Four Girls at Chautauqua Part 24

"It is a simple little story," Flossy said. And then she began at the beginning and told her little bit of experience, fresh in her heart, dating only a few days back, and full to the brim with peace and gladness to her.

"But I don't see," Ruth said, perplexed. "I don't find out what to _do_.

I want to be told how to do it, and none of you tell me; you seem to have just resolved about it, and not _done_ anything. I have gone so far myself. Such a night as last night was, Flossy! Oh, you can never imagine it!"

And then she told her story, as much of it as _could_ be told; of the horror and the thick darkness that had enveloped her she could only hint.

What an eager flash there was in Flossy's bright eyes as she listened.

"When you said that!" she began, eagerly, as Ruth paused. "When you said, 'I will do it.' What then? Did you feel just as you did before?"

"No," Ruth said, "not at all. The night had gone by that time. As I looked about me I realized that it was daylight, and I fancied that my feelings were the result of a highly excited state of nerves. But the resolve was not to be accounted for in any such way. I meant that. The horror, though, of which I had been telling you was quite gone. It was as if there had been a fearful storm, with the constant roll of thunder, and suddenly a calm. I hadn't the least feeling of fear or dread, and I haven't had all day; but to-night I may have the very same experience."

"No, you will not," Flossy said, her voice aglow with feeling and with joy. "Oh, Ruthie, Ruthie! There _is_ no night! You have got beyond it. I tell you, you have come into G.o.d's light! And isn't it blessed? You are a Christian now."

"But," protested Ruth, utterly bewildered, "I do not understand you, and I don't think you understand yourself. In what way am I different from what I was yesterday? How can I be lost in G.o.d's sight one moment and accepted the next?"

"Easily; oh, _so_ easily! Don't you see? Why, if I had been coaxing you for a year to give me something, and you had steadily refused, but if suddenly you had said to me, 'Yes. I will; I have changed my mind; I will give it to you,' wouldn't there be a difference? Wouldn't I know that I was to have it? And couldn't I thank you then, and tell you how glad I was, just the same as though I had it in my hand? It is a poor little ill.u.s.tration, Ruthie, but it is true that G.o.d has been calling you all your life, and if you have all the time been saying 'No,' up to that moment when you said solemnly, meaning it with all your heart, 'I will,' I tell you it makes a difference."

I can not describe to you how strangely all this sounded to Ruthie. Up to this moment she had not realized in the least that the Lord was asking her simply for a decision, and that having solemnly given it, the work, so far as _she_ was concerned, was done, and the new relations instantly commenced. She thought it over--that sudden calming of heart--that sense of resolve--of determination, so strong, and yet so quiet. She remembered what a strange day it had been. How she had tried to keep before her mind the horror of the night, and had not been able.

She went on talking with Flossy, telling her about Charlie Flint, noticing the happy tears that glistened in Flossy's eyes as she received her message, taking in the murmured words, "To think that Christ would honor such a feeble little witnessing as that!" and realizing even then that it would be very blessed to have one say to her, "You have been the means of leading me to think about this thing." Why should _she_ care, though, whether people thought about this thing or not? Yesterday she didn't. During all the talk she kept up this little undertone of thought, this running commentary on her sudden change of views and feelings, and wondered, and _wondered_, could it be possible that she was utterly changed? And yet, when she came to think of it, wasn't she?

Didn't she love Christ? And then it struck her as the strangest thing in the world _not_ to love him. How could any one be so devoid of heart as that? Why, a mere man, to have done one-half of what Christ had done for her, would have received undying love and service.

As they walked they neared the stand, and there came just at that moment a burst of music, one of those strange, thrilling tunes such as none but the African race ever sing. The words were familiar, and yet to Ruth they were new:

"There is a fountain filled with blood, Drawn from Immanuel's veins, And sinners, plunged beneath that flood.

Lose all their guilty stains."

A sinner! Was _she_, Ruth Erskine, a sinner? Yesterday she had not liked it to be called a prodigal. But to-day, oh yes. Was there a greater sinner to be found than she? How long she had known this story! How long she had known and believed of a certainty that Jesus Christ lived and died that she might have salvation, and yet she had never in her life thanked him for it! Nay, she had spurned and scorned his gift! So much worse than though she had not believed it at all! For then at least she could not have been said to have met him with the insult of indifference.

Then the chorus swelled out on the still air. Only those who heard it under the trees at Chautauqua have the least idea how it sounded; only those who hear it, as Ruth Erskine did, can have the least idea how it sounded to her.

"I've been redeemed, I've been redeemed!"

Over and over the strain repeated. Now in clear soprano tones, and anon rolled out from the grand ba.s.s voices. And then the swelling unison:

"I've been redeemed-- Been washed in the blood of the Lamb."

The girls had stopped, and almost held their breaths to listen. They stood in silence while verse after verse with its triumphant swell of chorus rolled out to them. The great tears gathered slowly in Ruth's eyes, until, as the last echo died away, she turned to Flossy, and her voice was clear and triumphant:

"I believe I _have_. Flossy, I believe I have. It is a glorious thought, and a wonderful one. It almost frightens me. And yet it thrills me with perfect delight. The fountain is deep enough for us all--for them and for me. I have 'been redeemed,' and if G.o.d will help me I will never forget it again."

CHAPTER XXIV.

SWORD THRUSTS.

By the next morning it became clear to our girls that a change of programme was a necessity. Ruth had by no means recovered from her shock and the sleepless night that followed, and some of the comforts of invalidism must be found for her. At the same time she utterly repudiated the idea of Saratoga, which was now urged upon her; it had lost its charms; neither would she go home.

