The Tryst (Annotated) (Grace Livingston Hill Book) (21 page)

“But why? How?” she faltered. “What is it all for anyway? I don't see any sense in churches. We can be good at home if we want to.”

“Yes, but this is God's house. Here we can come nearer to Him than anywhere else. It is here he has promised to be. Look!” and he pointed up to the golden letters shimmering in a slant of afternoon sunlight that had somehow managed to steal into a crimson pane in a lofty window. 

Marjorie looked up. 

“You don't mean you think He is really here?” she asked wonderingly. 

“Certainly.” There was a quiet assurance in his voice that filled her with awe. She shivered and drew her beautiful furs closer to her throat, casting a half -fearful glance up toward the altar. 

“How perfectly dreadful!” she said. “I shall never dare to come in here again when there aren't a lot of people around. You aren't a spiritualist, are you? So many people are taking that up now. It's quite the latest fad.” 

“Oh, no,” said John Treeves with his warming confident smile,” Spiritualism has to do with departed spirits. God is not departed. He is here; always has been. Christ died, but arose from the dead, and is a living presence to-day that every one may feel and know.” 

“Oh, how perfectly frightful!” said Marjorie Horliss-Cole shuddering. "Let’s get out of here into the sunshine.” 

“No, please, wait,” said the young preacher putting out a detaining hand. “I don't want you to go away with that impression. I shall have failed miserably in my first message if you do. Sit down and let me explain it to you. It is the most beautiful, the most wonderful, the most pleasant and comforting fact in the world. Christ is not here to frighten us, but because He loves us. He says: ‘I came that ye might have life, and that ye might have it more abundantly.’ The most of us are living in a little tiresome round trying to get away with time, and not realizing that there is more joy in life than we ever dreamed of. Christ came to be our close friend, to help us in our difficulties, to show us a way out of our disappointments, to forgive our sins, and to save us from their consequences. He does not want us to be afraid of Him. He wants us to enjoy Him, to understand Him, to reach out our souls in any need for Him. There isn't anything we cannot talk over with Him as we would talk to a great and influential friend, only more so, because this ONE will always understand our point of view and always be able to help, no matter how impossible it looks.” 

Marjorie Horliss-Cole had not sat down in the cushioned pew he had indicated; she had drawn away down the aisle toward the door, with a doubtful look of dissent; but now she paused and looked at him earnestly: 

“Do you really mean that you think He will do things for people, anybody, not just for ministers? That He would change things so that you could have what you wanted?” 

“I really think so,” said the young man bowing his head. “If you were His and He was yours. That’s the only condition. If ye abide in me and my words abide in you ye shall ask what ye will and it shall be done unto you.’ That levels up everybody alike. It makes no difference whether one is a minister or a washerwoman. The only condition is living in Christ and letting Him live in you. There might even be some ministers who wouldn’t measure up to that.” 

“Do you mean that,” said Marjorie Horliss-Cole, wide-eyed and interested. “Do you really think that God looks on all people as equal? That everybody has the same chance --well, have a good time and have what they want, and just live and be happy? Would a man -- say that had been -- well -- suppose a man had been a prize-fighter or something like that, not because he was coarse or rude, of course, but just because he knew how and could earn his living that way; do you mean that God would think he was all right and could be made as good as a person in society with plenty of money?” 

“God doesn’t care for money or society or one's business, or even whether one has been good or bad. He cares whether a man or a woman lets Him into their hearts to live, whether they are willing to believe in Him, to take Him at His word and let Him take their sins on Him and change their lives into Christlike lives. If a man or woman is willing to do that there is nothing that God won't do for them if they ask. Of course when they take Him in and let Him live in their hearts it may change some of the things they ask for, some of their desires, but it makes them see what are the really great things they want, and it gives them more joy than they ever dreamed of.” 

“You look as though you had really tried it,” said Marjorie thoughtfully. 

“I have!” he said with a joyous ring in his voice. “I’m not just talking what I have learned out of a book, I've tried it, and it's all true.” 

“Well, I want something with all my heart, something that I don't see any chance of ever getting,” said Marjorie Horliss-Cole with tears suddenly in her big dark eyes. “Do you really mean that if I would do what you say that I could have it?” 

“If you take Christ into your heart to live and find that you still want that thing I really mean that I think He would give it to you.” 

“Well, what would I have to do?” said Marjorie Horliss-Cole dropping into the nearest pew and clasping her hands on the back of the seat in front, looking up at him with an attitude of surrender. 

John Treeves stood before her with a light of other worlds in his eyes and began to tell the story of salvation, slowly, plainly, earnestly as to a little child, making sin suddenly stand out as a fact to be reckoned with, making a loving Saviour ready to forgive a reality. He had learned it all at his mother's knee; it was not just the fruit of his recent experience. As he told it he realized that he did not need to search for the right thing to tell her, it was already there. It had been there all the time, only he had laid it away as a worn-out formula. Now he saw that it was the saving truth which had been made to live again through his own turning to search for the Lord, and the Lord's answering presence and forgiveness. He made it very plain that no soul could save himself or forgive himself, that it was the work of Christ on the cross, and that sorrow for sin and belief in the death on the cross was the sinner's part of the matter. Christ did the rest and transformed one into another creature. 

She listened intently but he could not tell how she was taking it. Somehow it did not seem to matter so he told the story. It was as if he were preaching his first sermon in the presence of Christ, and an awe had fallen upon him. He was conscious of wishing to get the message across to his audience, but realized that that was not his part to perform. A verse like a voice rang in his ear: “Ye have not chosen me, but I have chosen you, and ordained you, that ye should go and bring forth fruit, and that your fruit should remain: that whatsoever ye shall ask of the Father in my name, he may give you.” So rang the words, and his heart put up the request, “Oh, Christ, bring this soul to know thee, whom to know is life everlasting!” 

The girl sat very still as he finished talking, and without looking up, said: 

“Well, it sounds very strange. I never heard anybody talk so before, but if I thought He would do what I want Him to I think I would try it.” 

Was the child coming to Christ for the loaves and a fish? He looked at her earnestly to be sure; he had made it plain. 

“You know it would have to be a real giving of yourself to Christ. You could not expect Him to answer your desire unless you had put all that aside and complied with His condition, which says, ‘If ye abide in me’ --that means staying there forever, you know – ‘and my words abide in you’ – ‘that means that you read His book and make it your own, so that you will order your life by it’ --then ‘ye shall ask what ye will and it shall be done unto you.’” 

“I understand,” she said thoughtfully, “it is awfully queer, but it sounds sensible. I'll think about it. But,” lifting her eyes to his face, with a keen, searching glance, “aren't you somehow different from other ministers? I never heard one talk like that before.” 

“I hope not,” said Treeves with a somewhat startled memory that he had never been really ordained as a minister in the church, and was perhaps going beyond his right to speak thus with authority. Then he remembered his mother who had taught him, and his grandfather "John" for whom he was named, who had taught her, and had been an honored minister of the Gospel for many years, and his heart was at rest. If he should be called to this pulpit he would doubtless have to go through the forms of ordination and everything would be duly done according to the forms and ceremonies. For himself he felt his true ordination had been out on the old bluff during his tryst with God, but for the next four Sundays he felt satisfied that his mother's religion would do that New York congregation no harm, even if it were not backed by the great body of an old and historic church. He had mentioned the fact to Mr. Horliss-Cole in his letter that he had gone to France before his last year at Seminary was completed, and was therefore as yet unordained, and Mr. Horliss-Cole had made no demur. Upon him be the consequences of an ordainless preacher for the next four Sundays. 

They walked home thoughtfully through the gloaming talking of quite other things, and Miss Horliss-Cole handed him over to her father at the door and disappeared to her own room, but John Treeves found himself in spirit praying that she might find the way, and that he might be given words on the morrow to stir other souls to seek for the Christ. 

No letters had been forwarded to Patricia Merrill in care of Miss Edith Fisher, and Patty was greatly distressed. Miss Cole watched her keenly and invented all sorts of excuses to get her out into the fresh air. She was quite upset that Dunham Treeves should have utterly disappeared from the horizon just as she was getting acquainted with him, and when he did not return and the days went by she was not at all disturbed to have Marjorie hurry back home. For the present Marjorie had acquired all the good she was likely to get from the “Companion,” and there was no one among the young people to keep her spirits up. Miss Cole had made one of her points by getting a speaking acquaintance with young Treeves through Marjorie, and if he should return again she would be able to follow it up herself without her niece's assistance. Marjorie had progressed as far in her acquaintance with Edith Fisher as she was likely to get for a time, and her aunt felt that a little separation would not do any harm, so with a good grace she sent her home, telling her she had tried to keep her from coming in the first place. Patty and Miss Cole had settled down into a pleasant routine of days filled with reading, embroidery and walks, varied by an occasional evening down in the parlor, or a canter on horseback over the piney trails for Patty by herself. 

It was while she was off on one of these rides that a stranger arrived at the hotel and asked for Miss Edith Fisher. It so happened that Miss Cole had gone down to the office with a letter she wanted to mail immediately, and heard the stranger talking with the clerk. She faced about, studied him a moment with pursed lips, then spoke: 

“You asking for Miss Fisher? Well, I can tell you about her. Just come sit down. I'm not able to stand any longer this morning. I have rheumatism.” 

The hotel clerk waved his hand in assent. “Yes, Miss Cole can tell you,” he said. 

She puffed in a leisurely way out the length of the office, followed by the stranger who eyed her keenly, through one reception room after another, until she reached a little writing room that was usually deserted at this hour of the day and sat herself down in a big rocker, indicating another for the stranger: 

“I am Mr. Sharp,” announced the stranger. “I came on business to see Miss Edith Fisher. Can you tell me where to find her?” 

Miss Cole looked him up and down keenly, her baffling eyes telling no tales whatever: 

“Well, no, I can't. She's away to-day. I'm not sure just when she will be back. She didn't say when she left. Is there any message I could give her?” 

The stranger looked annoyed. Has she gone far?" 

“Well, now I'm not sure. She seemed uncertain when she left. She has a lot of relatives around here, and over in the next county. The Adamses, you know.” When Miss Cole lied she always wished to justify herself. “ Were you in a hurry to see her?” 

“Yes, I was,” confessed Mr. Sharp. “I wanted to catch the afternoon train to Washington. What time did she leave? Did she go by train or car?” 

“No, she didn't take the train. She left about an hour ago.” 

“Ah! Did you see which road she took? I wonder if I could get a fast car and overtake her!” 

“Hardly. She likes to go pretty fast herself,” said Miss Cole dryly, and you never can tell around here which way one takes, the roads wind and twist about till it makes you dizzy, but she's well on her way by this time. Isn't there something I could do to help you out?” 

“Are you a relative of Miss Fisher?” 

“Sort of,” said Miss Cole. “I’m all she has just now, and I would be likely to know a good deal about her affairs.” She wore an indifferent air that seemed to care little whether the young man gave her his confidence or not, and he studied her perplexedly: 

“I wonder now if you happen to know anything about Miss Patricia Merrill?” he hazarded. “A friend of Miss Fisher's, you know.” 

A flicker of intelligence crossed Miss Cole's face: 

“I've heard her mentioned,” she answered indifferently. 

“It’s really about her that I have come,” announced the stranger watching her closely. “Her mail was to have been forwarded here to be sent on by Miss Fisher.” He drew forth a long envelope addressed neatly to Miss Edith Fisher in Patty's fine hand. It was one of the envelopes she had sent to her home postmaster. 

Miss Cole reached out and studied the handwriting closely: 

“Yes?” said Miss Cole encouragingly, as though she knew all about it. 

“I didn’t know but she might be here now--?” The stranger flung the suggestion at the lady with a tone that was insultingly familiar. Miss Cole was proud of the fact that she was not an aristocrat except by birth, but she knew how to assume the character in case of necessity.