We join the Church.
"I have bought the house, Jennie," said I.
"Thank you," said Jennie. She said it softly, but her eyes said it
more plainly than her voice. I had hesitated a little before I
finally closed the purchase. But Jennie's look and her soft "Thank
you" made me sure I had been right.
Since the baby has come we have converted the chamber over the
library into an upstairs sitting-room. I found her there before the
open fire, on my return from New York. The baby was sleeping in her
arms; and she was gently rocking him, pressed close to her bosom.
"I wish you would have a nurse for the baby, Jennie," said I. "I
don't like to see you tied to her so."
"You wouldn't take baby from me would you, John?" said she
appealingly, nestling the precious bundle closer to her heart than
before, as if in apprehension. No I wouldn't. I was obliged to
confess that, to myself if not to her.
"John," said Jennie, "Mrs Goodsole has been here this afternoon. She
wants to know if we won't take our letters to this church the next
communion. It is the first of September."
"Well?" said I, for Jennie had stopped.
"She says that if we are going to make Wheathedge our home she hopes
we can find a pleasant home in the church here. I told her I could
not tell, we had only hired the house for the summer and might leave
in the fall. But if you have bought it, John, and I am, oh! so glad
you have and thank you so much"--one hand left the baby gently, and
was laid on my arm with the softest possible pressure by way of
emphasizing the thanks again,--"perhaps we ought to consider it."
"I have no notion of joining this church," said I. "It's in debt,
and always behind hand. I am told they owe a hundred dollars to
their minister now."
"That's too bad," said Jennie.
"And we can't do much if we do join it. I have no time for church
affairs, and you--you have all you can do to attend to your infant
class at home, Jennie."
"That's true," said Jennie.
"Besides it is a Presbyterian church and we are Congregationalists."
Jennie made no reply.
"And I can't bear the idea of leaving the Broadway Tabernacle
church. I was brought up in it. I have been in its Sunday-School
ever since I can recollect. It was dear to me in its old homely
attire as a Congregationalist meeting-house. It is dear to me in its
new aristocratic attire as a Congregationalist cathedral. And Harry
was baptized there. And there are all our dearest and best friends.
It would be like pulling a tooth to uproot from it."
"It is dear to me too, John," said Jennie softly, "for your sake, if
not for my own."
"And all our friends are there, Jennie," continued I. "Except the
Lines and Deacon Goodsole we hardly know anybody here."
"Though I suppose time will cure that," said Jennie.
"I do not know that I care to cure it," said I.
Jennie made no response.
Was it not at Bunker Hill that the soldiers were directed to reserve
their fire till the attacking party had exhausted theirs? That is
the way Jennie conducts an argument--when she argues at all, which is
very seldom. She accepted every consideration I had offered against
uniting with the Wheathedge church, and yet I knew her opinion was
not changed; and somehow my own began to waver. I wonder how that
method of arguing would work in the court-room. I mean to try it
some time.
I had exhausted my fire and Jennie was still silent. Silence they
say means consent. But I knew that it did not in her case. It
depends so much upon the kind of silence.
"What do you say Jennie?" said I.
"Well, John," said she slowly and thoughtfully, "perhaps there are
two sides to the question. I don't like to leave the Broadway
Tabernacle. But it seems to me that we have left it. We cannot
attend its prayer-meetings, or go to its Sabbath-school, or worship
with its members on the Sabbath, or even mingle much with its
members in social life. We have left it, and we ought to have
thought of that before we left--not after. Perhaps I am to blame,
John, that I did not think of it more. I did not think of what you
were giving up for me when you took this beautiful home for my
sake."
I had not taken it for her sake--that is, not wholly for her sake.
And as to the giving up! Why, bless you, that little sitting-room,
with the wife and baby it contained, was worth a thousand
Tabernacles to me; and I managed to tell Jennie so, and emphasize
the declaration with a--well no matter. But she did not need the
information, she knew it very well before, I am sure.
"The real question seems to me, John, to be whether we mean to be
church members at all?" said Jennie.
"Church members at all!" I echoed.
"Yes," said she. "We are not members of the Broadway Tabernacle any
more--except in name. What is a foot or an arm fifty miles away from
the body? Can they keep loving watch and care over us; or we over
them? It is not a question between one church-home and another,
John; it is a question between this church-home and none at all."
"But, Jennie," said I, "the finances here are in a fearful state.
They are always coming down on the church for contributions, and
holding fairs in summer, and tableaux and what not, in winter, and
generally waiting for something to turn up. If I had the naming of
this church I would call it St. Micawber's church."
Jennie laughed. "Well, John," said she, "I think you are ready
enough with your money." (I am not so sure of that. I am inclined to
think that is Jennie's way of making me so.) "And I have nothing to
say about the finances."
"Besides, Jennie," said I--for I really had no faith in the financial
argument--"this is a Presbyterian church and we are
Congregationalists."
"It is a church of Christ, John," said Jennie soberly, "and we, I
hope, are Christians more than Congregationalists."
That was the last that was said. But the next morning I carried down
with me, to New York, a letter addressed to the clerk of the
Broadway Tabernacle, asking for letters of dismission and
recommendation to the Calvary Presbyterian church at Wheathedge. And
so commenced our parish life.