Chapter Sixteen.

Thanksgiving.

Fidelia had not lost sight of her friends during these years in the seminary. A few weeks of every summer were given to Mrs Stone and her Halsey friends, and as many to Mrs Wainright and her daughters, either in their own home, or at the seaside, or among the mountains, wherever they chanced to be passing the summer. The change and the happy renewal of old associations did her good, and kept her interested in other matters than those which concerned her daily life and duties. Her friends did not allow her to forget them. Even Mrs Stone wrote frequently to her, though the writing of a letter cost her more labour than a day’s housework did. One or other of Dr Everett’s family wrote now and then, and so did the Austins. With Mrs Wainright the correspondence was constant.

“Come home to Thanksgiving,” wrote that lady soon after the work of Fidelia’s fourth year in the seminary had commenced. She had written the same thing every year, but Fidelia had never been able to accept the invitation. This year she had a great desire to accept it, for various reasons; so, though the journey was long, and the time she could give for the visit was short, she found herself in her friend’s house on the eve of Thanksgiving Day; and among the many thousands who, throughout the land, had that day turned their faces homeward, few could have been welcomed more kindly than she.

Thanksgiving Day was kept in the town of C— much as it is kept everywhere throughout the country, in which there is so much over which a thankful people may rejoice. Everybody, except the anxious housekeepers who had dinner on their minds, was expected to go to church in the early part of the day, and join in thanksgiving with their neighbours. The Wainrights all went, and so did Fidelia. There were many people present. The service was simple and devout; the sermon was appropriate; and all things went as usual till it came to the singing of the thanksgiving anthem, and that went better than usual, because Fidelia joined in it, and put all her glad and thankful heart into her wonderful voice as she sang.

She even sang the “solo” which Mrs Wainright was expected to sing. But a whispered entreaty from her friend, which there was time neither to answer nor to refuse, gave the honour to Fidelia. Clear and full and sweet rose her voice, and filled the house, thrilling and satisfying all the listening hearts and ears with the melody, till the saintly old souls among them asked themselves whether even the heavenly music could be sweeter.

Some one sitting near the door rose when the other voices came in again, and walked up the aisle till he came to a point where, looking up, the choir in the gallery could be seen. There he stood till the anthem was ended, and then moved quietly away. He was a stranger, and no one took much notice of him at the moment, though some among them remembered him afterwards. Lucy Wainright noticed him, and spoke of it when she came home.

“It must have been some stranger. No one of our people would have done such a thing,” said she.

“It must have been that he wanted to see where the voice came from,” said her sister.

“I do not wonder,” said their father. “Miss Marsh, how came you to take the place of honour to-day?”

“I don’t know,” said Fidelia.

Mrs Wainright laughed.

“I don’t know either. I did not think of it a second before I spoke. It was a risk, I acknowledge—or it would have been with any one but Fidelia.”

“A risk! It might have caused a breakdown. She might have refused.”

“No; I was sure of Fidelia!”

And while they went on talking the door-bell rang, and the maid brought in a card and gave it to Mrs Wainright.

“A stranger? Did he ask for me? I do not know the name. Jabez Ainsworth!”

Fidelia uttered an exclamation, holding out her hand for the card.

“I know him well. He is one of my oldest friends, though I have not seen him for years. Shall I go and see him?”

“Do go,” said Mr Wainright; “and, if he is a friend of yours, ask him to stay to eat his Thanksgiving dinner with us. He will have something to be thankful for when he sees you, I should say.”

“Of course—ask him to stay. And don’t be long about it, for dinner is ready.”

So Fidelia went in quickly, with both hands stretched out in eager welcome to the friend whom she had not seen for so many years.

“Can it be Jabez?” she said softly, pausing before she came near.

“I need not ask if it can be Fidelia. You haven’t changed, except to grow a little like your sister.”

“Ah, my Eunice!”

Was it the dear name that brought the tears to Fidelia’s eyes, and the memory of so many sad and happy days? She could not hide them except by turning her face away, for Jabez held her hands firmly in his, and her smiles came quickly as she looked up at him.

“You are a happy woman, Fidelia. Your face tells me that before a word is spoken.”

“Happy! Yes; and so glad to see you. How can it have happened that we have never met all these long years—never once since you left Halsey?”

“I have only been once in Halsey since I left it, and then you were on the other side of the sea, where I have been since.”

They ought to have had much to say to each other after so long a time, but there was not much said for awhile. Fidelia looked on the face and listened to the voice at once so strange and so familiar, saying to herself how changed he was—and yet he seemed the same. He was a large man now, dark and strong, not at all in these respects like the slender sallow boy who had loitered about the garden in Halsey. But it was Jabez all the same. He was very grave and silent for a time, and walked up and down the room once or twice, pausing at the window which looked out upon the street, as though he had something to consider or to conquer before he could either listen or speak. After a little he came and sat down beside her.

“Well, Fidelia, you are a happy woman. You have lived through your troubles, and have come safely to the other side, thank God!”

“But, Jabez, it does not seem like trouble to look back upon it now. Only think of my Eunice safe and blessed all these years. Why, I have not shed a tear for a long time—in sorrow!”

