A Face Illumined Part 49

The old gentleman removed his hat and reverently bowed his head.

"O G.o.d," he murmured, "thou hast been merciful to me all my days; I thank thee for this crowning mercy."

"But will G.o.d be merciful to ME?" cried Ida, in a tone of sharp agony.

The old man came to he side, and placing his hands on her head spoke with almost the authority and solemnity of one of G.o.d's ancient prophets.

"Yes, my child, yes, he will be merciful unto you--he will forgive you. But in your deep need you require more than the a.s.surance of a poor sinful mortal like yourself. Listen to G.o.d's own word: 'Thus saith the high and lofty One that inhabiteth eternity, whose name is Holy: I dwell in the high and holy place, with him also that is of a contrite and humble spirit, to revive the spirit of the humble, and to revive the heart of the contrite ones.'

"'Like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear him.'

"'If we confess our sins he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins; and the blood of Jesus Christ, his Son, cleanseth us from all sin.' G.o.d answers your question himself, my child."

"Oh, may He bless you for your kindness to me! It has saved me from despair and death," sobbed Ida, burying her face in her hands, and giving way to the natural expression of feeling that ever relieves a heart that has long been overburdened.

For a few moments Mr. Eltinge said nothing, but gently stroked the bowed head as he might caress a daughter of his own. At last he asked, with a voice that was broken from sympathy with her emotion,

"How about my Master, whose kind providence has brought all this about?"

Ida gradually became more quiet, and as soon as she could trust herself to speak she lifter her head and answered:

"Mr. Eltinge, I think I can learn to love G.o.d as you portray him to me. But in my imperfection and wickedness I have not dared to think of him till I came here."

"Now, isn't that just like the devil's work!" exclaimed Mr. Eltinge.

"It was our imperfection and wickedness that brought Christ to our rescue, and yet you have been made to believe that your chief claim upon our Divine Friend is a hopeless barrier against you!"

"Mr. Eltinge," said Ida, slowly, as if she were trying to be sure that each word expressed her thought, "it was that word, FRIEND, as you used it last night, that caught my ear and revived my hopes.

I now believe that if you had spoken only of duty or truth, or even of G.o.d in the ordinary way, I should now be"--she buried her face in her hands and shuddered--"I should not be in this sunny garden with the memory that your hands have rested on my hands in blessing.

If I am to live, I shall need, above all things, a friend, and a very patient and helpful one, or else my burden will be heavier than I can carry. I have told you about my parents, and you thus know what I must look forward to in my own home. But such is my weakness and folly, I have a far worse trouble than that. You may smile at it and think that time will bring speedy relief. Perhaps it will--I hope so. I feel that I know so little about myself and everything else that I can never be sure of anything again. Mr.

Eltinge, I have been so unfortunate as to give my whole heart's love to a man who despises me. At first he seemed somewhat attracted, but he soon discovered how imperfect and ignorant I was, and coldly withdrew. He is now paying his addresses, I believe, to another lady, and I must admit that she is a lovely girl, and every way worthy of him. I think she will return his regard, if she does not already. But whether she does or not cannot matter, for he is so far my superior in every respect that he would never think of me again. In order to hide my foolish, hopeless pa.s.sion, I received attentions from another man that I detested, and who has since proved himself an utter villain, but it so happened that my name became so closely a.s.sociated with this low fellow, that when my heart was breaking for another reason, all thought that it was because I was infatuated with a man I loathed. Even Mr. Van Berg thought so, and I intended to compel him to respect me, or at least to think better of me, even if I had to die to carry out my purpose. I was desperate and blind with disappointment and despair. To a strong man, I suppose, these things do not count so greatly, but I'm inclined to think what with us poor women our heart-life is everything. I fairly s.h.i.+ver at the thought of the future. How can I carry this heavy burden, year after year? Oh, how can I bear it? How can I bear it?" and her eyes became full of desperate trouble again, at the prospect before her.

"Well, my dear," said Mr. Eltinge in broken tones, "my heart goes out to you in sympathy as if you were my own daughter, but old James Eltinge can do but little towards curing your deep troubles."

"I do not hope to be cured," said Ida, despondently, "but I would be very glad if I could think my life would not be a burden to myself and others."

Mr. Eltinge pondered a few moments, and then brightened up, as if a pleasant thought had struck him.

"What do you think of this pear-tree against which I'm leaning?"

he asked. "You remember I said it owed me a good turn, and perhaps I can get my best fruit from it to-day."

"I think it is a pretty tree," said Ida, wonderingly; "and now I notice that there are some fine pears on it."

"Yes, and they are about ripe. Let us see if we can't reverse the old story with which the Bible commences. The man shall tempt the woman this time, and this shall be a tree of the knowledge of good, not of evil. Poor child, you know enough about that already;"

and the old gentleman climbed up on his chair, and with his cane loosened a large yellow pear with a crimson blush on its sunny side.

"Take my hat and catch it," he had said to Ida; and she did so.

"Now, I've made you an accomplice already, and so you may as well eat the pear while I tell you a bit of history concerning this tree. It may help me to suggest some very encouraging truths."

But Ida held her pear and looked wistfully at the speaker. Her heart was still too sore to enter into the half-playful manner by which he sought to give a less gloomy cast to her thoughts.

"Some years ago," said Mr. Eltinge, resuming his seat, "we had a night of darkness and violent storm like that through which you, poor child, have just pa.s.sed. The garden fence was blown down, and some stray cattle got in and made sad havoc. This pear-tree was a little thing then, and when I came out in the morning it was in a bad plight, I can tell you. The wind had snapped off the top, and it lay withering on the ground. Worse than this, one of the cattle had stepped on it, bruising it severely, and half breaking it off near the root. I don't know which of the young men you have named this unruly beast typifies--both of 'em, I'm inclined to think."

