A PARTING GLANCE.
R. DENNIS and his friend, the Rev. Mr. Harrison met again at the street corner; they stopped and shook hands, as they always did, even if they chanced to meet three times in one day.
"Meetings closed?" questioned Mr. Harrison, after the preliminary words had been spoken. "What a glorious time you have had! Such a pity that our flocks are so far apart! If we could have united with you in regular attendance, it would have been a great blessing; as it was, many a drop came to us."
"Yes," Dr. Dennis said, "we have had a great blessing; and I need not use the past tense, the work is going on yet, although the meetings do not continue. The work will continue forever, I believe; the truth is, we have had a new baptism, the members who came to us early in the fall, came filled with the Spirit, and have worked as no other members of mine ever did."
"You mean your Chautauqua reinforcement, don't you?"
"Indeed I do; I thank God for Chautauqua every day of my life. What a dreadful blunder I made when I limited the power of God in the way I did when we talked that matter over! you remember?"
"I remember," Mr. Harrison said with a peculiar laugh; "It was a wonderful meeting, but then, after all, were they not rather peculiar young ladies? It isn't every lady who even after she is converted, lives just the sort of life that they are living."
"I know," Dr. Dennis said; "Yes, they are unusual, I think; especially one of them," was his mental addition.
"Especially one of them," murmured Mr. Harrison in his heart; and each gentleman smiled consciously, neither having the slightest idea what the other meant by the smile.
Marion Wilbur came down the street with her hands full of school books.
"Good-evening," said Dr. Dennis; "How do you do this evening? Mr. Harrison, do you know this lady? She is one of my flock."
No, Mr. Harrison did not know her; and introductions followed. After she passed by, Mr. Harrison said, "I think you told me once that she had been an infidel?"
"It was a mistake," Dr. Dennis said, hastily. "She had peculiar views, and I think she imagined herself at one time an unbeliever; but she is really wonderfully well grounded in the doctrines of the church; she is like an old Christian."
Many of Dr. Dennis' people were abroad; the next passer by was Eurie Mitchell; the doctor stopped her. "One minute, Miss Eurie, how is your mother to-night? Mr. Harrison, do you know Miss Mitchell, the doctor's daughter?"
Yes, Mr. Harrison had met Miss Mitchell before. In the fast coming dusk, Dr. Dennis failed to see the flush of embarrassment on his friend's cheek, as he acknowledged the introduction.
"She is a grand girl," Dr. Dennis said, looking after her. "Her development is wonderful; more marked of late, I think, than before. Well, as you say, they were unusual girls, but I tell you, we as pastors have reason to say: 'God bless Chautauqua.'"
"Amen," said Mr. Harrison, and Dr. Dennis thought him unusually earnest and intense, especially when he added:
"I propose we go next year, and take with us as many of our respective flocks as we can beguile into it."
"Aye, that we will," Dr. Dennis answered; then the two gentlemen went on their respective ways.
It was a large city, and they were both busy ministers, and lived far apart, and met but seldom, except in their ministerial meetings; there was chance for each to have interests that the other knew nothing about.
Marion reached home just in time for supper; the table appointments at that home were not improving; indeed, there were those who said, that the bread grew sourer every week; this week, it had added to its sourness, stickiness, that was horrible to one's fingers and throat. The dried fruit that had been half stewed, was sweetened with brown sugar, and the looking over process, so necessary to dried fruit, had been wholly neglected.
But Marion ate her supper, almost entirely unconscious of these little defects; that is, she accepted them as a matter of course and looked serene over it. Things were not as they had been on that rainy evening, when it had seemed to her that she could never, no never eat another supper in that house; then, it seemed probable that in that house, or one like unto it, she would have to eat all the suppers that this dreary life had in store for her; but now, the days were growing fewer in which this house would be called her home.
No one knew it; at least, no one but herself and two others. She looked around on her fellow boarders with a pitying smile; that little sewing-girl at her left, how many such suppers would she have to eat!
"She shall have a nice one every now and then, see if she doesn't," was Marion's mental conclusion, with a nod of her glad head; there were so many nice things to be done! Life was so bright.
Hadn't Gracie Dennis whispered to her this very afternoon:
"Miss Wilbur, one of these days I shall hate to come to school, I shall want to stay at home."
And she answered softly, surreptitiously kissing the glowing cheek meanwhile:
"The teacher who reigns here shall be your special friend. And you are to bring her home with you to lovely little teas that shall be waiting for you."