She might well add the word, for there were tears in her eyes and on her cheeks while she spoke; but there were smiles on her face as well, which made Jabez say—

“I thank God that you are happy now.”

There was no time for more. The door opened and Mrs Wainright entered, followed by her husband. She did not need an introduction.

“I am glad to see you, Mr Ainsworth, and sorry to interrupt you so soon, but dinner is ready, and there will be time to visit afterwards.”

Then she introduced her husband, whose welcome, though quiet, was sufficiently cordial. Then he said:

“I hope you have no other Thanksgiving dinner in view, for I think ours is to be a good one; and we are very happy to see you.”

“I supposed that I was to spend Thanksgiving in Halsey, but a mistake as to connection, and then a breakdown on the road, left me here for the day. I shall be glad to give thanks with you, and with—Fidelia.”

“I am sorry for your grandmother,” said Fidelia.

“You need not be sorry. My visit was to be a surprise to them. It must wait till next summer now. I am going West again.”

“Well, we will go to dinner now,” said Mr Wainright, offering his arm to his wife. “Miss Marsh, you must show Mr Ainsworth the way.”

“Miss Marsh?” said Jabez, turning astonished eyes upon her, as the others passed out at the door.

“Why, who did you suppose me to be?” said Fidelia, laughing.

“I—I don’t know. I asked the door-keeper at the church who was the singer to-day, and he said it was Mrs Wainright. But I am very glad he was mistaken.”

“I sang to-day—”

“You cannot imagine how strange it was—how wonderful. I had been thinking about you all the morning—never supposing that you were within hundreds of miles of me—and I heard your voice, Fidelia,” he added, taking both her hands in his. “It is Thanksgiving Day indeed with me to-day.”

“And with me too,” it was on Fidelia’s lips to say, but she only said it in her heart. The joy that shone in her friend’s eyes kept her silent, though why it should do so she could hardly have told.

They went very soberly into the dining-room, where a few friends besides the family were assembled. Fidelia sat between the two girls as usual, and Lucy whispered that her friend was the stranger who walked up the aisle, and that it must have been to to see where the voice came from, as Lena had said.

And Lena said: “How tall he is, and how strong! He is not the least like the lanky boy about whom you used to tell us funny stories.”

Fidelia laughed and said softly, “Yes, he has changed—almost as much as the little girls to whom the stories were told. It is a long time ago, you must remember.”

Mr Wainright was not mistaken. The dinner was a very good one, and passed off, as all Mrs Wainright’s dinners did, quite successfully. So did the evening with music and pleasant talk, and all else that was required for success. But it is not to be supposed that all this was quite satisfactory to Fidelia and her friend.

“There were so many things I wanted to hear about,” said Mr Ainsworth.

“And I too,” said Fidelia.

“I shall see you in the morning before I leave, if possible,” said he.

He came in the morning, and he stayed all day.

He could, by travelling all night, get to M— in time to meet an engagement on Monday. He should have had to do so if he had gone to Halsey.

He had something to tell and much to hear. He had, he thought, a right to say that he had been fairly successful as a student. He had had to help himself, and had done so in various ways, but not more than was right, or than had been good for him. His last two years had been spent in Germany. He had gone there in charge of two lads, sons of a German merchant in the West. Of course he had availed himself of the opportunity to go on with his own studies at the university, and now he was going West to find his work.

It was a very poor sort of work in the opinion of Mr Wainright, who, coming in at the moment, heard him say that the next few months were to be spent in travelling through some of the newer states in the service of one of the great missionary societies, with a view to the encouragement and aid of weak Churches, and the establishment of new ones, in the small settlements springing up everywhere.

“It will be hard work,” said Mrs Wainright. “And do you really suppose it will pay? Don’t you think that all that sort of thing might be safely left to the people themselves?”

“It seems to be the work laid out for me just now,” said Jabez, not caring to get into any discussion of the question.

“You might do far better work in an older community. It is the majority of the dwellers in our great cities which need most the civilising—or, if you like it better, the Christianising—influence which strong and good men can exercise in a community. It is from our great cities that power for good or for evil is sent out over all the land, in ways of which I need not tell you. If you have the will and the power to work for your fellow-men, it is not to these remote and sparsely-settled parts of the country that you should go. You are needed more where crowds would gather to hear you.”

But Mr Ainsworth shook his head.

“I have the will to work, and I trust, by God’s grace, to have also the power. But I think I am best fitted for such work as is needed out in our newer settlements. It will be hard work, perhaps, but it will be work, direct and simple, for the good of men and the glory of God. I don’t think I am so made and fashioned as to be likely to be very useful among such men as fill our great cities.”

“There are all sorts of men in our great cities; and you can hardly tell what sort of work you are good for yet, till you try.”

“And as to the importance of my work out there—it would be a good work, wouldn’t it, to help to educate and influence some of the boys who come from country places to make the business men and the professional men of the great cities? Yes, and our senators and the governors of our states. You must know several country boys who have come to that.”

“I know several certainly; and you may be right. We have a great country out there, which is getting filled up in a wonderful way with all sorts of people. God knows, some strong influence for good is needed among them.”

