Chapter XXII: Cords Unseen

THE morning service was just over in the great church on Lexington Avenue. A large company of men and women lingered in the broad aisles, shaking hands with each other, saying a word here and there in subdued happy tones. A looker-on, who was familiar with religious meetings, and who yet had not been present at this one, would have known by the atmosphere lingering in the church that the worshippers had been having a happy time. They were loath to leave; they gathered in little knots, at convenient standing-places, and discussed the events of the hour and the prospects of the evening. Large numbers of the ladies had packages of white cards in their hands—not unlike calling-cards in size and texture, and quite as carefully written on as ever calling-cards were. The handwriting was peculiar—delicate, gracefully rounded letters, skilful flourishes. Somebody had considered the work important, and had bestowed time and skill.

"Estelle dear, won't you go forward and get some of the cards? I see very few here who will go up Fairmount Street, and you may be able to reach some who will be otherwise neglected."

So spoke one of the lingerers, a fair-faced woman, with silver-tinted hair, to a very graceful young woman, who was evidently her daughter, and who evidently lingered, not so much from personal interest in the scene as because her mother did. She turned full, wondering, and yet deprecating eyes on her mother at the question.

"O mamma! I cannot offer those cards to people. I am not one of the workers, you know; it isn't expected of me. You have some, and that will be sufficient for our family."

"I am not going up Fairmount Street," the mother answered quietly. "I have only enough cards to meet my own opportunities, daughter. If Louise were here, dear, can't you think how she would scatter those little white messengers?"

"Louise is good, mamma, and I am not, you know; you mustn't expect me to be Louise. I can no more take her place in that way than I can in a hundred others."

"Oh yes, you can, my child; it doesn't require any special skill to hand a card of invitation to a passer-by, or even to speak a word of encouragement to the half persuaded."

"But, mamma, how would it look for me to invite people to the meetings? I am not one of the church members. It wouldn't be very consistent, I think."

The mother's eyes were sorrowful and questioning as they rested on the face of her fair young daughter. She seemed not to know just what would be well to answer to this. At last she said,—

"Estelle dear, even though you refuse Christ yourself, don't you wish that many others might come to him? Poor, sad hearts who have not your opportunities, nor know the way as you do—shouldn't they have their chance to choose, and aren't you willing to extend the invitation?"

The young girl's cheeks flushed a deeper pink, and her eyes drooped, but she answered steadily,—

"Certainly I am, mamma."

Then she went forward and received from the pastor a package of the beautiful cards, turning them over curiously in her hand, wondering much how it would seem to pass them out to people, and whether the cards would be accepted or refused.

Simple little cards they were; nothing pretentious or formidable about them; just an announcement of daily religious services, giving the hours of meetings and the name of the preacher; then, on the reverse side, in the most exquisite penmanship, this simple quotation, "The Master is come, and calleth for thee." Estelle read it, and the glow on her cheeks did not lessen. There was certainly something very solemn in the suggestion. Estelle could hardly help giving a moment's attention to the inquiry whether the Master really were calling for her. Could she have brought her heart to the point of believing that such was the case, it would have been well with Estelle, for she could not have said the Master nay. The sin in her case was that she would not study the subject long enough to be able to believe that she was personally included in the call. Nevertheless she went her way up Fairmount Street on her unusual errand, a little touch of vexation in her face over the thought that Louise would have done all this so well, and would so have delighted in it, while she must bunglingly try to supply her place. It was about this time that John Morgan turned into Fairmount Street, much wondering where he was and what he could be expected to do next.

"Will you have a card, please?" And a vision of loveliness fell on his astonished gaze, and a delicately-gloved hand was stretched forth with the fair bit of pasteboard. "It is just an invitation to the meetings; we hope you will come." And still the card was outstretched, and still John stood and stared. What was there about that face and voice that seemed familiar to him as one whom he had met in a dream or in the far-away unreality of some other existence? It bewildered him to the extent that he forgot either to decline or accept the card, but stood looking and wondering. Estelle felt the importance of saying something further to this silent starer. "They have very good singing, and great crowds come every evening. I think you will like it. Will you take the card?"

Thus petitioned, John, roused from his bewilderment, put forth his hand for the proffered card, because for the moment he could not decide what else to do.

