Janet's Love and Service Part 18

"Well, yes," admitted Sampson; "since I've seen your folks, I've about got cured of one thing. I see now there is something in religion with some folks. Your minister believes as he says, and has a good time, too. He's a good man."

"You may say that, and you would say it with more emphasis if you had seen him as I have seen him for the last two twelve-months wading through deep waters."

"Yes, I expect he's just about what he ought to be. But then, if religion only changes folks in one case, and fails in ten."

"Man! it never fails!" exclaimed Janet, with kindling eye. "It never failed yet, and never will fail while the heavens endure. And lad! take heed to yourself. That's Satan's net spread out to catch your unwary soul. It may serve your turn now to jeer at professors, as you call them, and at their misdeeds that are unhappily no' few; but there's a time coming when it will fail you. It will do to tell the like of me, but it winna do to tell the Lord in 'that day.' You have a stumbling block in your own proud heart that hinders you more than all the Fishes and Slowcomes o' them, and you may be angry or no' as you like at me for telling you."

Sampson opened his eyes.

"But you don't seem to see the thing just as it is exactly. I ain't jeering at professors or their misdeeds, I'm grieving for myself. If religion ain't changed them, how can I expect that it will change me; and I need changing bad enough, as you say."

"If it hasna changed them, they have none of it," said Mrs Nasmyth, earnestly. "A Christian, and no' a changed man! Is he no' a sleeping man awakened, a dead man made alive--born again to a new life? Has he not the Spirit of G.o.d abiding in him? And no' changed!--No' that I wish to judge any man," added she, more gently. "We dinna ken other folk's temptations, or how small a spark of grace in the heart will save a man.

We have all reason to be thankful that it's the Lord and no' man that is to be our judge. Maybe I have been over hard on those men."

Here was a wonder! Mrs Nasmyth confessing herself to have been hard upon the deacons. Sampson did not speak his thoughts, however. He was more moved by his friend's earnestness than he cared to show.

"Well, I expect there's something in it, whether I ever see it with my own eyes or not," said he, as he rose to go.

"Ay, is there," said Mrs Nasmyth, heartily; "and there's no fear but you'll see it, when you ask in a right spirit that your eyes may be opened."

"Mis' Nasmyth," said Sampson, quietly and solemnly, "I may be deceiving myself in this matter. I seem to get kind o' bewildered at times over these things. But I do think I am in earnest. Surely I'll get help some time?"

"Ay--that you will, as G.o.d is true. But oh man! go straight to _Him_.

It's between you and Him, this matter. But winna you bide still? I daresay the minister will soon be at leisure now."

"I guess not. I hadn't much particular to say to him. I can just as well come again." And without turning his face toward her, he went away.

Janet looked after him till the turn of the road hid him, saying to herself,--

"If the Lord would but take him in hand, just to show what He could make of him. Something to His praise, I hae no doubt--Yankee though he be.

G.o.d forgive me for saying it. I daresay I hae nae all the charity I might hae for them, the upsettin' bodies."

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

Even in quiet country places, there are changes many and varied wrought by the coming and going of seven years, and Merleville has had its share of these since the time the minister's children looked upon the pleasant place with the wondering eyes of strangers. Standing on the church-steps, one looks down on the same still hamlet, and over the same hills and valleys and nestling farm-houses. But the woods have receded in some places, and up from the right comes the sound of clashing machinery, telling that the Merle river is performing its mission at last, setting in motion saws and hammers and spindles, but in so unpretending a manner that no miniature city has sprung up on its banks as yet; and long may that day be distant.

The trees in the grave-yard cast a deeper shadow, and the white grave-stones seem to stand a little closer than of old. The tall, rank gra.s.s has many times been trodden by the lingering feet of the funeral-train, and fresh sods laid down above many a heart at rest forever. Voices beloved, and voices little heeded, have grown silent during these seven years. Some have died and have been forgotten; some have left a blank behind them which twice seven years shall have no power to fill.

The people have changed somewhat, some for the better, some for the worse. Judge Merle has grown older. His hair could not be whiter than it was seven years ago, but he is bent now, and never forgets his staff as he takes his daily walk down the village street; but on his kindly face rests a look of peace, deeper and more abiding than there used to be. His kind and gentle wife is kind and gentle still. She, too, grows old, with a brightening face, as though each pa.s.sing day were bringing her nearer to her hope's fulfilment.

Deacon Sterne is growing older; his outward man gives no token thereof.

His hair has been iron-grey, at least since anybody in Merleville can remember, and it is iron-grey still. He looks as if seven times seven years could have no power to make his tall form less erect, or to soften the lines on his dark, grave face. And yet I am not sure. They say his face is changing, and that sometimes in the old meeting-house on Sabbath afternoons, there has come a look over it as though a bright light fell on it from above. It comes at other times, too. His patient wife, pretending to look another way as he bends over the cradle of his wilful William's little son, yet turns stealthily to watch for the coming of the tender smile she has so seldom seen on her husband's face since the row of little graves was made in the church-yard long ago. By the deacon's fireside sits a pale, gentle woman, Will's bride that was, Will's sorrowing widow now. But though the grave has closed over him, whom his stern father loved better than all the world beside, there was hope in his death, and the mourner is not uncomforted; and for the deacon there are happier days in store than time has brought him yet.

