Four Girls at Chautauqua Part 27

No sort of use to comfort herself with the thought that she talked of her peculiar views to no one; it began to be evident that the things which she did _not_ do were more startling than the things which she did.

On the whole, no comfort came to her troubled soul through this morning session. To herself she seemed precisely where she was when she went into that tent, only perhaps a trifle more impressed with the solemnity of all things.

But, without knowing it, a great stride had been taken in her education.

She was not again to be able to say: "I injure no one with my belief; I keep it to myself." "No Man liveth to himself."

The verse came solemnly to her as she went out, as though other than human voice were reminding her of it, and life began to feel like an overwhelming responsibility that she could not a.s.sume. When one begins to _feel_ that thought in all its force the next step is to find one who will a.s.sume the responsibility for us. She met Ruth on her way up the hill.

"Flossy has deserted me," Ruth explained as they met; "Eurie carried her away to take a walk. Are you going to hear about John Knox? I am interested in him chiefly because of the voice that is to tell of him to-day; I like Dr. Hurlburt."

Marion's only reply was: "I don't see but you come to meeting quite as regularly, now that you are at the hotel, as you did when on the grounds."

Then they went to secure their seats. I am not to attempt to tell you anything about the John Knox lecture; indeed I have given over telling more about the Chautauqua addresses. It is of no sort of use. One only feels like bemoaning a failure after any attempt to repeat such lectures as we heard there. Besides, I am chiefly interested at present in their effect on our girls.

They listened--these two, and enjoyed as people with brains must necessarily have done. But there was more than that to it; there were consequences that will surely be met again at the last great day.

Ruth, as she walked thoughtfully away, said to herself: "That is the way. _Live_ the truth. It is a different day, and the trials and experiences are different, but _life_ must be the same. It is not the day for half-way Christianity nor for idling; I will be an earnest Christian, or I will not dishonor the name and disgrace the memory of such men as Knox by claiming to be of their faith."

While Marion, as she turned her flushed cheeks hastily away from Ruth, not willing to show one who knew nothing about this matter, save that it was expedient to join a church, had gotten one foot set firmly toward the rock.

"The power that enabled _that_ man to live _that_ life was certainly of G.o.d," she thought. "It _must_ be true. G.o.d must be in communication with some of the souls that have lived. Is he now, and can I be one of them?

Oh, I wonder if there are a favored few who have shone out as grand lights in the world and have gone up from the world to their reward? And I wonder if there is no such thing now? If the blundering creatures who call themselves by his name are nothing but miserable imitations of what was _once_ real?

"Such lives as that one can understand; but how can I ever believe that Deacon Cole's life is molded by the same influence, or, indeed, that mine can be? Must I be a Deacon Cole Christian if I am one at all?"

The afternoon clouded over, and a mincing little rain began to fall.

Marion stood in the tent door and grumbled over it.

"I wanted to hear that Mr. Hazard," she said; "I rather fancy his face, and I fancy the name of his subject. I had a curiosity to see what he would do with it, and here is this rain to hinder."

Ruth and Flossy had come over for the day, and were waiting in the tent.

"Haven't you been at Chautauqua long enough to catch one of its cardinal rules, never to stay at home for rain?" Flossy said.

Marion looked around at her. She was putting on her rubbers.

"Are you really going?" She asked the question in great surprise. "Why, Flossy, it is going to rain hard!"

"What of it?" said Flossy, lightly. "I have waterproof, and rubbers, and umbrella, and if it gets to be too wet I can run to a tent."

"If you were at home you wouldn't think of going to church. Why, Flossy Shipley, I never knew you to go out in the rain! I thought you were always afraid you would spoil your clothes."

"That was because I had none already spoiled to wear," Flossy answered, cheerily; "but that difficulty is obviated; I have spoiled two dresses since I have been here. This one now is indifferent to the rain, and will be for the future. I have an improvement on that plan, though; I mean to have a rainy-day dress as soon as I get home. Come, it is time we were off."

"I believe I am a dunce," Marion said, slowly. "I think it is going to rain hard; but as I have to go, at home, whether it rains or shines, I suppose I can do it here. But if this were a congregation of respectable city Christians, instead of a set of lunatics, there wouldn't be a dozen out."

They found hundreds out, however. Indeed, it proved to be difficult to secure seats. That address was heard under difficulties. In the first place it _would_ rain; not an out-and-out hearty shower, that would at once set at rest the attempt to hold an out-door meeting, but an exasperating little drizzle, enlivened occasionally by a few smart drops that seemed to hint business. There was a constant putting up of umbrellas and putting them down again. There was a constant fidgeting about, and getting up and sitting down again, to let some of the more nervous ones who had resolved upon a decided rain escape to safer quarters. Half of the people had their heads twisted around to get a peep at the sky, to see what the clouds really _did_ mean, anyway.

Our girls had one of the uncomfortable posts. Arrived late, they had to take what they could get, and it was some distance from the speaker, and their sight and sound were so marred by the constant changes and the whirl of umbrellas that Marion presently lost all patience and gave up the attempt to listen. She would have deserted altogether but for the look of eager attention on Flossy's face. Despite the annoyances, _she_ was evidently hearing and enjoying. It seemed a pity to disturb her and suggest a return to the tent; besides, Marion felt half ashamed to do so.

It was not pleasant to give tacit acknowledgment to the fact that poor little, unintellectual Flossy was much more interested than herself. She gave herself up to an old and favorite employment of hers, that of looking at faces and studying them, when a sudden hush that seemed to be settling over the hither to fidgety audience arrested her attention.

