In the Way (23 page)

             
“I think that was the first time I ever really prayed,” whispered Effie Haines as she took her leave, pressing her tear-wet face on Ruth's shoulder; “I am glad I did it. Maybe I'll try again.”

             
And that was not the last little prayer meeting that ended a day of dressmaking at the Benedict farm, for that was where Ellen Haskins learned to pray. But Louise Clifton had gone to New York on a visit shortly after Thanksgiving, to get rid of her troublesome thoughts, and indulge some oilier worldly longings, and she was not a part of all this. It seemed a pity to David, looking on, that the one for whom he was praying with strong, deep desire, earnest purpose, and firm belief, should have been allowed to go away just now when she might have been drawn into this tide of helpfulness that was sweeping through the village. He thought a good deal about it sometimes, and when he came to pray he was troubled to find a questioning note of the wisdom of God's planning in this particular case, and then he pulled himself up short and said: “See here, David Benedict, are you running this, or is God? Don't you suppose God knew and loved this bright, sweet girl before ever you found out what danger there was surrounding her? Now you just let things alone and God will manage. If you do your part God will surely do his.”

             
But always he prayed night and morning that God's angels would surround her and guard her feet from temptation. And his prayer was answered. Louise had sought to do this and that thing to amuse and distract her, and was constantly foiled in her attempts. There was something strange about it. Accident or weather or the sudden illness of a friend would keep her away from places she most desired to attend. When she did succeed in going, troublesome thoughts would seize upon her and destroy all pleasure in what she heard or saw. She began to feel like a child and to wish for her mother. Her nerves seemed all unstrung. In truth she was not well, and constantly her mind would go back with shame to that uncomfortable night when David Benedict had been obliged to kidnap her and carry her off like a little child to save her from a terrible danger into which she had foolishly thrown herself in her ignorance.

             
Once at a concert she saw Alonzo Brummel in the distance, and he came over to her and tried to appear upon very intimate terms with her until her friend Fannie Gleason, whom she was visiting, said:               “What is the matter with the poor little man, Lou dear? You were very hard on him. I quite liked him. He was real bright and handsome, and was elegantly dressed. Who is he?”

             
And that night Louise Clifton wrote to her mother that she would like to come home at once.

THERE was a large religious gathering in session for two days in the city near Summerton, and thither Robert Clifton and David Benedict had gone. They had arranged to spend the night that they might attend the evening and early morning meetings, which were important. It was the first gathering of the kind David had ever attended and it was a treat indeed to him. Joseph would have liked to go too, but they could not both be away and he declared that it was more important for David to attend, as it had to do with Sunday-school work, and David, having just taken a class, was eager to learn all he could about it. Ruth rejoiced in the thought that her brother had gone to a Sunday-school convention in company with the minister. Her brothers were a great source of happiness to her in these days.

              The second day of the meetings was drawing to a close. The afternoon session was over and the minister was preparing to take the train home that he might be in time for a special meeting, while David was to stay for the evening closing session to hear an especially fine speaker whom Robert Clifton was anxious that he should not miss. They were walking slowly up the steps to the hotel when one of the messenger boys of the house stepped up to the minister and asked, “Ain't you Mr. Robert Clifton? Well, here's a telegram been waitin' fer you an hour. I went down to the church, but couldn't find no trace of you.”

             
The minister tore the yellow envelope open hastily, a shade of anxious anticipation on his face, and as he read, the expression changed to one of annoyance and perplexity.

             
“I'm sure I don't know what I'm to do,” he said, looking up at David in a troubled way. “My mother has telegraphed me to take the midnight train for New York and bring my sister borne. I cannot possibly go unless it is a question of life and death. She does not say Louise is ill, merely that she wants to come home. I can't leave the temperance meeting at home this evening, after being so prominent in getting it up and after promising to speak. And there is Judge Tanner's funeral tomorrow morning, which will last all day, as they are to bury away over at East Ivy Hill. And it is getting toward Sunday. I could not possibly go until Monday. I don't understand mother's sending me this special word just now. She must have forgotten the funeral.”

             
In his heart the minister knew that to his mother the funeral would make no difference. She deemed that his duty toward her and his sister was far above any duty he had to the church or to any outsider, dead or alive. He had tried many times to explain such things to her, but she had cried and told him that his father had not so looked upon duty, and that he would be ashamed of his son if he could know how utterly bereft of a care-taker she and her daughter were. But he did not so far forget himself as to mention these things to David Benedict.