"I have decided to stay until the _very_ last meeting," she said, with quiet determination.

Flossy laughed softly; she knew what charms Chautauqua had taken on, but the others supposed it to be a whim, resulting from the ridicule she had suffered because of the Saratoga scheme.

After many plans were discussed it was finally decided that Flossy and Ruth should seek quarters at the hotel in Mayville, Ruth coming over to the meetings only when her strength and her fancy dictated, and having some of the luxuries of home about her. It seemed to fall naturally to Flossy's lot to accompany her; indeed, a barrier was in the way of either of the others being chosen. The hotel arrangement, when one took into consideration the numerous boat-rides to and from the ground, was by no means an economical proceeding, and as Flossy and Ruth were the only ones who were entirely indifferent to the demands of their purses, it must of necessity be them.

Neither of them was disposed to demur; there had never been much congeniality between these two, but they had been friendly, and now there was a subtle bond of sympathy which made them long to be together.

So, during the next morning hours, those two were engaged in packing their effects and preparing for a flitting to the Mayville House.

Meantime Marion and Eurie, having stood around and looked on until they were tired, departed in search of something to interest them.

"It is too early for meeting," Marion said. "There is nothing of interest until 11 o'clock. I'm sorry we missed Mrs. Clark. I like to look at her and listen to her; she is just bubbling over with enthusiasm. One can see that she thinks she means it. If I were a Sunday-school teacher I should be glad I was here, to hear her. I think it has been about the most helpful thing I have heard thus far; helpful to those who indulge in that sort of work, I mean."

"I wonder what those normal cla.s.ses are like?" Eurie said, studying her programme. "We haven't been to one of those, have we? What do you suppose they do?"

Marion shrugged her shoulders.

"They are like work," she said. "'Working hours,' they are named; and I suppose some hard thinking is done. If I didn't have to teach school six hours out of every day at home I might be tempted to go in and listen to them; but I came here to play, you see, and to make money; they are not good to report about. People who stay at home and read the reported letters don't want to hear anything about the actual _work_; they want to know who the speaker was and how he looked, and whether his gestures were graceful, and--if it is a lady--above all, how she was dressed; if they say anything remarkably sarcastic or irresistibly funny you may venture to report it, but not otherwise, consequently reporting is easy work, if you have not too much conscience, because what you didn't see you can make up."

At the end of this harangue she paused suddenly before a tent, whence came the sound of a firm and distinct voice.

"What is this?" she said, and then she lifted a bit of the canvas and peeped in. "I'm going in here, after all," she said, withdrawing her head and explaining. "This is a normal cla.s.s, I guess. That man from Philadelphia--what is his name? Tyler? Yes, that is it--J. Bennet Tyler--is leading. I like him; I like his voice ever so much; he makes you hear, whether you want to or not. Then, someway, you get a kind of a notion that he not only believes what he says but that he _knows_ it is so, and that is all there is about it. I like to meet such people now and then, because they are so rare. Generally people act as though you could coax them out of their notions in about twenty minutes if you tried--when they are talking about religious subjects, I mean. Obstinacy is not so rare a trait where other matters are concerned. Let's go in."

"What is the subject this morning?" Eurie asked, following her guide around to the entrance, somewhat reluctantly. She was in no mood for shutting herself inside a tent, and being obliged to listen whether she wanted to or not. But Marion was in one of her positive moods this morning, and must either be followed or deserted altogether.

Mr. Tyler was reading from a slip of paper as they entered. This was the sentence he read:

"Difficulties in interpretation which arise from certain mental peculiarities of the student. Some minds, and not by any means the strongest or n.o.blest, must always see the _reason_ for everything."

Marion gave Eurie a sagacious nod of the head.

"Don't you see?" she said. "Now, by the peculiar way in which he read that, he made believe it was _me_ he meant. And, by the way, I'm not sure but he is correct. I must say that I like a reason for things. But what right has he to say that _that_ is an indication of a weak mind?"

"He didn't say so," whispered Eurie.

"Oh, yes he did; it amounted to that. There is where his peculiar use of words comes in. That man has _studied_ words until he handles them as if they were foot-b.a.l.l.s, and were to go exactly where he sent them."

"He is looking this way. The next thing you know he will throw some at us for whispering."

This was Ernie's attempt to quiet Marion's tongue. That or some other influence had the desired effect. She whispered no more, and it was apparent in a very few minutes that she had become intensely interested in the theme and in the way it was being handled. An eager examination of the programme disclosed what she began to suspect, that the subject was, "Difficulties in the Bible." Her intellectual knowledge of the Bible was considerable; and having read it ever since she could remember, with the express purpose of finding difficulties, it was not surprising that she had found them.

Something, either in the leader's manner of drawing out answers, or the peculiar emphasis with which he contrived to invest certain words, had the effect to cause Marion to feel as though she had been very superficial in her reasoning and childish in her objections. She grew eager her brain, accustomed to work rapidly and follow trains of thought closely, enjoyed the keen play of thought that was being drawn forth.

But there was more than that; almost unconsciously to herself this subject was a.s.suming vital proportions to her; she did not even herself realize the intensity of the cry in her heart, "If I only _knew_ whether these were so!" Presently the voice which had once before struck her as being so peculiar in its personality sounded distinctly down the long tent.

"Remember the conditions under which the Bible promise clear apprehension of the truth."

It chanced--at least that is the way in which we use language--it chanced that Mr. Tyler's eyes as he repeated these words rested on Marion. Speaking of it afterward she said: