According to the Pattern (17 page)

And over and over he thought it all out, the story since
the day she must have known about his drive in the park. All the changes he had seen in her, and yet had not
noticed at the time. The little things that she had done
so carefully for his comfort on his voyage. The true
meaning of her silence during his absence, the picture of the children with her own taken from the frame.

He pieced together bit by bit her carefully hidden
plans, her almost superhuman effort, and its reason.

That she had had marvelous success he did not stop to
wonder at. She was Miriam. No other woman could
have achieved what she had, no other was worthy of it. She was peerless. So, as his old love for her grew into a new and more understanding love his sin grew in enormity, until its weight threatened to overpower him.

Then came his wonder over her treatment of Mrs.
Sylvester, how she had found out, and how she suc
ceeded in getting into society in which that odious
woman moved, and to crown all there came that last
night at the Washburns’, Miriam’s startling beauty, and
perfect self-control and the scene in the conservatory of
which both he and Mrs. Sylvester had been witnesses
throughout. Sometimes, for a moment, he forgot even
his sorrow, to glory in the fact that Mrs. Sylvester had
seen Miriam repulse the wicked man who had sought to
do her harm. Almost it was worth the horror it had cost
him to see those hateful lips touch his wife’s, that the evil
woman might know how pure, how true, his Miriam
had really been.

And then he would live it over again and all the time
that sweet monotonous voice would repeat:

“The pattern in the mount! The pattern in the
mount!”

Adrift! A little boat adrift!

And night is coming down!

Will no one guide a little boat

Unto the nearest town?

—Emily Dickinson

WHEN Dr. Carter drove back to the
Winthrop house
with his brother they found Celia Lyman standing at the
door, just about to enter. She had called to know how
Mrs. Winthrop was.

The doctor, whose keen memory was one of the
means of his success in his profession, recognized the
young girl as the one Who had been of much assistance
the night that Mrs. Winthrop was taken ill, and accord
ing to his habit of making all things that came in his way
bend to the purpose he had in hand, he asked Miss
Lyman to come in a few minutes, saying he would then
be better able to tell her how his patient was doing. He
had it in mind that this young girl might be able to give them a clue, or at least render some help in quieting the restlessness of the sick one.

On the way to the house the doctor and his brother
had talked the case over carefully. The doctor had not
much religion to boast of himself, but he had all faith in
his brother, and together they had arranged a little plan
whereby they hoped to gain the attention of Mrs. Win
throp for a moment and get her mind quieted.

“Did you ever try music to soothe one in delirium?”
asked the brother. “When I was sick in the South that
winter it would put me to sleep even to hear a street
hand-organ. There seemed to be something in the
rhythm of sound that did all the tossing and tumbling and
twisting for me, and let mc rest for a few minutes.
Couldn’t you get her attention if someone would sing
softly, someone with a sweet voice that she knew well?”

“That’s a good idea, George,” responded the doctor
heartily; “you ought to have been a doctor yourself. It’s
a pity to waste yourself on the ministry.”

“Won’t it be as well to be a doctor of souls?” had been
the answer.

Now that Doctor Carter saw Miss Lyman this conver
sation suddenly came back to him.

“Ask her if she can sing, George,” he whispered after
having introduced his brother, as he left the two in the
parlor below and went upstairs.

And so it happened that a half-hour later Celia Lyman
sat near the door of the room adjoining the sick-room,
an old hymn book in her lap and her heart throbbing in
frightened beats, ready to sing if the doctor should give
her a sign to do so.

She hoped in the depths of her heart that it would
not be considered necessary. She had never been so
near to death before as even this, and she was afraid her
voice would not respond when she tried to sing. She
wondered why she had promised when that handsome
stranger asked her. Of course it was nothing for her to sing that old song that she had heard a hundred times
in church, and there was the music just before her; but
how would her voice sound without any accompani
ment but that ceaseless murmur of the monotonous
voice in the next room, the voice of the woman whom
she had admired, and who they said was near to the
awful door of death? She shuddered as she thought of
her loveliness in the beautiful gown she wore when she
had last seen her. It seemed impossible that one who
but a few days before was so full of life and the
brightness of the world should now be all but within
that mysterious shadow.

From where she sat she could catch a glimpse now and
then of the bowed head and shoulders of Mr. Winthrop.
She kept her face the other way. It was terrible to see
deep grief in a man. She remembered how his eyes had
watched his wife every time she had seen him, and
girl-like she had woven of her fancies a cord of tender
romance binding these two wedded souls together. All these things did not make it easier for her to sing.

When Mr. Carter first asked her if she would sing if
she were needed, she had begged him not to speak of
it, and shrank from going upstairs even, but when she
looked into the calm eyes of the stranger and saw that
he was in earnest about it, and that he expected her to
be as ready to sacrifice as he would be, her pretty color
came and went, and before she knew it she had consented to try. She did not like to say “No anymore
than she liked to do what she was asked. But finally, with trembling heart, she followed them upstairs and
took her seat with the old hymn book. She had hoped
very much that no music would be found and she
might have that for an excuse, but the maid at last
produced from the nursery bookcase an old hymn
book and the young minister had found the hymn he
was looking for, and now he had gone into the sick
room and left the door ajar.

She could see Mr. Winthrop raise his head and bow
as the minister came toward the bed. She could see the
hopeless droop of his mouth, the heavy sadness of his
eyes.