Here Ida shook her head in protest against Van Berg being cla.s.sed with Sibley, and at the same time could not forbear the glimmer of a smile at the old man's homely imagery.

"Well, according to my creed," continued Mr. Eltinge, "'while there's life there's hope,' so I lifted up the poor, prostrate little tree, and tied it to a stout stake. Then I got grafting wax and covered the bruises and broken places, and finally tied all up as carefully as I used to my boys' fingers when the cut them, sixty odd years ago. And now mark, my child; I had done all that I could do. I couldn't make the wounds heal or even a new twig start; and yet here is a stately young tree beginning to bear delicious fruit.

Nature took my sorry-looking little case in hand, and slowly at first, but by and by with increased vigor and rapidity, she developed what you see. I have an affection for this tree, and like to lean against it, and sometimes I half fancy it likes to have me."

"I should think it ought to," said Ida, heartily, with tears in her eyes, but a smile on her lips.

"Well, now, my child, to go on with my parable, what nature was to this pear-tree, nature's G.o.d must be to you. We cannot find in nature nor in the happiest human love that which can satisfy our deep spiritual need; but we can find all in him who came from heaven in our behalf. Jesus Christ is the patient, helpful Friend you need. He brings more than joy--even the peace and rest that follow full trust in One pledged to take care of us and make everything turn out for the best. He says of those who come to him, 'I give unto them eternal life, and they shall never perish.' If you will take this life from him it will never be a burden to you, and it will always be a blessing to others."

"I fear I don't quite understand you, Mr. Eltinge. What is this 'eternal life'--this new, added life which you say Christ offers, and which I'm sure I'd be very glad to take if I knew how?"

"Let Jesus answer you himself, my child. He said plainly: 'This is life eternal, that they might know thee the only true G.o.d, and Jesus Christ, whom thou has sent.' Perhaps I can make our Lord's words clearer from your own experience, if you will permit me to refer to your feelings toward the man who, whether worthy or not has won your love. Suppose he is all you imagine, and that he lavished on you the best treasures of his heart; would not life at his side seem life in very truth, and life elsewhere but mere existence?"

"Yes," said Ida, with bowed head and pale cheeks. "I begin to understand you now. It seems to me that I could welcome sorrow, poverty, and even death, at his side, and call life rich and full.

But as it is--oh, Mr. Eltinge, teach me your faith, lest I give way to despair again!"

"Poor child! poor child! Don't my white hairs teach you that I am on the threshold of the home in which 'G.o.d shall wipe away all tears'?"

"I envy you," cried Ida, almost pa.s.sionately. "Think how far I am from that home!"

"Well, you are not far from the Divine Friend who leads to that home, and when you come to KNOW him and his love your life will begin to grow richer and sweeter and fuller to all eternity. This is eternal life. It's know the G.o.d who loves us and whom we have learned to love. It's not living on and on forever in a beautiful heaven, any more than the earthly life you crave is living on and on in a pleasant home such as the man of your heart might provide.

The true life is the presence of the loved one himself, and all that he is to us and all that he can do for us; and if a mortal and finite creature seems to you so able to impart life, how infinitely more blessed will the life eventually be which comes from a G.o.d of boundless power and boundless love!"

"Alas, Mr. Eltinge, G.o.d seems too boundless."

"Did G.o.d seem too boundless to the little children whom he took in his arms and blessed?"

"Oh that I had been one of them!" said Ida, with a sudden rush of tears.

"Come, my dear young friend, do not expect too much of yourself to-day. You cannot take in all this truth at once, any more than this young pear tree could take all the dew and suns.h.i.+ne, cold and heat (for autumn frosts are needed as well as spring showers) that nature had in store for it, but its life was a.s.sured from the moment it was able to receive nature's restoring influences. So with greater certainty a happy, useful life is a.s.sured to you as soon as you receive Jesus Christ as your Saviour, Teacher, and Life-giver. 'As many as received him, to them gave he power to become the sons of G.o.d,' and I a.s.sure you the Great King will look after his children right royally. But you don't know him very well yet, and so cannot have the life which flows from his fulness of life. Suppose you come here mornings, and we'll read together the story of Jesus, just as it is told in the New Testament, and I don't believe it will be long before you will say to me that my Friend is yours also. Now, come up to the house and I'll introduce you to my sister. You think me a saint; but I'll show you what a human appet.i.te I have."

"I hear a brook near by," said Ida; "may I not go to it and bathe my face?"

"Yes, do what you like best while here. Would you rather bathe in the brook than at the house?"

"Yes, indeed. Everything seems sacred here, and I can imagine the brook yonder to be a rill from the Jordan."

"Don't be superst.i.tious and sentimental," said the old gentleman, shaking his head gravely. "The life of a Christian means honest, patient work, and Christ's blood alone can wash us till we are whiter than snow."

Ida's face grew earnest and n.o.ble as she stepped to the symbolic tree and placed her hand on one of its lower branches.

"Mr. Eltinge," she said gently and gravely, "as this broken, wounded tree received all the help nature gave it, so I, more bruised and broken, will try to receive all the help Christ will give me to bear my burden and live a life pleasing to him. I shall be very glad indeed to come here and learn to know him better under your most kind and faithful teaching, and as I learn, I will try to do my best; but oh, Mr. Eltinge, you can't realize how very weak and imperfect--how ignorant and full of faults I am!"

"Just so the poor little tree might have spoken if it had had a voice. Indeed I thought it WOULD die. But now look at the fruit over your head. You shall take some of it home, and every pear will be a sermon to you--a juicy one, too. If you will do as you say, my child, all will be well."

She bathed her tear-stained face in the brook, and came back looking fairer than any flower in the garden. Then they went up to the old-fas.h.i.+oned house.