The speaker's voice was full of pathos, and so quiet had the place become that every word of his could be distinctly heard. He was evidently in the midst of a story, the first of which she had not heard.

This was the sentence, as her ears took it up:

"Don't cry, father, don't cry! To-night I shall be with Jesus, and I will tell him that you did all you could to bring me there!"

What a tribute for a child to give to a father's love! Flossy, with her cheeks glowing and her eyes shining like stars, quietly wiped away the tears, and in her heart the resolve grew strong to live so that some one, dying, could say of her: "I will tell Jesus that you did all you could to bring me there!"

Do you think that was what the sentence said to Marion? Quick as thought her life flashed back to that old dingy, weather-beaten house, to that pale-faced man, with his patched clothing and his gray hairs straggling over on the coa.r.s.e pillow. _Her_ father, dying--her one friend, who had been her memory of love and care all these long years, dying--and these were the last words his lips had said:

"Don't cry, little girl--father's dear little girl. I am going to Jesus.

I shall be there in a little while. I shall tell him that I tried to have you come!"

Oh, blessed father! How hard he had tried in his feebleness and weakness to teach her the way! How sure he had seemed to feel that she would follow him! And how had she wandered! How far away she was! Oh, blessed Spirit of G.o.d, to seek after her all these years, through all the weak and foolish mazes of doubt, and indifference, and declared unbelief--still coming with her down to this afternoon at Chautauqua, and there renewing to her her father's parting word.

She had often and often thought of these words of her father's. In a sense, they had been ever present with her. Just why they should come at this time, bringing such a sense of certainty about them to her very soul that all this was truth, G.o.d's solemn, _real_, unchangeable truth, and force this conviction upon her in such a way that she was moved to say, "Whereas I _was_ blind, now I see," I can not tell.

Why Mr. Hazard was used as the instrument of such a revelation of G.o.d to her I can not tell. Perhaps he had prayed that his work at Chautauqua that rainy afternoon might, in some way, be blessed to the help of some struggling soul. Perhaps this was the answer to his prayer--unheard, unseen by him, as many an answer to our pleading is, and yet the answer as surely comes. Who can tell how this may be. I do not know. I know this, that Marion's heart gave a great sobbing cry, as it said:

"Oh, father, father! if your G.o.d, if your Christ, will help me, I will--I will _try_ to come."

It was her way of repeating the old cry, "Lord, I believe, help thou mine unbelief." And I do know that it is written, "Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord from henceforth: Yea, saith the Spirit, that they may rest from their labors; and their works do follow them." It was fifteen years that the weary father had been resting from his labors, and here were his works following him.

I have heard that Mr. Hazard said, as he folded his papers and came down from the stand that afternoon, "It was useless to try to talk in such a rain, with the prospect of more every minute. The people could not listen. It would have been better to have adjourned. Nothing was accomplished." Much _he_ knew about it, or will know until the day when the secrets of all hearts shall be revealed!

CHAPTER XXVII.

UNFINISHED MUSIC.

Meantime, this day, which was to be so fraught with consequences to Marion, was on Eurie's hands to dispose of as best she could. To be at Chautauqua, and to be bent on having nothing whatever to do with any of the Chautauqua life, was in itself a novel position. The more so as she felt herself quite deserted. The necessity for reporting served Marion as an excuse for attending even those meetings which she did not report; and the others having gone to Mayville to live, this foolish sheep, who was within the fold, and who would not be _of_ it, went wandering whither she would in search of amus.e.m.e.nt.

After Marion left her she made her way to the museum, and a pleasant hour she spent; one could certainly not desire a more attractive spot.

She went hither and thither, handling and admiring the books, the pictures, the maps, the profusion of curiosities, and, at the end of the hour, when the press of visitors became too great to make a longer stay agreeable, she departed well pleased with herself that she had had the wisdom to choose such a pleasant resort instead of a seat in some crowded tent as a listener.

Coming out, she walked down the hill, and on and on, watching the crowds of people who were gathering, and wishing she had a programme that she might see what the special attraction was that seemed to be drawing so many.

At last she reached the wharf. The a.s.sembly steamer was lying at her dock, her jaunty flags flying, and the commotion upon her decks betokening that she was making ready for a voyage. The crowd seemed greater there than at any other point. It would appear that the special attraction was here, after all. She understood it, and pushed nearer, as the ringing notes of song suddenly rose on the air, and she recognized the voices of the Tennesseeans.

This was a great treat; she delighted in hearing them. She allowed herself to be elbowed and jostled by the throng, reaching every moment by judicious pushing a place where she could not only hear but see, and where escape was impossible. The jubilant chorus ceased and one of those weird minor wails, such as their music abounds in, floated tenderly around her.

It was a farewell song, so full of genuine pathos, and so tenderly sung, that it was in vain to try to listen without a swelling of the throat and a sense of sadness. Something in the way that the people pressed nearer to listen suggested to Eurie that it must be designed as a farewell tribute to somebody, and presently Prof. Sherwin mounted a seat that served as a platform and gave them a tender informal farewell address. In every sentence his great, warm heart shone.

"I am going away," he said, "before the blessed season at Chautauqua is concluded. I am going with a sad heart, for I feel that opportunities here for work for the Master have been great, and some of them I have lost. And yet there is light in the sadness, for the work that I can not do will yet be done. I once sat before my organ improvising a thought that was in my heart, trying to give expression to it, and I could not.

I knew what I wanted, and I knew it was in my heart, but how to give it expression I did not know. A celebrated organist came up the stairs and stood beside me. I looked around to him. 'Can't you take this tune,' I said, 'just where I leave it, and finish it for me as I have it in my heart to do? I can't give it utterance. Don't you see what I want?'"