Mr. Carter stood a moment looking into the restless
eyes that did not notice him, and then he said quite
clearly, so that Celia could hear every word in the other
room:

“I know the pattern in the mount. I can get it for you,
my friend.”

The low muttering ceased for a minute and the hol
low eyes turned upon the speaker.

“What is the pattern in the mount?” said the high,
unnatural voice. “Give me the pattern in the mount.”

“Jesus Christ is the pattern in the mount,” answered
the clear voice once more, every word spoken as one
would speak to a very little child. “And he has sent you
a message to-day. He wants you to put your work away
and rest.”

“But I can’t; I spoiled it all. My life is all cut up and it
won’t fit that pattern. I can’t get any more to begin over
again.”

The restless head began once more and the low
moaning that struck such terror to the hearts of the
watchers.

“Jesus will make it new again if you will just rest in
him. You are tired, you know, and he wants you to rest.
Listen!”

The doctor gave the signal and Celia, with fluttering
heart that almost threatened to choke her, sang:

“Come unto me, ye weary,

And I will give you rest.

Oh, blessed voice of Jesus,

Which comes to hearts opprest!”

Then, with slight pause, she went on:

“Just as I am, without one plea,

But that thy blood was shed for me,

And that thou bid’st me come to thee,

O Lamb of God, I come!”

Celia’s trembling voice ceased.

The eyes of the sick woman had kept themselves fixed
upon the strange young man in a kind of wondering joy, but as the music died away she showed signs of restless
ness once more.

“Now,” said the clear voice commandingly again, “if
you will shut your eyes and go to sleep till you are
stronger, then, when you are well enough, I will tell you
all about the pattern in the mount. Now, just lie still and
listen.”

She let him lay her hands down straight upon the
white bedcover and obediently closed her eyes with the
faint shadow of a smile, and Celia, her courage growing
with her need, sang on:

“Just as I am, and waiting not

To rid my soul of one dark blot,

To thee, whose blood can cleanse each spot, O Lamb of God, I come!”

On through the rest of the hymn she sang, her voice
growing low and tender.

The doctor, coming up behind, with perspiration
standing on his brow and the tears in his kind eyes, whispered quickly: “Don’t stop for anything till I tell you. Sing on, sing something, sing anything.”

And Celia, feeling as if she were part of a great
life-saving machine that was wound up and could not
stop, sang on. There were three other hymns on the
same page set to the same music, tender, beautiful words.
She sang them all, her instinct telling her to make her
voice gradually softer, and at last the nurse whispered, “
He says you may stop,” and Celia went downstairs,
threw herself into a cozy corner, buried her face in the
pile of cushions and cried as if her heart would break.

It was so that Mr. Carter found her a little later when
he came down. She tried to smooth her rumpled hair
and wipe the tears from her pretty face as she sat up
quickly on his entrance. But he came over toward her eagerly, the light of a pleasant comradeship in his eyes.

“She is quiet now,” he said with a glad ring. “Your
singing soothed her wonderfully. God has given you a
rare gift in your voice.”

Then, noticing for the first time her tear-stained face,
he said anxiously:

“It has been a great strain upon you. Of course it
would be. She was your dear friend, you said.”

Out into the sunshine they went, those two, who had
never met before until that morning, and whom God
had brought together in a bit of task for him, and talked
and walked into a new world all their own.

“Oh, but I’m afraid you are mistaken about me,” said
Celia softly when she could get her breath to speak. “I
am not—I don’t know about these things. I am not—”
she hesitated for a word.

“You don’t mean you are not a Christian?” the young
man asked anxiously. He had been so sure he detected
the sympathy in her voice as she sang. He thought no
one could sing like that without knowing the meaning
of the words.

“Oh, no,” said Celia, relieved; “I’m a Christian, I
suppose. That is, I’m a member of the church. I joined
when I was a little girl and all my Sunday-school class
were joining. Mother thought I was too young and
maybe I was. I’m not very good. I never heard anybody
talk as you’ve done this morning and I never went where
there was any trouble before. I couldn’t do what you did
and I didn’t think I could do what I did. Oh, isn’t it awful that everybody has to die?”

Her face turned gray in the sunshine and she shivered visibly.

“Yes, if that were all,” the young man answered
solemnly; “but when you think of eternity and heaven
it would be more awful if we couldn’t die, if we had to

go on living in this world where trouble and sin are
everywhere.”

“But sin and trouble are not everywhere. This is a
lovely world, the one I live in. I have been in
society
where there isn’t any of that. I suppose of course there is
sin and trouble among wicked people, and probably it is just as well for those to die and get out of it. But take for instance Mrs. Winthrop. She has a lovely little home and
charming children and a husband who adores her. The
last time I saw her, the night she was taken ill, she was at
one of the most conservative gatherings to be found in
this city. She has the
entrée
among the nicest people now,
and she has perfect taste in dress. It is so dreadful for her
to be in danger of dying. I think dying is cruel!”

“But sin and trouble are in the world even though
they have not touched you,” spoke the young man
tenderly. He longed to strike an answering chord in the
soul of this beautiful girl. He had come from among earnest Christian workers to visit his brother and he
found the world about him chilly for his warm enthusiasm.

“I come from a recent college settlement work.
I
could take you to homes where little children are crying
for bread
and mothers are working from day to day for
a few pennies to buy it, and because there is not enough
for all they work on without, and give the crying,
unsatisfied children their share. I could show you death
bed after deathbed where souls go out into darkness that
is not broken by any whisper of the light that Jesus can give.”