Deacon Slowcome has gone West, but, "yearning for the privileges he left behind,"--or not successful in his gains-getting, is about to return.

Deacon Fish has gone West and has prospered. Content in his heart to put the wonderful wheat crops in place of school and meeting, he yet deplores aloud, and in doleful terms enough, the want of these, and never ends a letter to a Merleville crony without an earnest adjuration to "come over and help us." But on the whole, it is believed that, in his heart, Deacon Fish will not repine while the grain grows and the markets prosper.

Mr Page is growing rich, they say, which is a change indeed. His nephew, Timothy, having invented a wonderful mowing or reaping-machine, Mr Page has taken out a patent for the same, and is growing rich. Mrs Page enjoys it well, and goes often to Rixford, where she has her gowns and bonnets made now; and patronises young Mrs Merle, and young Mrs Greenleaf, and does her duty generally very much to her own satisfaction, never hearing the whispered doubts of her old friends-- which are audible enough, too--whether she is as consistent as she ought to be, and whether, on the whole, her new prosperity is promoting her growth in grace.

Becky Pettimore has got a home of her own, and feels as if she knows how to enjoy it. And so she does, if to enjoy it means to pick her own geese, and spin her own wool, and set her face like a flint against the admission of a speck of dirt within her own four walls. But it is whispered among some people, wise in these matters, that there is something going to happen in Becky's home, which may, sometime or other, mar its perfect neatness, without, however, marring Becky's enjoyment of it. It may be so, for hidden away in the corner of one of her many presses, is a little pillow of down, upon which no mortal head has ever rested, and which no eyes but Becky's own have ever seen; and they fill with wonder and tenderness whenever they fall upon it; and so there is a chance that she may yet have more of home's enjoyments than geese or wool or dustless rooms can give.

Behind the elms, where the old brown house stood, stands now a snow-white cottage, with a vine-covered porch before it. It is neat without and neat within, though often there are children's toys and little shoes upon the floor. At this moment there is on the floor a row of chairs overturned, to make, not horses and carriages as they used to do in my young days, but a train of cars, and on one of them sits Arthur Elliott Greenleaf, representing at once engine, whistle, conductor and freight. And no bad representative either, as far as noise is concerned, and a wonderful baby that must be who sleeps in the cradle through it all. Beside the window, unruffled amid the uproar, sits Celestia with her needle in her hand--a little paler, a little thinner than she used to be, and a little care-worn withal. For Celestia is "ambitious," in good housewife phrase, and thereto many in Merleville and beyond it who like to visit at her well-ordered home.

The squire's newspaper nestles as peacefully amid the din as it used to do in the solitude of his little office seven years ago. He is thinner, too, and older, and more care-worn, and there is a look in his face suggestive of "appeals" and knotty points of law; and by the wrinkles on his brow and at the corners of his eyes, one might fancy he is looking out for the Capitol and the White House in the distance still. "He is growing old while he is young," as Mrs Nasmyth says, "Yankees have a knack of doing--standing still at middle age and never changing more."

But despite the wrinkles, the squire's face is a pleasant one to see, and he has a way of turning back a paragraph or two to read the choice bits to Celestia, which proves that he is not altogether absorbed in law or politics, but that he enjoys all he has, and all he hopes to be, the more that he has Celestia to enjoy it with him.

As for her, seven years have failed to convince her that Mr Greenleaf is not the gentlest, wisest, best in all the world. And as her opinion has survived an attack of dyspepsia, which for months held the squire in a giant's gripe, and the horrors of a contested election, in which the squire was beaten, it is to be supposed it will last through life. At this very moment her heart fills to the brim with love and wonder as he draws his chair a little nearer and says:

"See, here, Celestia. Listen to what Daniel Webster says," and then goes on to read.

"Now, what do you think of that?" he asks, with sparkling eyes. Hers are sparkling too, and she thinks just as he does, you may be sure, whatever that may be. Not that she has a very clear idea of what has been read, as how could she amid rushing engines and railroad whistles, and the energetic announcement of the conductor that "the cars have got to Boston."

"See here, Elliott, my son. Ain't you tired riding?" asks papa, gently.

"Ain't you afraid you'll wake sister?" says mamma. "I wouldn't make quite so much noise, dear."

"Why, mother, I'm the cars," says Elliott.

"But hadn't you better go out into the yard? Carlo! Where's Carlo? I haven't seen Carlo for a long time. Where's Carlo?"

It is evident Solomon is not in the confidence of these good people.

