Chapter XX: The next day was Sunday

Celia had wakened early, in spite of the fact that she was up late the night before. She lay thinking over the changes that had come into her life, and wondering how things were going to work out. Somehow there seemed a cloud over what she had been trying to do. She had not accomplished much with Harry. She had kept him in the house a few evenings, it is true, and interested him in a few good books, but nothing really to much purpose after all. To be safe from all the temptations that beset his path every day, he needed to be anchored on the Rock of Christ. She did not feel that she knew how to help him in that way, he was such a gay, bright fellow, so ready to laugh. She thought of the minister and the influence he seemed to have over the young man, and felt half indignant at him for not exercising it in a religious way, instead of merely a personal one, and then she realized that she knew nothing at all about what influences he was using, and ought not to judge him. For aught she knew, he had spoken to him many times. How unjust she had been! Then she remembered what her aunt had told her about the improvements made last evening in the parlor, and jumped up to dress and run down to see them. Aunt Hannah had already completed her toilet and gone down to the kitchen to help Molly Poppleton, and to direct the new waitress who had been in the house but three days.

Celia was delighted with the bookcase. Somebody had an artistic eye and constructive ability. The bookcase was exactly the right height, and filled the long bare wall on one side of the room beautifully. It was finished with a neat molding of natural wood, and the whole nicely oiled. There were a few books piled on the floor beside it, waiting till the shelves should be perfectly dry to receive them, evidently contributions to the new case. She stooped to read their titles, and was astonished and pleased to find among them several new books by best authors, which she had been longing to read, but had as yet not seen. They were nearly all in new bindings as if fresh from the bookstore, though one or two had the name written inside in fine, strong handwriting “Horace L. Stafford.”

Celia drew back, a slight flush creeping over her face. She was grateful for the books thus loaned or donated. The newcomer was evidently bound to be helpful, and seemed to know how to do it. Now if they could have a few games under the lighted lamp on the table, perhaps some of the young people might be kept in evenings. Would such things reach Mamie Williams and her friend, she wondered? And she sighed and feared that Mamie was too much interested in other things to be reached so simply. She remembered that Mamie had been reading the other night. Perhaps some of these delightful stories would reach her. There were one or two religious books, small and daintily bound, which looked attractive. Celia picked them up and turned the pages, her expressive face kindling with a thought she read here and there. Then she went to the small cozy corner by the organ and sat down. She looked about her at the few changes they had made, and remembered the night when she had looked around on that parlor waiting for the postman. How much difference a few little things had made! She could see other changes that might be made to improve matters, and she resolved to try them as soon as possible. Then she sat down at the organ. She had never tried that whining instrument, since she had been in the house. It had pained her some times to hear it groaning and wheezing under the bold touch of the tenor brakeman as he ground out an accompaniment to some of his solos. Celia did not like a cabinet organ. She longed for a piano, but there was no piano, and here was this organ. What could be made of it? Perhaps it might be tuned and answer for singing occasionally. Certainly, if it was to stay there and be used, it would conduce to her own comfort to have it put in order. She touched the keys softly to see how bad it was, and went on playing chords gently. She was not a finished musician, but she had learned to play a little for the home pleasure, and now instinctively her fingers sought out some of the old favorite tunes.

“Safely through another week,
God has brought us on our way,
Let us now a blessing seek,
Waiting in his courts to-day.”

Her conscience pricked her, as the words rang themselves over in her mind. She had not been going to church very regularly since she came to the city. She had wandered around from one church to another, feeling forlorn and lonely at all, not going often enough to one place to become noticed as a stranger and welcomed, even if the people had had the disposition to welcome her. Since aunt Hannah had been there, she had made an excuse to stay at home with her if she was not able to go out, and at such times when her aunt could go, she had taken her to the different churches near by in rotation, that she might choose where they should go. The elder lady had not as yet made any choice, nor, indeed, had she expressed her mind concerning the places of worship they had visited. Celia thought of it now, and wished their dear old church from Cloverdale could be transplanted bodily. It was so desolate to go among strangers and not have any place or work in the church home. She sighed and made up her mind that she must go more regularly and perhaps offer to take a class in Sunday-school or something of the sort. Of course it was not right to live this way; but her heart was not in her resolve. She played on, not realizing what tune she had started till she began to hum the words in a low sweet voice:

“The day of rest once more comes round,
A day to all believers dear;
The silver trumpets seem to sound,
That call the tribes of Israel near;
Ye people all,
Obey the call,
And in Jehovah’s courts appear——”

She broke off suddenly and played a few stray chords. She knew that the next verse began:

“Obedient to thy summons, Lord,
We to thy sanctuary come;”

It was strange that all the words were on that subject. She would choose something else. She thought a moment, her fingers lingering on the keys. Then she began to sing:

“Father in thy mysterious presence kneeling,
Fain would our souls feel all thy kindling love;
For we are weak, and need some deep revealing
Of trust, and strength, and calmness from above.”