             
David had listened courteously and when the trouble was made known he instantly said:

             
“Could not I be of assistance to you? I will gladly go to New York if you will trust me with the care of your sister. I could not well take the meeting and the funeral or I would be as willing to do that.”               The cloud lifted from Robert Clifton's face at once.

             
“The very thing,” he said in a relieved tone. “Wouldn't you mind a bit? I'd gladly pay your fare twice over to get rid of the journey, and just now especially.”

             
“I should enjoy it immensely. You needn't think of paying my fare. I have thought for some time of taking a trip to New York and there is no reason why I cannot as well take it now as at any time, if you will tell my sister what has become of me and ask Joseph to attend to one or two matters for me. Do you think your sister will object?”

             
“Certainly not,” answered the minister decidedly. “Why should she? I know of no one with whom I would sooner trust her.”

             
Robert Clifton had but a few minutes in which to make his train, so they had not much time to talk. He wrote a hasty telegram to his sister, “Be ready to start home tomorrow,” signing his own name, and giving careful directions to David how to find the house where his sister was visiting, he hastened away to his sermons and his meeting and funeral, feeling relieved beyond measure that he need not stop all his work just at this busy season, to take the long trip to New York.

             
David Benedict, the evening meetings of the convention over, sat him down in the railroad station to await the train to New York. He was exultantly happy. He had not yet stopped to examine himself to see why he was so deeply glad. There was time enough for that. To his sister Ruth he had sent a single message, “Please pray that I may be led of the Lord,” and Ruth, as she read it a few hours later, smiled to herself, and was glad that her brother was so changed as to make this a natural message for him to send her, and yet it sounded very like the David he had been during the past few weeks. Then she read it again, and remembered the fight night he had ever asked her to pray for some one, and thought a moment and said aloud, “I wonder if it can be she.”

             
David was interested in all that went on about him. He watched an elegant young man who came in with immaculate overcoat, umbrella, and dress-suit case. He observed the accustomed air with which he bought his ticket, and the matter-of-fact way in which he asked a few pertinent questions concerning his train. There was something about the young man that David liked. He looked down at himself and was dissatisfied for the first time with his own Summerton ready-made clothes. Not that they were not fine and good, but there was a finish about the city young man that pleased David. He felt that he would move with more ease if he were dressed in that way. He began to reflect that it might be a good plan for him to look after a few minor details of dress himself if he was to escort a young woman on a journey. She must not be made to be ashamed of him. He wondered if there were little things about traveling which he ought to know in order to make the journey a pleasant one for her. He would watch this young man and see. And presently, as if to help him, there entered a young woman with an elderly gentleman, who seemed to be the sister of the young man and who was apparently going in company with him. David made up his mind that he would let nothing escape him, and see if he could profit by their conduct for the homeward trip. Accordingly, when the train was called he followed them out and attempted to enter the same car, but a uniformed porter forbade him saying, “Sleeper ticket, sir. This is the sleeper for New York.” Ah! David had forgotten that. He was willing enough to sit up all night if need be, for the journey was a pleasant novelty to him; but if he would keep near these two he must do as they did, so he hastened back to the station and managed to secure the last berth left. Luckily it proved to be in the same car with the two, and he watched the numerous little attentions of this young man for his sister with increasing interest, noting carefully the orders to the porter and the mysteries of electric bells. He would know all he needed to know without having the humiliation of asking the young woman he was to escort.

             
David did not sleep that night. It was too novel a position for him to care to sleep much, but he rested and thought. Alone in the darkness of his berth there came to him a realization of the wonderous care of God. He thought of the train and how it was plunging along in darkness, and how he lay there as quietly and safely as in his own home. God was caring for him. He rejoiced that he knew the wonderful God. He was a Christian who really and truly, “rejoiced in the Lord.” Life seemed to be opening before him so rich and full.