Moral suasion is the order of the day. They often talk very wisely to each other, about the training of their children, and gravely discuss the prescriptions given long ago, for the curing of evils which come into the world with us all. They would fain persuade themselves that there is not so much need for them in the present enlightened age. They do not quite succeed, however, and fully intend to commence the training process soon. Celestia, especially, has some misgivings, as she looks into the face of her bold, beautiful boy, but she shrinks from the thought of severe measures, and hopes that it will all come out right with him, without the wise king's medicine; and if mother's love and unfailing patience will bring things out right, there need be no fear for little Elliott.

It is a happy home, the Greenleaf's. There are ease and comfort without luxury; there is necessity for exertion, without fear of want. There are many good and pretty things in the house, for use and ornament.

There are pictures, books and magazines in plenty, and everything within and without goes to prove the truth of Mr Snow's declaration, that "the Greenleafs take their comfort as they go along."

But no change has come to anyone in Merleville, so great as the change that has come to Mr Snow himself. Death has been in his dwelling once--twice. His wife and his mother have both found rest, the one from her weary waiting, the other from her cares. The house to which Sampson returns with lagging footsteps, is more silent than ever now.

But a change greater than death can make, had come to Sampson first, preparing him for all changes. It came to him as the sight of rushing water comes to the traveller who has been long mocked with the sound of it. It came, cleansing from his heart and from his life the dust and dimness of the world's petty cares, and vain pursuits. It found him weary of gains-getting, weary of toiling and moiling amid the dross of earth for that which could not satisfy, and it gave him for his own, the pearl which is above all price. Weary of tossing to and fro, it gave him a sure resting-place, "a refuge whereunto he may continually resort," a peace that is abiding. With its coming the darkness pa.s.sed away, and light to cheer and guide was his for evermore. Behind the closed blinds of his deserted house, he was not alone. The promise, made good to so many in all ages, was made good to him.

"He that loveth Me shall be loved of My Father, and We will come and make our abode with him."

That wonderful change has come to him, which the world would fain deny-- the change which so many profess to have experienced, but which so few manifest in their lives. He has learned of the "meek and lowly." He is a Christian at last. He has "experienced religion," the neighbours say, looking on with varied feelings to see what the end may be.

Sampson Snow never did anything like anybody else, it was said. He "stood it" through "a season of interest," when Deacons Fish and Slowcome had thought it best to call in the aid of the neighbouring ministers, to hold "a series of meetings." Good, prudent men these ministers were, and not much harm was done, and some good. Some were gathered into the Church from the world; some falling back were restored; some weak ones were strengthened; some sorrowing ones comforted. And through all, the interested attention of Mr Snow never flagged. He attended all the meetings, listened patiently to the warnings of Deacon Fish, and the entreaties of Deacon Slowcome. He heard himself told by Mr Page that he was on dangerous ground, "within a few rods of the line of demarcation." He was formally given up as a hopeless case, and "left to himself", by all the tender-hearted old ladies in Merleville, and never left the stand of a spectator through it all. Then when Deacons Fish and Slowcome, and all Merleville with them, settled down into the old gloom again, his visits to the minister became more frequent, and more satisfactory, it seemed, for in a little time, to the surprise of all, it was announced in due form, that Sampson Snow desired to be admitted into fellowship with the Church of Merleville.

After that time his foes watched for his halting in vain. Different from other folks before, he was different from them still. He did not seem to think his duty for the week was done, when he had gone twice to meeting on the day time, and had spoken at conference on the Sunday evening. Indeed, it must be confessed, that he was rather remiss with regard to the latter duty. He did not seem to have the gift of speech on those occasions. He did not seem to have the power of advising or warning, or even of comforting, his neighbours. His gift lay in helping them.

"Inasmuch as ye have done it unto the least of these, My brethren, ye have done it unto Me," were words that Sampson seemed to believe.

"He does folks a good turn, as though he would a little rather do it than not," said the widow Lovejoy, and no one had a better right to know.

As for the poor, weak, nervous Rachel, who could only show her love for her husband, by casting all the burden of her troubles, real and imaginary, upon him, she could hardly love and trust him more than she had always done, but he had a greater power of comforting her now, and soon the peace that reigned in his heart influenced hers a little, and as the years went on, she grew content, at last, to bear the burdens G.o.d had laid upon her, and being made content to live and suffer on, G.o.d took her burden from her and laid her to rest, where never burden presses more.

If his mother had ever really believed that no part of her son's happiness was made by his peevish, sickly wife, she must have acknowledged her mistake when poor Rachel was borne away forever. She must have known it by the long hours spent in her silent room, by the lingering step with which he left it, by the tenderness lavished on every trifle she had ever cared for.

"Sampson seemed kind o' lost," she said; and her motherly heart, with all its worldliness, had a spot in it which ached for her son in his desolation. She did not even begrudge his turning to Emily with a tender love. She found it in her heart to rejoice that the girl had power to comfort him as she could not. And little Emily, growing every day more like the pretty Rachel who had taken captive poor Sampson's youthful fancy, did what earnest love could do to comfort him.