She felt the beauty of the words and the depth of meaning, and sang with her heart, each word as a prayer. Her voice grew fuller and sweeter as she went on.

“Lord! we have wandered forth through doubt and sorrow,
And thou hast made each step an onward one;
And we will ever trust each unknown morrow;
Thou wilt sustain us till its work is done.”

She had not heard the step upon the stairs and did not know that some one entered the parlor and sat down on the divan near by, until, as she commenced the third verse, a rich, sweet tenor, full of cultivation and feeling, joined with her in the words:

“Now, Father! now in thy dear presence kneeling,
Our spirits yearn to feel thy kindling love;
Now make us strong; we need thy deep revealing
Of trust, and strength, and calmness from above.”

Celia’s voice trembled at first, but the stronger one sustained the tune and she kept on, the pink color stealing up her cheeks and to the tips of her ears. If the other singer saw her embarrassment, he did not notice it. When the last note died slowly away and Celia was wondering what she should do and how she should get away from the room, he said quite in a matter-of-fact voice, as if he and she were accustomed to singing together early on Sabbath mornings: “Will you play ‘Lead Kindly Light,’ please?” And she had played on, glad that she knew it well enough to do so, and they sang together.

“Thank you!” he said simply, when the last verse was finished. “That has helped me for the work that I have to do to-day. In fact that song always helps me. Do you, sometimes, come to a place where you want to look ahead and see whether things are coming out as you wish? Isn’t it blessed to think he leads the way, and makes the gloom for our sakes that we shall not fear for what is to come, while perhaps if we could look and see the blessings—in disguise—sometimes we might turn and flee. You belong to him, do you not, Miss Murray? I thought I could not be mistaken. I want to thank you for this pleasant bit of morning praise. It has been like home.”

Celia had raised her eyes in one swift glad glance of recognition of their kindred discipleship, when he asked her if she was a Christian, and had answered, low and earnestly, “Yes, I do,” feeling in her heart how very wrong she had been in calling this man unspiritual. Her heart longed to reach that high plane of trustful living where he seemed to move. She lifted her eyes again and timidly asked:

“Do you think it is possible for every one to feel that perfect assurance where they cannot see the way? I wish I knew how to trust that way and not worry over things.”

“It is hard sometimes, isn’t it, to just lay down the burdens at the Father’s feet and realize that we need not carry them? But isn’t it strange that it is hard?” And he looked at her with that peculiarly bright smile which she had noticed the first night he came to the house. “One would think that we would be only too glad to get rid of the burden and the worry, when he, so strong and willing offers to take it. Perhaps that is one reason why I like that hymn. It seems to help me to remember whose I am and who is my Saviour. I am prone to forget when I think, for instance, of some dear one whom I see fading day by day and know cannot be long upon this earth, that the night ever will be gone

“‘And with the morn, those angel faces smile
Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile!’”

A deep sadness had settled over his face, as he looked up to her and repeated the lines of the hymn they had just sung, and her heart was filled with pity for some sorrow she felt he was bearing. Instinctively she remembered the sweet beautiful face in the velvet case, and while he seemed set apart and sacred in her thought of his sorrow, she let a shade of her old dignity creep back into her voice, which had fallen from it for a few moments. The breakfast bell had sounded, and the boarders were coming downstairs. With one accord the two rose and went toward the dining-room, feeling that they did not care to have the quiet confidences of the few moments they had spent together intruded upon or misunderstood. Celia thanked Mr. Stafford for his words a little stiffly, as one, as a matter of form, might thank any strange minister for a good sermon, and perhaps the young man wondered a little at her seemingly variable moods.

It was after breakfast, and the church bells were sending their various calls to worship through the clear cold air of the city. Celia stood ready dressed for church, waiting for her aunt in the front hall. Miss Grant had been called back by Molly Poppleton, just as they were starting out of the door, and Celia tapped her foot impatiently on the hall oilcloth and wished aunt Hannah would hurry. Not that she was anxious to go to church, but she wanted to get the duty done with and come back, for Mr. Stafford had slipped a most inviting little book into her hand, as he passed her in the upper hall after breakfast, saying “Have you read Daniel Quorm? If not, it will interest you, perhaps. It is along the line of our talk this morning, and it has helped me to trust him where I couldn’t trace him.”

