by Pansy
CHAPTER XXIV.
RECOGNITION.
AND now I desire you to imagine the worshipers gathered one morningin the little church at South Plains. The winter over and gone; thetime of the singing of birds and of sweet-scented flowers had come.The marvel of the annual resurrection from the grave of winter wasbeing lived over again in nature. But within the sanctuary it seemedmore than resurrection, almost creation. Was it the same church atall? What had become of the dusty floors, and the smoky walls, and therusty stove-pipe, and the smoking stoves, and the square table, andthe swaying, faded, red curtains, and the faded and worn ingrain ragwhich had covered the platform, and the dust, and the rust and thedreariness? What a strange effect that paper of a quiet tint, andyet with a suggestion of sunlight in it, had on those hitherto bareand smoky walls! How high the frescoing made the ceiling look! Whatan excellent imitation of "real" were the carefully-grained seats!How perfectly the carpet harmonized in pattern and coloring with thepaper on the walls! Small wonder, this last, if you had known howmany patient hours mamma and Dora had spent in reaching the importantdecision, "Which shall we send?"
As for the pulpit, it was "real," without any paint about it, andso neat, and pretty, and graceful, that the girls had exhausted alladjectives on it. And really, the stove-pipe, though it wandered aboutaccording to some wild freak that was considered necessary in order to"draw," did not look so objectionable now that it was real Russia; andnothing could glow more brilliantly than the stoves, which smoked nomore. Engineer Bud had been a success.
Still, I know that I can not make you realize the difference in thatchurch. Unless you were there on that dreary winter morning whenClaire Benedict first looked upon it with utter sinking of heart, andthen were there again on that spring morning, and caught the breathof the flowers, and saw the shimmer of awakened life over everythingwithin and without, you will never understand it. Unless, indeed, youlook up some other man-forsaken sanctuary, and try the delightfulexperiment of transformation.
There were those in South Plains who knew and felt the difference.
They gathered softly, the worshipers, the men on tiptoe, though theyneed not have done that, for the heavy carpet gave back no sound offootfall, but it was one of their ways of expressing admiration andreverence. They gave quick, admiring, amazed glances about them, thenriveted their eyes, as the workers had meant they should, on the mottowhich glowed before them, strung from lamp to lamp in some spirit-likefashion which those unacquainted with the management of silver warecannot comprehend, and which made the triumphant announcement: "THELORD IS IN HIS HOLY TEMPLE." And I tell you that, so much has theoutward and tangible to do with our spiritual vision, there were thosepresent who grasped this stupendous fact for the first time.
The organ squeaked no more. It had only been a matter of a drop of oilwhich quieted that, and yet that congregation had actually sat underits squeak almost for years! So many things in this world squeak forthe want of a thoughtful hand to administer a drop of oil!
Then the choir--that almost hardest thing in country or city to managesuccessfully--had been transformed. There had been no violent wrenches;occasionally it happens that a combination of circumstances bring aboutunlooked-for and delightful results. The discordant alto had married,bless her, and gone to another town; the flatting tenor had sprainedhis ankle, poor man, and must needs abide at home. The tremendous basshad that rare quality, common-sense, and discovered on the eveningof the concert that South Plains had taken a musical prize, and washimself the one to propose that Miss Benedict and her class should beinvited to join the choir; and further, that Miss Benedict should berequested to drill the choir, and had put himself under training, andhis voice being really grand, he bade fair, under culture, to becomethe power in song that God designed.
I do not know whether it was accident, or a blessed design, that themuch astonished, much-encouraged, young-old minister, in a new coatwhich was an Easter gift from the young men of his congregation, readthe hymn--
I love her gates, I love the road; The church adorned with grace, Stands like a palace built for God, To show his milder face.
But I know that he read it as that people had never heard him read ahymn before, with an unction and a quiver of feeling which said almostas plainly as words:
"The Lord reigneth, and this is his holy temple, and I am his chosenmouthpiece to this people: I had almost forgotten it, but it is so."Then when that reconstructed choir rolled out the words, led by thecentre voice of exquisite melody and power, the worshipers felt thesentiment of the hymn fill their hearts, and admitted that they didlove her gates, and that they must rouse up and show their love as theyhad not done heretofore.
Ah! there was more in that church that day than new carpet, and newfurniture, and paint, and paper, and light and beauty. These were allwell enough, and Claire Benedict's sense of the fitness of thingsrejoiced in them all. But what were they to the thrill in her heart asshe heard the minister read among the names announced for receptioninto the visible communion of the church, that of Hubbard Myers. Therewere some who did not know to whom the name belonged; and it was notsurprising, for Hubbard Myers had been called only Bud for so manyyears, the wonder was that he remembered his name himself.
There had been great astonishment among some, and not a littleshaking of heads, when Bud presented himself as a candidate forchurch-membership. It had not been supposed that he had intellectenough to understand the meaning of the step. There was closequestioning on the part of the minister, not for himself alone, but forthe enlightenment of others; but before the examination closed, morethan one of the listeners drew out their red handkerchiefs, and blewtheir noses suspiciously, and at last, one of the most stolid of themremarked:
"It is my opinion, brethren, that the boy has been taught of God, andI think we would do well to accept him without any further delay." Andthey did.
There were other trophies. Where would be the church of Christ withoutits living, working members? One who was pledged to prefer Jerusalemabove her chief joy, had not been, and in the very nature of the case,_could not_ have been, content with toiling simply for the outwardadorning of the temple.
A history of the quiet work which had been done in hearts during thatone winter would fill a volume. I have but given you a hint of it hereand there. The head of the Church has the complete record. There isperhaps little need that I should try to give you even scattered notesof it. Yet there was one name which made the tears come very near tofalling, as Claire listened for it, fearful that it might not come, andat the same moment hopeful for it. It was only a transferral from achurch in the city to membership with the one at South Plains, and itwas only Alice Ansted. Her parents were not even present in the church.But Claire knew that a visible union with the church of Christ meantto Alice Ansted to-day what it never had before. And she knew that thetwo girls, Fanny and Ella Ansted, who sat and cried, in the pew besideAlice, were only left out because parental authority had asserteditself, and said they were not to come. Claire knew that they hadunited themselves with the great Head, and were members of the churchin the "Jerusalem which is above and is free." They could afford tobide their time.
And there was another still which gave Claire's heart a peculiar thrillof joy. Not that his name was read, or that many, as yet, knew aboutSatan's defeat with him. It had been recent, and the public recognitionof the fact was yet to come. But the Lord Jesus Christ knew, for he hadbeen the victor.
It was only the night before, as they were about to leave thereconstructed church, and Mary Burton, with a long-drawn breath ofrepressed excitement, had declared that everything was ready forto-morrow, and that the victory was complete, that Harry Matthews hadbent toward Claire and murmured:
"Miss Benedict, there has been another victory. You will know that itis far more wonderful than this. He has 'undertaken' for me."
There had only been time to grasp his hand and flash back an answerfrom sympathetic eyes, but there was a song in her heart th
is morningover the news. Occasionally she glanced at Harry, and told herself thatshe would have known, just to look at him, that the highest experiencethis life has for us had come to him.
The little church was unusually full on this triumphant morning, andyet most of the faces were known to Claire. Strangers were not frequentat South Plains. Yet there was one, a gentleman, who gave that reverentheed to the service which even among strangers distinguishes those whoreally join in worship from those who merely look on. This man joined,and with his heart. Claire was sure of it. It was this man that HarryMatthews watched, a satisfied smile on his face the while. Harry couldimagine just how surprised the stranger was.
On the evening before, when he had reached his room, after givinghis wonderful news to Claire, instead of finding it in darkness, hiskerosene lamp had been turned to its highest capacity, and a gentlemansat in front of his little stove, feeding it from time to time,apparently for the sole purpose of brightening the somewhat dismal room.
"Halloo!" had been Harry's greeting.
"Just so," was the quiet response. "You did not know you had company,did you, my boy?"
And then there had been such eager grasping of hands, and such lightingup of faces, as evinced the satisfaction of both parties at meeting.For this was Harry Matthews' favorite uncle, and he must lately havecome from the home where Harry's mother waited for him.
Of course there was a high-tide of question and answer at once. It wasnot until an hour afterward that Harry reached the subject of which hehad instantly thought, on seeing his uncle.
"Uncle Harold, didn't you know the Benedicts?"
"What Benedicts?"
"Why, the Boston ones. Sydney L. He failed, and died, less than a yearago, don't you remember?"
"I remember. I knew him well. I met him abroad."
"And didn't you know his daughter?"
"I knew that he had a daughter, and, in fact, I think I saw her once;but we were not acquainted."
"Why, I wonder?"
"Why?" with a slightly-curious laugh. "There might be many reasons, Iam sure. Boston spreads over a good deal of ground. Besides, you know Inever spent a great deal of time in Boston, and I am not a society man.Why do you ask?"
"No reason in particular; only the lady is here, and I thought if youwere old acquaintances, it would be pleasant to meet her."
"Here in South Plains! What in the world is she doing here?"
"Teaching music."
"I wonder if this is where she has hidden herself! I occasionallyhear queries as to what has become of her, but I believe I never meta person who knew. No, I don't suppose there would be any mutualpleasure in a meeting. I may be said to be a stranger. I have not theleast idea how she looks; and I may never have met her, though I thinkI did somewhere. I remember having a passing interest in seeing howa daughter of Sydney Benedict would look. He was a grand man, but Isuspected that his daughter was a butterfly of fashion. She lived inthe very centre of that sort of thing, and her father was supposedto have immense wealth. I suppose she is a poor, crushed littlemorsel, done up in crape and disappointment. I am always sorry formusic-scholars who have to take broken-down ladies for teachers. Still,I don't know but I would like to shake hands with her for her father'ssake. Have you met her?"
"I should say I had! but I don't believe you ever have. You couldn'tdraw such a queer picture of her as that, if you had ever seen her.She doesn't wear crape at all. Somebody told me she did not believe inmourning for people who had gone to heaven; at least, not in putting onblack clothes and looking doleful, you know. And as to being crushed!why, uncle Harold, she is the brightest, sweetest, grandest girl I everheard of in all my life."
"Possible!" said his uncle, with a good-humored laugh. "Why, my boy,she must be several years older than you! What does this mean?"
"Oh, nonsense!" was the impatient reply of the excited young man. "Itis just as evident as can be, that you don't know what you are talkingabout. If you had been here this winter, and watched things work, andknown the hand that she had in it all, why--look here! you wait untilto-morrow; I can show you a few things, I fancy."
Whereupon he immediately closed his lips; and although his unclepretended to be extremely curious, and to be unable to wait untilmorning for light, no hints or questions could draw out furtherinformation in the same direction.
