Interrupted

  CHAPTER XIX.

  COMFORTED.

  SATURDAY morning, and the minister in his dingy study struggling withan unfinished sermon. Struggling with more than this--with an attemptto keep in the background certain sad and startling facts that hismeat bill was growing larger, and that his last quarter's salary wasstill unpaid; that his wife was at this moment doing some of the familywashing which illness had prevented her from accomplishing before, andtaking care of two children at the same time; that his Sunday coat wasgrowing hopelessly shabby, and there was nothing in his pocket-bookwherewith to replace it with a new one; that the children needed shoes,and there was no money to buy them; that his wife was wearing herselfout with over-work and anxiety, and he was powerless to help it; thathis people were absorbed in their farms, and stores, and shops, andcared little for him, or for the truths which he tried to present. Whata spirit in which to prepare a sermon for the Sabbath that was hurryingon!

  The study was dingy from force of necessity. The carpet was faded, andworn in places into positive holes; the table-spread was faded, becauseit had been long worn, and was cheap goods and cheap colors in thefirst place. Everything about him was wearing out, and the old-youngminister felt that he was wearing out, too, years before his time. Ido not know that it is any wonder that he frowned when he heard theknock at the side door. It was nearly Saturday noon; he had not timefor loiterers, yet he must answer that knock; thus much he could savehis wife. He threw down his pen, with which he had just written thehalf-formed sentence, "the inexorable and inscrutable decrees of God,"and went to the door to admit Bud, and the umbrella.

  Not much need for delay here, and yet Bud lingered. The umbrella hadbeen set aside, and the minister had said it was no matter that it hadnot been brought before, and still Bud did not go. He held his hat inhis hand, and worked with nervous fingers at the frayed band around it,and at last, summoning all his courage, dashed into the centre of hissubject:

  "If you please, sir, will you tell me where Jerusalem is?"

  "Jerusalem!" repeated the minister, and he was even more astonishedthan Alice Ansted had been; but he looked into Bud's eager, wistfulface, and saw there something, he did not understand what, which madehim throw the door open wider, and say, "Come in;" and almost before heknew what he was doing, he had seated Bud in the old arm-chair by thestove, in the study, and was sitting opposite him.

  You don't expect me, I hope, to describe that interview? There havebeen many like it, in degree, all over the world, but nothing quite sostrange had ever come to this minister before. Actually a hungry soullooking for the Jerusalem above, about which he, the minister, had readthat morning, with bated breath and an almost rebellious longing to bethere, where "there shall be no more death, neither sorrow nor crying,neither shall there be any more pain, for the former things are passedaway."

  It was not difficult to show Bud the way. He was like a child who heardwith wide-open wondering eyes, and for the first time, the astoundingfact that the Jerusalem toward which his eyes were turned was near athand; that there was no ocean to cross, no dangerous journey to take;it was simply to put forth the hand and accept the free gift.

  I pause, pen in hand, to wonder how I can make plain to you that thisis no made-up story; that Bud is a real character who lives and doeshis work in the world to-day. It is so natural in reading what peoplecall fiction, to turn from the book with a little sigh, perhaps, andsay: "Oh, yes; that is all very well in a _book_, but in real lifethings do not happen in this way; and there are no people so ignorantas that Bud, anyway." But some of us do not write fiction; we merelyaim to present in compact form before thoughtful people, pictures ofthe things which are taking place all around them. Bud did live, and_does_ live; and he was just so ignorant, and he did hear with joy thesimple, wonderful story of the way to the Jerusalem of his desires, andhe did plant his feet firmly on the narrow road, and walk therein.

  I want to tell you what that minister did after the door had beenclosed on Bud for a few minutes. He walked the floor of his limitedstudy with quick, excited steps, three times up and down, then hedropped on his knees and prayed this one sentence, "Blessed be theLord God, who only doeth wondrous things!" Then he went out tothe kitchen, and kissed his wife, and made up the fire under herwash-boiler, and filled two pails with water, and carried Johnnie awayand established him in a high-chair in the study, with pencil and paperand a picture-book; and then he took the five sheets of that sermonover which he had been struggling, and tore them in two, and thrustthem, decrees and all, into the stove! Not that he was done with thedecrees, or that he thought less of them than before; but a miraclehad just been worked in his study, and he had been permitted to be theconnecting link in the wondrous chain through which ran the message toa new-born soul, and the decree which held him captive just then wasthat one in which the Eternal God planned to give his Son to save theworld. And he was so glad that this decree was inexorable, that itsinscrutability did not trouble him at all. I am glad that he made upthat fire, and filled those water-pails, and, busy as he had need tobe, gave some gentle attention to Johnnie. A religious uplifting whichdoes not bubble over into whatever practical work the heart or thehands find to do, is not apt to continue.

