Marion, and scarce allows her cousin out of her
sight for a moment when she is at home."
"Does your niece not live at home, then?"
"Oh, no, sir. She teaches music in Madame La Vergnes's Institute
in New York; but, as her classes only occupy six hours a day, she has
abundant time for her poor people."
"It is against my wish," urged her uncle, "that she should stay away
from home for so many months in a year."
"But not contrary to your consent, pa," explained Annie. "You told
her you wouldn't forbid it. So, Mr. Angus," she added, blushing at
her own earnestness, "you musn't think our Marion naughty or
obstinate. It was her duty she said, and so she went."
"Ethel, I fear you will tire Mr. Angus, sitting in his lap so long."
He pressed her tightly in his arms and waited to hear what she would
say.
"He's skeezing me, ma. I guess he isn't tired. Are you?" putting her
hand softly on his cheek.
He took the small hand in his, held it for a moment, asked, "At what
time does your Sunday school commence?" put her hand to his lips as
he said, rising, "We are friends from this time, Ethel. Good by for
an hour or two," and left the room.
"I like him ever so much," exclaimed Annie. "Aren't you glad now,
pa, that he has come to be our minister?"
Perhaps Mr. Asbury would have answered still more warmly could he
have followed the pastor to his chamber and listened to the cry which
went up from a full heart.
"Is this a ray of light from thy throne, O my heavenly Father? May I
not accept it as an answer to prayer for help,—as a token of thy
loving care? O God, I bless thee!"
Making his way from his chamber, he saw Ethel sitting on the lower
stair waiting for him.
"You may kiss me if you want to," she said, putting up her rosy lips.
He caught her in his arms, kissed her again, the mother coming
forward just in time to hear him say, "God bless you, precious
child!"
How warm his heart felt with this new glow. With his whole soul he
received the loving confidence of this little one as a token of
divine favor. God had accepted him and would bless his work among
these people.
Arriving at the chapel, the superintendent of the school came forward
to meet him, with the request that, in the place of the usual
exercises, he would address them. But Mr. Angus requested to be
allowed to watch the workings of the school consenting, however, to
talk to them at the end.
"Is this your usual number?" he inquired, glancing over the room.
"Yes sir, about the average."
"Are they punctual in their attendance,—teachers and scholars?"
"No, sir; that is one great drawback to success."
"Do these children not go to church? I saw few children there."
"No, sir; they seldom go."
Declining a seat on the platform, Mr. Angus drew an arm-chair near
the Bible class and waited for the superintendent to call the school
to order. The gong sounded, but the noise did not decrease. The
second time, with the aid of the teachers, the loud whispering
abated, when, in a low voice, impossible to be heard at the farther
end of the room, the superintendent offered prayer. A hymn was given
out, and all looked around for the lady who usually played the
melodeon. She was absent, and at last, just as the singing was to be
omitted, Annie Asbury came forward blushing, and said, "I will try
to play."
Mr. Angus was afflicted with a keen ear for discords. I can only say
that during the singing he was agonized. Before the closing exercises
he had made up his mind that here at least there was work for the
pastor. The apathy was alarming. With few exceptions, the teachers
hurried through the lesson, accepting without reproof the too
evidently manufactured excuses in place of a well-learned lesson;
then shutting the book, he or she became totally oblivious of all
that was passing, some even leaving the class to talk with another
teacher.
That was a face thoroughly in earnest which confronted the school
when the superintendent announced that "Rev. Mr. Angus, our pastor,
will address you."
In a full, impressive voice the clergyman began.
"Boys and girls,—yes, and teachers too,—we are strangers to-day,
but we shall not continue so. I have a good memory for names and
faces. I intend to know you all, every one. I have come here to be
one of you, to love you, and I hope to be loved in return.
My business is to lead every one in this room to the arms of the
blessed Saviour, and I ask you all to help me. As many as are
willing, I ask to come after school and give me your hand in token
of your acceptance of this contract. Until we meet again next
Sunday, I ask you to consider seriously a few questions. You can
give your answers in writing if you please. I shall like that best;
or you may come to me,—not in classes, but individually, and
answer them.