“Yes, that is our hope—God knows,” said Mr Ainsworth gravely.

This was the beginning of a long conversation, during which each man surprised the other, and each learned something from the other which bore fruit in the life of both in after years.

East and West, North and South, the past, the present, and the future of all sections of the country—all “the burning questions” of the day were discussed. Fidelia listened with shining eyes and changing colour, and dropped a strong word in now and then; and all the time she was saying to herself—

“To think that Jabez should have grown to be just the best sort of man! And what a life lies before him! I wonder if my Eunice knows?”

And Jabez, seeing her softened glance, knew as well as if she had spoken her name that it was of her sister that she thought.

It rained all the morning, so that there was nothing said about showing the town and the surrounding country to the visitor; and there was all the more time for the talk which seemed to interest them all. The rain ceased, and the sky cleared a little in the afternoon, and a walk was proposed. Mr Ainsworth rose at once and looked at Miss Marsh.

“I shall be glad to take a walk,” said she. “I have heard so much talk to-day that I need to rest my mind by tiring my body. Come, Lucy and Lena, get your wrappers and let us go. Will you come with us, Mrs Wainright?”

“No, I think not; and I am not sure about its being best for the girls to go. Had they better, Fidelia?”

“Because of the dampness? It will do Lucy no harm. Lena, perhaps, had better not go.”

“Oh, if one goes, they may both go! I guess the damp won’t hurt them,” said Mrs Wainright. And to her husband she said—“And if he has anything to say to her, I guess he’ll find a chance to say it.”

Apparently Mr Ainsworth had nothing particular to say—at least nothing which Lucy and Lena might not hear, for they all walked on together till they came to the church. It was a new and fine church, and visitors in C— were often taken to see and to admire it; so when Mr Ainsworth proposed that they should go into it, the girls at once set off to get the keys. They returned almost immediately, and with them came a gentleman who told Mr Ainsworth, after he had been introduced, that he knew more about the church than any one in C—, and could give them the history of every nail and stone, window and door. He did not quite do that, but he gave them many interesting particulars as to construction and cost, and the special advantages of the building generally over all the other churches in the town, or, in fact, any other town. Mr Ainsworth listened and kept silence in a way which won the respect of the pleased narrator, who probably was not always so fortunate in his listeners. He got through at last, or had another engagement and went away; and then Jabez said softly—

“Miss Fidelia, do you know why I wanted to come in here? I want to hear you sing again, ‘For His merciful kindness is great toward us, and the truth of the Lord endureth for ever.’”

“Of course I will sing it. But I might have done that at home, and saved you the deacon’s lecture on architecture. Oh, I must go up into the gallery, must I?”

“Yes; and I will stand here, where I first caught sight of your face.”

So Fidelia went up and sang with a glad heart, not the solo only, but the whole Thanksgiving anthem, the two girls doing their best to help. They did not linger long after that; and when they had left the church, and the girls had gone to carry back the key, Jabez said gravely—

“I shall have that always to think about, till I see you again.”

“And I hope that will not be so very long this time,” said Fidelia.

It was not very long. They met the next summer in Halsey. There he found her one summer morning standing in the garden, at the opening under the apple-trees, looking down on the river and the meadows and the hills beyond, thinking of many things. There he found courage to say to her all that was in his heart.

Not at that first meeting, however; though even then it would not have surprised her or found her unready with her answer. For they had written to one another constantly since their first meeting at that glad Thanksgiving time; and Fidelia knew all that letters frequent and long could tell her about the work which he had found ready for hand, head, and heart in the far West. Now he had more to tell her. He had been called by the Church in M—, in the state of W—, to be their pastor, and he had accepted the call.

There were just fifteen members in the Church, but they were all New England men and women, of the right sort. M— was only a small place as yet, but the prospects were fair that it would be a city within twenty years. It would one day be a great commercial centre for a grand stretch of country; and the faithful fifteen who had made their home there meant that, in so far as it should be in their power to make it so, it should be a centre of influence for good in the state, and in the whole great country; and their pastor elect meant no less than that also. And when he had got thus far, he said gravely—

“Fidelia, will you come with me, and help in this great work?”

And Fidelia put her hand in his and said quietly—“Jabez, I shall be glad to go.” And let the wise men of this world, and the rich men and the mighty, say what they will, there is no greater or grander work to be done under the sun than the work which these two, standing under the apple-trees, agreed to help one another to do. There is no work whose success can avail so much for the happiness of the individual soul, for the household, or for the community, and there is none whose success can bring such wealth and honour and stability to the nation, as that through which the hearts of men are taught to believe and know, and the eyes of men are enlightened to see, that it is “righteousness which exalteth a nation,” and that “sin is a reproach to any people.”

“Fidelia,” said Jabez in a little, “do you suppose that Eunice knows?”

And Fidelia answered softly,—“If she knows, I am pure she is glad.” Before the summer was quite over these two happy people went West to begin their work together. A good many years have passed since then. The place in which “the faithful fifteen” set up the standard is a great city now. They, and those who have joined themselves to them since then, have kept the promise made in these early days to their Lord and to each other. And He who said, “Them that honour Me I will honour,” has kept His promise to them.