This matter of "teas" had gotten a strong hold on Marion. Perhaps, because in no other way had a sense of unhomelike loneliness pressed upon her, as at that time when families generally gathered together in pretty homes.
She went up, presently, to her dingy room. Just every whit as dingy now, as it had been on that rainy evening, but she gave no thought at all to it. She lighted her fire, and sat down to her writing; not reports to-night. She must write a letter to Aunt Hannah; a brief letter it was, but containing a great deal. This was it:
"Dear Aunt Hannah:—
"Don't you think, I am going to be married! Now, you never expected that of me, did you? Neither did I, but that is the way the matter stands. Now, the question is: May I come home to the wedding? The old farm-house is all the home I have, you know. I hope you will let us come; I am giving you plenty of notice; we shall not want to come until after the spring term; one of us wants to be there by the seventeenth of June, I thought I ought to tell you before the spring house-cleaning. Let me hear from you as soon as you can, so that I may know how to plan.
"I could be married in the church, I presume, but I feel, and the other one concerned feels so too,—that I would like to go back to the old farm-house. We won't make much trouble, nor have any fuss, you know.
"Dear Aunt Hannah, I am so glad the money gave you comfort. Then I am so very glad that you thought about that other matter of which I wrote; that is the greatest and best thing to have in the world. I think so now, when I am on the eve of other blessings; that one stands before them all. The gentleman whom I am to marry is a minister. He is very good.
"Aunt Hannah I shall want your advice about all sorts of sewing when I come home. I shall come in May, that is, if you let me come at all. I hope you will. Give my love to Uncle Reuben. My friend sends his respects to you both. Lovingly,
"Marion J Wilbur."
She had a fondness during those days, for writing out that name in full.
A gentle tap at the door being answered, admitted Flossy Shipley.
"You darling!" said Marion, brightly, as she gave her eager greeting. "How nice of you to come and see me when you have so much to think of. Flossy where is Mr. Roberts? Why don't you bring him to call on me?"
"He hasn't time to call on anybody," Flossy said, with a mixture of pride, and a sort of comic pettishness.
"He has so many poor families on his hands; he and I have been out all day. Marion you have no idea at all of the places where we have been! I do think there ought to be an organized system of charity in our church; something different from the hap-hazard way of doing things that we have. Mr. Roberts says, that in New York, their church is perfectly organized to look after certain localities, and that no such thing as utter destitution can prevail in their section. Don't you think Dr. Dennis would be interested in such an effort."
"He will be interested in anything that is good," Marion said, with unusual energy even for her.
Flossy turned her pretty head towards her, and eyed her curiously.
"You like him better than you did; don't you, Marion?"
"Didn't I always like him," Marion asked, with averted face and a laugh in her voice.
"Oh, you used to think him stiff, and said you felt all shut up in his presence. Don't you remember our first call at his study?"
"I think I do," Marion answered, bursting into a merry laugh. "Ever so many things have happened since then, little Flossy!"
"Haven't there!" said innocent Flossy.
"It has been such a wonderful year! dating from that day when it rained and you made me go, do you remember, Marion? Do you ever get to wondering what would have been, if we had just stayed on here at home, going to our parties and getting up festivals, and all that, and paying no attention to the Chautauqua meetings?"
"I don't want to think about any such horrid retrospect as that!" Marion said, with a shrug of her handsome shoulders, and a genuine shiver.
Flossy laughed.
"But you know it is only something to think of, to make us more grateful. It can never be, never. By the way, I suppose it is early to begin to make plans for the summer, at least for those who have no occasion to talk about summer yet;"—this last with a conscious little laugh—"But don't you mean to go to Chautauqua next summer? Mr. Roberts and I are going; we would rather give up a journey to Europe than that. Can't we all contrive to meet there together?"
"Yes," said Marion, "we—I mean to go."
"Dr. Dennis is going," Flossy said, though why that had anything to do with the matter, or why it occurred to her just then, Flossy did not know. "He told Mr. Roberts that he meant to be there, and to take with him as many of his people as he could. And Eurie told me last night that his friend, Mr. Harrison, of the Fourth church was going. I don't know how Eurie heard that, through Nellis, I suppose.
"Isn't Nellis splendid nowadays? I shouldn't wonder if quite a large company went from here. I wonder if Dr. Dennis will take his daughter Grace. I think she is just lovely, don't you?"
"Very," said Marion; and just here Flossy roused to the fact that she was doing most of the talking, and that Marion's answers were often in monosyllables.