"First. What do I come to Sunday school for,—to please God, or to
please my parents, or to please myself?"
"Second. Does my coming just as I have been used to coming please
God,—does it please my parents,—does it please me?"
"Third. If I neither please God, my parents, nor myself, in what way
can I change my actions to do so?"
"Now, with the permission of your superintendent, I will ask you to
rise and join me in one verse.
"Praise God, from whom all blessings flow;
Praise Him, all creatures here below;
Praise Him above, ye heavenly host;
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost."
"Remember God is here: let us not mock Him; now begin." His voice was
a deep, rich baritone, which resounded through the chapel, carrying
the scholars and teachers with him. At the close, he stood with his
hand extended toward a little girl near him. Boys and girls pressed
forward, each one giving his own name, until only the teachers
remained. To these, as they gathered around him, he said,—
"Will it be too much for me to ask that each one of you will ponder
the questions I gave you? The work of a Sunday-school teacher may be
wearisome and unpleasant, or it may be glorious, most blessed. It is
God's own work; and He is a good paymaster."
Annie persuaded her brother to wait for Mr. Angus, but hesitated
about joining him when she saw how sad he looked. With a frankness
which was her peculiar charm she said, timidly,—
"We waited to walk home with you, but perhaps you would rather go
alone."
"Thank you, yes." Then, rousing himself, he added, "You are very
kind. I shall be glad of your company."
It was true that in the excitement of the past hour his own personal
grief had been absorbed in the sorrow he felt at finding the Sunday
school in such a low condition. He began to realize that this was the
keynote by which he must judge of the spiritual state of the church.
Then doubts of his fitness for the work assailed him, and he was
appalled with the reflection that it was too late now to recede.
It was at this minute that Annie met him. He would have given much
to be alone, to fight his battle unobserved; but no, it was better
that he should not dwell on such painful, unavailing thoughts.
Annie glanced at him occasionally, as with knitted brows he hurried
forward, but did not speak until he was about to turn the wrong way.
"This is our street, Mr. Angus," she said.
"Pardon me, Annie, I am usually quick at finding my way, but—I am
thinking about your Sunday school. Were the children more inattentive
to-day than usual?"
"No, sir. Marion goes wild about it. She thinks everything in it is
horrid. I heard her talking to the superintendent; she told him the
mode of teaching, the want of order, the singing, were all as bad as
could be; but Marion is a singer, you know."
"How long has this gentleman been superintendent?"
"Only a few weeks. They tried one and another, but nobody would take
it. Marion said Mr. Molton only accepted because he was too
good-natured to say 'I won't,' as the others did."
At the close of the evening service the congregation were not a
little astonished by the request to remain in their seats for a few
minutes after the benediction had been pronounced, nor was the
astonishment abated when the young pastor elect began to address
them. It was as well for them to know it now as any time. He never
made any unnecessary preliminary remarks; he made a fierce dash at
any subject and done with it.
Every eye was fixed on him when he began.
"Owing to my peculiar views as to the dignity of the office of an
ambassador of Christ, I declined to come among you as a candidate for
your favor. I knew nothing of the state of your church and society. I
had no experience to guide me, except that derived from my mission
work among the poorest of the poor,—among those so eager for the
bread of life that it was a glorious privilege to break it for them.
I find your church large in numbers; I—yes I must say it—I am
appalled, I am young. It is not yet too late for you to relieve me
from the responsibilities which may prove too much for me."
His head sank on his breast as a murmur, "No! no! We want you,"
ran through the audience. His voice trembled with emotion as, after a
brief pause, he spoke again. "God's will be done; there is a great
work to do here. We must begin with the Sunday school. The help of
every father and mother and child is necessary. Above all, we must
earnestly besiege the throne of grace for divine help. Brethren and
sisters, pray for each other and pray for your pastor, for his
guidance; that he may be holy, humble, earnest, and hopeful in his
work of winning souls for the Master."