She had read a few pages while aunt Hannah tied her bonnet and put on her gloves, and had already grown deeply interested in the quaint phrases of Daniel in his story of his little maid. She wanted to get back to it. She stilled her conscience when it pricked her for not caring to go to church, by telling it that the book would probably do her more good than a sermon in a strange church, but her conscience was too well trained to let her forget that God had promised to meet her in the church.

Some one was standing in the shadow of the parlor curtains, Celia did not know who. She thought that perhaps it was the brakeman. He had returned the night before, and was off duty for the day. She unfastened the door and breathed in the clear sunny air with delight, then glanced up the stairs to see if aunt Hannah was coming. But just then came Miss Grant’s voice, as she leaned over the stair railing, and Celia saw that her gloves were off and her bonnet untied again.

“Celia, don’t wait for me. I am not going this morning. I have made up my mind my duty is with Mrs. Belden. She is feeling very despondent. Go on without me. Isn’t there some one else you can go with?” she asked, as she saw the look of dismay on Celia’s face and heard her exclaim, “Oh auntie!”

Then the figure that had been standing in the shadow of the window curtain in the parlor moved forward and Harry Knowles stepped out.

“Miss Murray, would _I_ do?” he asked humbly, “or—would you rather not go with me?” There was a hesitancy and shamefacedness about him which was not like his usual manner, and he seemed anxious to have her accept. While Celia hesitated, Miss Grant said:—“Why, yes, Celia, that is very nice. You and Mr. Knowles go together. I am so glad he is going,” and then slipped away from the stairs pleased in her heart, both for Celia’s sake that she would not be alone, and for the young man that he was willing to go to the house of the Lord.

As Celia turned to go with him, she reflected that she had been wishing he would go to church, or wishing she might say some word to help him, and now he had himself opened the way by inviting her to go. She felt reproached, that she had never invited him before. But Harry seemed uncomfortable, and when he had closed the door, he stopped on the upper step and asked again, “You are sure you are willing to go with me? You aren’t afraid or anything?” and Celia looked up in surprise, and saw the earnest, eager, shamed face and said, “Why surely, Harry, I am willing. Why should I be afraid?”

“Well, I thought,—I was afraid you—after that night—you know—” he said, growing red and grinding his heel into the stone on which he stood, “I can’t forgive myself, Miss Murray, that’s all, and I thought you didn’t like me asking you.” He looked up bravely through his embarrassment with his sorry, boyish eyes asking forgiveness.

“Harry,” said Celia turning her clear, honest gaze full upon him, “I was truly glad, and was only being ashamed myself because _I_ had not asked _you_ before, for I have been wishing you would go to church, and—I have been praying for you.”

She spoke the words low and embarrassedly, for she was not used to talking much about such things to strangers, but the young man’s eyes filled with moisture, and he said, “Thank you,” in such hearty tones that she knew he meant it. Then he added, “So is the minister, and maybe I’ll amount to something, after all.”

Celia was surprised to find that she suddenly felt a sense of satisfaction in what he had told her about the minister. She did not understand all her feelings to-day. She must sit down and analyze them when she reached home.

“But where are we to go, Harry?” she asked, pausing on the sidewalk a moment. “Have you any choice? I have not put my letter into any church yet, though I ought to have done so before this.”

She tried to remember in her mind which of the churches she had attended would be the most likely to help the young man, but could not remember any of them definitely, and concluded that since she had been in the city she had taken her body to the church and left her soul at home, or wandering in fields of other thoughts than those presented for her deliberation at the sanctuary.

Harry’s face grew eager again.

“Well, then, that’s nice. Maybe you wouldn’t mind going to hear Mr. Stafford, because I’ve half promised him that I would come there this morning, you see.”

“Oh, of course we will,” said Celia, wondering why it was she had never thought to go and hear him before, and why it was that the thought of hearing him preach had suddenly become so pleasant.

She wondered again as she listened to his opening prayer. Every word seemed to be prayed for her, and to fit her needs exactly, and she pulled herself up sharply when she found that she was actually imagining that he remembered their talk before breakfast, and was praying thus for her. The hymn just before the sermon was wonderful, and again she reprimanded herself severely, for thinking he looked at her while he read that last verse, so perfectly did it appeal to her need. He read it exquisitely and tenderly, and as he reached the last line he looked at her again, and it gave her a strange pleasure to feel those words spoken so to her, even as if the Father himself had sent her an especial message that morning, and by a noble messenger.

“Take, my soul, thy full salvation!
Rise from sin, and fear, and care.
Joy to find in every station
Something still to do or dare.
Think what Spirit dwells within thee.
Think what Father’s smiles are thine!
Think what Saviour died to win thee!
Child of heaven, shouldst thou repine?”