             
Then he began to examine himself. What was this other feeling, a sort of elation, which seemed to belong especially to this journey? It was something very sweet and beautiful. He had not stopped before to ask himself what it was. Was it?—yes, it surely was because of the fact that he was going after Louise Clifton, and that it was to be his precious task to bring her safely home, and that now she was to remain at home and would be among them again. Was that a wrong feeling for him to have? No, he could not feel that it was. She was one of God's creations. Had he not been praying for her with his whole soul for weeks and months? He could not tell why he had felt the burden of her salvation so strongly upon him, but it had been there, and he had fully obeyed all commands it had laid upon him, and fairly poured out his soul before the throne for her. It had been given him to realize her danger and her need so fully that night of their Thanksgiving ride, that he had felt God must and would answer and show her the light. He had not doubted but that the answer would come. She was so sweet and bright and beautiful. His own feeling about her he had never questioned. His anxiety had been for her, and so he had prayed. Now it suddenly came to him, “I love her,” and he rejoiced in that love as he would rejoice in any other great gift. He felt at the first that his love did not necessarily include the return of it by her, neither did it include his possession of even her friendship; but he and she were in the world and he could love her, and he was glad that he could. It was a new joy he had not thought of before with relation to himself, and it was all the more pure and holy in that it was as yet utterly unconnected with any doubt of the future or of possession. He guarded this newly discovered treasure in his heart as sacred. He would not even think about it too much lest it should be tarnished by constant handling. A beautiful hope began to come to him. Perhaps, oh, perhaps, the Master would accept his humble service and let him be the messenger through whom the message of life and salvation should be brought to her soul. And all that night long David Benedict, the new-made follower of the blessed Jesus, lay in his berth and prayed, and in the morning he arose peaceful and refreshed notwithstanding his vigil.               Meantime the minister had been passing through less calm seas. His train was late for one thing. A freight wreck ahead of them had kept them almost an hour on a side track. When they finally reached Summerton he had but forty-five minutes in which to go home, eat some supper, dress, and prepare to present himself at the town hall temperance mass-meeting.

             
His trouble began as he took his latchkey from the parsonage door. His mother appeared on the upper stair-landing in as much consternation as her small body could express.

             
“Robert! My dear boy! What has happened? Didn't you get my telegram? Where is your sister?”               The minister was tired and worried. He had been trying all the way up from the station to remember whether he had left his notes for that evening's address on his study table. If he had he feared much for their present existence, for one of the things which he could not persuade his over-scrupulous mother to do was to let his desk, with its multitudinous papers, alone. She would clear it off every time he went out, explaining carefully, “No one has touched it, Robert, but myself, and of course I would not throw away anything of value,” and she could not be made to understand that the scraps of scribbled paper were sometimes of more value than all else the minister had on his table. He was too loyal and courteous a son to scold after such occurrences, and merely made his request that it should not be touched again, but always with the same result. He was growing now so that he carefully put under lock and key all papers before he went out; but he had a strong suspicion that he had not gone back to the study to do so before he left for the convention, on account of a sudden call to the parlor to see a man just before train time. It was this worry which perhaps made his tone seem a little annoyed and sharp to his mother. He had forgotten completely about Louise and the telegram until his mother brought it to his mind, and now for the first time it dawned upon his inner consciousness that in all probability she would not think he had done the best he might have done in sending David Benedict in his place.

             
“Yes, I received your telegram, mother; but you surely knew I could not go to New York this week. You were well aware that I had to speak at a meeting in the town hall this evening, and that I had a funeral tomorrow morning which would keep me all day, and that Sunday is almost here with its two sermons which are scarcely touched as yet.”

             
There were times when Mrs. Clifton could grow exceedingly indignant, and at such times she waxed quite eloquent. This was such an occasion. She had worked herself into a fretful state over Louise's letter lest the girl were sick which might perhaps excuse her seeming unreasonableness.               “Robert, you cannot mean that you ignored it! You do not intend to tell me that you count any duty in the world above that you hold to your mother and sister? I should not have telegraphed you if there had not been a sufficient reason. There is something the matter with Louise, and she needs to come home to her mother at once. Certainly, I remembered the temperance meeting tonight, but I also remembered that it was only a temperance meeting. There won't be half a dozen people out, and Deacon Chatterton can talk well enough for them. As for the funeral, the minister of the other church could go. The living are of more account than the dead, always. And your sermons don't need to be fussed over so long. You can get up and talk well enough for these people for once. You always put a great deal more work on your sermons than they appreciate, anyway. I insist, I command, as your mother, Robert, that you leave tonight to bring your sister home.”