Then Estelle, her mission accomplished and her embarrassment great, flitted away from him around the corner. "What a strange-acting fellow!" was her comment. "How he did stare! One would suppose he had never seen a lady before. Dear me! He looks as though he needed a friend. Somehow I can't help feeling sorry for him. I really hope he will go to the meeting; but of course he won't." And Estelle Barrows actually realized that for such a dreary, friendless-looking person as he the love of Christ would be a great transformation. She did not mean that she, Estelle Barrows, in her beauty and purity, surrounded by the safeguards of her high position, had no need of Christ; neither did she realize that this was the logical conclusion of her reasoning.

"What in the name of common sense has got into all the people to-day? They are running wild on cards." This was John Morgan's comment. He was ashamed and vexed to think he had so forgotten his sullenness and indifference as to stare at the fair young face. He read the card carefully, more to get away from his present thoughts than from any interest in it; but the verse on the reverse side held his attention for a few minutes, from the fact that the words were the very same as those on the card given him by the old lady who had supplied his breakfast. It struck him as a strange coincidence. Presently he thrust the bit of pasteboard into his pocket, and dismissed the incident from his mind.

Not again did it recur to him until he was passing, during that same evening, a brightly-lighted building, from whence there issued sounds of music. Something in the strains recalled, he knew not how or why, the incident of the morning and the card of invitation. "I wonder if this is the place?" he queried. "It would be rather queer if I had blundered on the very building, without the least notion of doing any such thing." He paused before the door, listening to the roll of the organ as it sounded on the quiet air. "That organ doesn't squeak, anyhow," he said grimly, recalling the organ scene in the old church at home, and Louise's pleasure in its improved condition after he had taken hold of it. Thoughts of her suggested the card again, and he brought it forth from his pocket, and by the light of a friendly lamp compared the name on the card with the name on the building before him. Yes, they agreed; chance or Providence, according as you are accustomed to view these matters, had led him to the very spot. Still he had no intention of going in. "Pretty-looking object I am to go to church," he said, surveying himself critically, something between a smile and a sneer on his face. "I would create a sensation, I fancy. I wonder if the bit of silk and lace that gave me the card is in there? And I wonder if she expects to see me? And I wonder where I have seen her before, and why her face haunts me?"

The organ had been silent for some minutes; now it rolled forth its notes again, and voices, that to John seemed of unearthly sweetness, rang out on the quiet:—

"Come home! Come home! You are weary at heart;
And the way has been long,
And so lonely and wild!
Oh, prodigal child, come home! Oh, come home!"

Was John Morgan homesick? He would have scorned the thought. Yet at the sound of these tender words a strange choking sensation came over him, and something very like a mist filled his eyes. He felt, rather than realized, how long and lonely and wild the way had been; still he had no intention of going in. He would step nearer and listen to that music; those voices were unlike anything he had ever heard before. He drew nearer under the light of the hall lamp. He could see into the church. The doors stood invitingly open; the aisles even were full. Some were standing, not well-dressed people all of them, by any means; but some were so roughly clad that even he would not attract attention by the contrast. A young man, well-dressed, with an open hymn-book in his hand, stood by the door, almost in the hall. He turned suddenly, and his eyes rested on John; he beckoned him forward, then stepped toward him.

"Come right in, my friend; we can find standing-room for you, and the sermon is just about to commence."

"I'm not dressed for such places," said John, imagining that he spoke firmly.

"Oh, never mind the dress; that is not of the least consequence; there are plenty of men in here in their rough working-clothes. Come right in."

"Come home, come home," sang out the wonderful voices. And John Morgan, still with no intention of going in, yet impelled by a force which he no more understood than he understood his own soul, stepped forward and followed the young man into the crowded church. The singing ceased, and the minister arose and immediately announced his text, "Friend, how camest thou in hither, not having on a wedding garment?"

The sentence was spoken so like a personal question that John looked about him, startled. Could it be possible that the man was addressing him—actually referring to his uncouth dress? This only for an instant; then he discovered that no one was paying the least attention to him, and that his dress, rough enough, was not worse than that of some by whom he was surrounded. But the preacher's manner was so new and strange, so unlike anything that John Morgan had ever met before, that, despite his own half-formed determination to get out of this, he stayed, and looked, and listened.