"I dare say I am tiring you," she said, rising. "I forget that you have to talk all day in that school-room, Marion. Are you sure you love to teach well enough to keep at it, year after year?"
"No," said Marion, laughing. "I know I don't; I don't mean to do it; I mean to get a situation as somebody's housekeeper."
"Do you understand housekeeping?" asked innocent little Flossy, with wide open eyes.
"Oh, Marion! are you sure it will be even as pleasant as school teaching?"
"I think so," Marion answered with grave face. "At least, I mean to try. It depends on whose house you get into, you know."
Flossy's sober face cleared in an instant.
"So it does," she said. "Marion, I have a nice plan, but I shall not tell you a bit about it to-night. Good-bye."
"Oh, the dear blessed little goosie!" Marion said, laughing immoderately as the door closed after Flossy. "Now, I know as well as if she told me, that she is going to beguile Mr. Roberts into offering me a situation in their dove cote, when they set it up. Blessed little darling!" and here, the laugh changed into a bright tear. "I know just what a sweet and happy home she would make for me. If I had only that to look forward to, if it had just opened as my escape from this boarding house, how very thankful I should be! How glad the dear child will be to know that my home is as nearly in view as her own."
As for Flossy, she went down the walk, saying:
"What a dismal room that is? It is too bad for our bright Marion to have to live in it, I know my plan will work. How nice of her to have put it in my head! my head must be for the purpose of carrying out nice things that somebody else proposes. Oh dear! there are so many desolate homes here, on earth!"
A cloud over the bright face for a minute, then it cleared as she said, softly: "In my Father's house are many mansions; I go to prepare a place for you."
After all, that was the place for brightness. This was only a way station; never mind the discomforts, so that many were helped to the right road that the home be reached at last, in peace.
She paused at the corner and looked towards Eurie's home, but shook her head resolutely, she must not go there, it was too late; though she longed to tell Eurie that Marion was going to Chautauqua, and ask her if she did not think it possible for them all to meet there.
Then the inconsistent little creature sighed again, for she remembered Eurie's weary face and the long struggle with sickness, and the long struggle with ways and means to which she was looking forward. There was much in the world that she would like to brighten.
Meantime, Eurie, in her home around the corner was arranging the pillows with tender touch about her mother's head, and drawing the folds of the crimson shawl carefully about her, as she said:
"Now, mother, you begin to look like yourself: it makes a wonderful difference to get a touch of color about you."
A very tender smile preceded her answer.
"Dear child! I will be glad to get well enough so that you may have a chance to get a touch of color about you. You are looking very pale and tired."
"Oh me, mine is the brightest life you can imagine; there is plenty of color down in my heart so long as I can think of our Nell leading the young people's meeting, and father to lead at the mission to-morrow, it will rest me. I have to keep 'counting my marcies.' To crown them all, here you are sitting up at this time of night, with a cap and wrapper on once more, instead of that unbecoming white gown; how pleased father will be!"
"We have many mercies," the low, feeble voice of the invalid said; "not the least among them being, our daughter Eurie; but I could wish that I saw a way for you to have less care, and more rest than you will get this summer. I must be willing to be very useless, your father says, and that means hard work for you. When Ruth Erskine was in this afternoon, looking so quiet, and at rest, nothing to weary her or hinder her from doing what she chose, I just coveted some of the peace of her life for you."
"There's no occasion, mother; I am not by any means willing to exchange my life with hers; I like my own much the best. As for rest, don't you worry; there'll be a way planned for what rest I need."
Yes, and there was being a way planned, even then; though mother and daughter knew nothing of it. How queerly people go on, planning their lives, as though they had the roads opening out into the future, all under their own care!
It was at that moment that Ruth Erskine, the young lady who, according to Mrs. Mitchell, had so quiet, and settled, and peaceful a life, that she coveted it for her daughter, stood in the great hall that was glowing with light and beauty, and caught her breath with an almost convulsive sound, as she rested against a chair for support; her face deathly pale, her eyes bright with a calm that she had forced upon herself, in her solemn determination to try to do just the right thing, say just the right words; her ear had caught the sound of a carriage that had drawn up before the door, and the sound of a familiar voice; she knew that she was now to meet—not only her father, but her mother, and sister!
Little they knew about each other even yet, with all their intimacy, those four Chautauqua girls!
But what mattered it, so long as they had given themselves over, body and soul, into the keeping of their Father in heaven, who knew not only the beginning, but the end?