  It was on the following Sabbath that Miss Benedict found opportunity tooffer to mark the verses in Bud's Bible.

  "Bud," she said, stopping at the bell-rope where he tolled the bell,"if you will let me take your Bible after church--did you bring it withyou? Well, if you will let me take it, I will mark some verses in itthat I think will help you. Did you read a verse each day?"

  "Oh, yes'm," said Bud, and there was that in his voice which made herturn and look closely at him. "I read it, and I found out the way, andI went and spoke to Him, and He took me right in, as He said He would,and there's no comfort like it, I'm sure. I don't miss little Jack'smother any more."

  What did all this mean? Bud began in the middle of things, accordingto his wont. He forgot that Miss Benedict had heard nothing about thepromised comfort in Jerusalem, nor the difficulties he had had inbeing shown into the right way. Yet there is something in the familylanguage, however awkwardly used, that conveys a meaning to those ofthe same household.

  "Bud, do you really mean that you went to Jesus Christ, and he gaveyou comfort?"

  "I do that, ma'am," said Bud, with hearty voice and shining eyes, andhe gave the bell-rope a vigorous pull. "He was right by my side all thetime, the minister said, when I bothered so about crossing the ocean,and there wasn't any ocean to cross; and I've got the comfort, and I'mgoing to hear the singing that you told about. I didn't think I evercould, but now I know the way."

  Claire turned away silently, and walked softly into church, awed. Hadpoor Bud really met the Lord in the way? It looked so. She need have nomore regrets over those unmarked verses. But how wonderful it was! Andthat is just the truth, dear, half-asleep Christian; wonders are takingplace all about you, and it is possible that you are merely engagedin trying to prove to yourself and others that "the age of miraclesis past;" though why you should be very anxious to prove it, does notclearly appear even to yourself.

  The minister, who preached that morning, was the same minister who hadstood behind that desk and read his sermons to that people for sevenyears, though some of his hearers rubbed their eyes, and looked aboutthem in a dazed way, and wondered if this _could_ be so. What hadhappened to the man? He had not a scrap of paper before him. In theestimation of some, he did not preach. Mrs. Graves, who read sermonsaloud at home on Sabbath afternoons, and was inclined to be literary,said that it was not a _sermon_ at all--that it was just a talk. ButDeacon Graves, who was not literary, replied:

  "Well, if he should take to talking very often, we should all have towake up and look after our living, for it pretty nigh upset everythingwe have done this good while, and I must say it kind of made me feel asthough I should like to see something stirring somewhere."

  None of them knew about the minister's uplifting, only Bud, and Bud didnot kno
w that it was an uplifting, or that the minister cared, or thatthe sermon had anything to do with him, or, for that matter, that itwas any different from usual. Bud knew _he_ was different, and it gavehim the most intense and exquisite joy to discover that he understoodnearly every word that the minister said; but this he attributed notto a change in the sermon, but because he had fairly started on hisjourney to the heavenly Jerusalem. It is possible that some listenersneed that sort of uplifting before the sermons to which they appear tolisten will ever be other than idle words.

  Yes, there was one other who knew that a strange and sweet experiencehad come to the disheartened minister. That was his wife. She had knownit ever since he came and kissed her, and made up that fire, and filledthose pails. The kiss would have been very precious to her without theother, but the human heart is such a strange bit of mechanism, that Ishall have to confess to you, that in the light of that new-made fire,the tenderness glowed all day.

  And now the preparations for the concert went on with rapid strides.The Ansteds slipped into the programme almost before they realized it,and were committed to this and that chorus and solo, and planned andrearranged and advised with an energy that surprised themselves.

  It has been intimated to you that opportunities for enjoying good musicwere rare at South Plains.

  What musical talent they possessed had lain dormant, and the place wastoo small to attract concert singers, so an invitation to a musicalentertainment came to the people with all the charm of novelty. Ofcourse, the girls took care that the invitations should be numerous andcordial. In fact, for three weeks before the eventful evening, almostthe sole topic of conversation, even in the corner grocery, had beenthe young folks' concert and the preparations that were making.

  Still, after taking all these things into consideration, both thegirls and their leader were amazed, when at last the hour arrived, todiscover that every available inch of room in the stuffy little churchwas taken.

  "For once in its life it is full!" announced Anna Graves, peepingout, and then dodging hastily back. "Girls, it is full to actualsuffocation, I should think; and they have come to hear us sing. Thinkof it!"

  Well, whether those girls astonished themselves or not, they certainlydid their fathers and mothers. Indeed, I am not sure that their youngteacher did not feel an emotion of surprise over the fact that theyacquitted themselves so well. Their voices, when not strained inattempting music too difficult for them, had been found capable ofmuch more cultivation than she had at first supposed, and she had doneher best for them, without realizing until now how much that "best"was accomplishing. It was really such a success, and, withal, such asurprise, that some of the time it was hard to keep back the happytears. It is true there was one element in the entertainment which theteacher did not give its proper amount of credit. The fact is, she hadso long been accustomed to her own voice as to have forgotten that tostrangers it was wonderful. I suppose that really part of the charmof her singing lay in the simplicity of the singer. Her life had beenspent in a city, where she came in daily contact with grand and highlycultivated voices, and she, therefore, gauged her own as simply oneamong many, and a bird could hardly have appeared less conscious of hispowers than did she.

  Not so her audience. They thundered their delight until again and againshe was obliged to appear, and each time she sang a simple little songor hymn, suited to the musical capacities of the audience, so that shebut increased their desire for more.

  It was all delightful. Yet really, sordid beings that they were, Ishall have to admit that the crowning delight was when they met thenext morning, tired, but happy, and counted over their gains, andlooked in each other's faces, and exclaimed, and laughed, and actuallycried a little over the pecuniary result.

  "Girls," said Miss Benedict, her eyes glowing with delight, "we cancarpet the entire aisles. Think of that!"

  Then began work.

  "Since we haven't been doing anything for the last two months," saidMary Burton, with a merry laugh, "I suppose we can have the privilegeof going to work now."

  Meantime, the days had been moving steadily on. Christmas holidays hadcome and gone, and the boys, as well as the girls, to whom the holidayseason had been apt to be a time of special dissipation and temptation,had been tided safely over it by reason of being so busy that theyhad no time for their usual festivities. The vacation to which ClaireBenedict had looked forward with sad heart, on her first coming toSouth Plains, because it would be a time when she might honorably gohome if she could afford it, and she knew she could not, had come andpassed, and had found her in such a whirl of work, so absorbed frommorning until night, as to have time only for postals for the motherand sister.

  "When the rush of work is over," so she wrote, "I will stop forrepairs, and take time to write some respectably lengthy letters, butjust now we are so overwhelmed with our desire to get the church readyfor Easter Sunday that we can think of nothing else. Mamma, I do wishyou and Dora could see it now, and again after it emerges from underour hands!"

  "What _is_ the matter with her?" asked Dora, and then mother anddaughter laughed. It was impossible to be very dreary with those breezypostals constantly coming from Claire. It was impossible not to have analmost absorbing interest in the church at South Plains, and think of,and plan for it accordingly.

  "Mamma," Dora said, after having read the latest postal, as she satbending it into various graceful shapes, "I suppose that church downon the beach that the girls of our society are working for, lookssomething like the one at South Plains. I think I will join thatsociety after all; I suppose I ought to be doing something, sinceClaire has taken up the repairing of old churches for a life-business."

  This last with a little laugh, and the mother wrote to Claire a fewdays later:

  "Your sister has finally succeeded in overcoming her dislike to joiningthe benevolent society again, and is becoming interested in their work.They have taken up that seaside church again which you were going to dosuch nice things for, you know. Dora has felt all the time that therewas nothing for her to do now, because we are poor, and has held aloof,but yesterday she joined the girls, and brought home aprons to make forthe ready-made department of Mr. Stevenson's store. The plan is thatMr. Stevenson shall furnish shades for the church windows at cost, andthe girls are to pay him by making up aprons for that department. I amglad for anything that rouses Dora; not that she is bitter, but sheis sad, and feels herself useless. My dear, you are doing more thanrepairing the church at South Plains; you are reaching, you see, awayout to the seaside."