If I could I would tell you about that sermon; but sermons on paper, reported by a second party, are so very different from the words that come burning hot from the heart of the preacher, that on second thought I have deemed it unwise to make the attempt.

To John Morgan the entire service was like a revelation of mysteries. That which had seemed to him bewildering and contradictory, and finally actually exasperating in the plan of salvation, was made as clear as the sunlight, and one by one his own daring subterfuges were swept from him, so that before the sermon closed he felt that he indeed stood unclothed and speechless before the King. What next? Where should he go now? Whither flee? Was he not sufficiently wretched before? Had he need to feel these truths in order to make his condition less endurable?

The sermon closed, the few words of solemn prayer followed, and the choir took up the service. Strangely clear, at least to John's ears, were the voices that spoke the tenderly solemn words:—

"Oh, do not let the word depart,
And close thine eyes against the light;
Poor sinner, harden not thine heart;
Thou wouldst be saved, why not to-night?"

Among the singers he had no difficulty in singling out one face and voice. It was a voice of unusual sweetness and power, and it was a face that haunted him. He could not yet tell why. There she was, the fair young beauty who had given him his card. How strange it was that he had accepted her invitation after all! After the song, instead of the benediction which John expected, came another invitation.

"Now I know," said the preacher, "there are some in this room to-night who feel that they are without the wedding garment, and who believe that if the King should ask them why they would be speechless. Do not all such wish to settle the question? You mean to settle it some time. You do not mean to go up to that guest-chamber unclothed. Why not settle it to-night? Why not come up here, all of you who think the question unsettled, and who believe that it is important enough to be attended to? Come, and let us ask the Holy Spirit to help you to settle it to-night."

Did John Morgan intend ever to settle the question? He looked the thought, for almost the first time, squarely in the face. He believed that the man who had been speaking was in earnest. He believed that he knew what he was talking about. Somehow the network of unbelief in which this foolish young wanderer had intrenched himself so long would not bear the piercing light of one solemn Bible question, one gospel sermon; it slipped away from him and left him refugeless.

"Come," said the preacher. "Be men now and be women. Be worthy of your position as reasonable beings. Take steps toward the better understanding of this important matter. Do what you can. Rest assured that the King will see to it that the rest is done for you. Come now."

Had John Morgan the least idea of going? He told himself that he had not. He told himself that he did not believe in these things, that they were not for him, and even while he said so his heart said back to him, "That is not true." How came he to leave his station away back by the door, and to follow the throng who were moving up the aisle, and to kneel down there before that gray-haired man? Neither then nor afterward did John Morgan understand it. He had not intended to go—at least he supposed he had not; and yet he went. He did not believe that he had any feeling on the subject; he believed that he hated religion and all religionists. No, not all; there was Louise—he had tried to hate her, and failed. There was that fair girl who gave him the card, and that wrinkled old woman who had given him the card. What was the use in hating them? He did not believe that he did. Then this gray-haired, earnest, clear-brained preacher. No, he found nothing like hatred in his heart for him. But what was the use of going up there? He did not want to be prayed for. Yes he did, or at least he was not sure but he did. He wanted something; he could not be certain what it was; and before it was reasoned out, or before he understood what motive impelled him or quite what he meant, he had been slowly impelled—he could almost have said "pushed forward"—by a something, or by some one, stronger than himself, to whom he felt impelled to yield.

It was just as the city clocks were striking the hour of nine. He did not know that at that hour four people, in three separate rooms, were kneeling and presenting his name before the King, begging for him the wedding garment—Louise and Lewis in the quiet of their own room, Dorothy in John's own hall chamber, Carey Martyn in his own room over the kitchen, each, according to the covenant into which they had entered, breathing the same name, united in the same desire. "While they are yet speaking, I will hear." Did the King say that of them that night? Did a message go from the palace that night, "Clothe John Morgan in the wedding garment, and write his name among the guests who have accepted the invitation"? There are those, even in the so-called Christian world, who would fail to see the connecting link between this conference held nightly with the King and these strange leadings which John Morgan had called chance.

Yet is it not blessed, after all, to remember that the witnesses are daily increasing who can testify to just such claims as these—chains reaching even to the Infinite Arm, and moving that Arm to reach down and pluck some stranded, sin-surrounded soul, lifting its feet from the mire and setting them firmly on the Rock, even the Rock of Ages?