Chapter XXVIII: "i Don't Know."

JUNE brought the roses and Estelle—herself the fairest rose among them all. There had been much planning in the Morgan household preparatory to her coming. Many things had changed in the farmhouse since Louise first came home to it—subtle changes many of them were, too slowly brought about to be recognized as changes; new ways, slipped into gradually, insensibly; little refinements, touches here and there; trifles every one of them, and perhaps the only method of proving to the family what a difference they made in the home would have been to have dropped suddenly back into the old ways for a week. That experiment no one seemed inclined to try. Louise took great pleasure in making the large old-fashioned room, with its quaint furniture, into a very bower of beauty for the sweet rose that was to bloom there, and smiled joyfully when she thought of what blissful surprises the wealth of June flowers and the smell of June clover would be to the city maiden. Many a plan she had for Estelle, many a hope having to do with this two months' sojourn in the farmhouse—hopes, however, that were not indulged without anxious little sighs being woven in among them.

She had hoped so long and waited so eagerly and in vain. She told John about it one evening, as they sat in the vine-covered porch together, waiting for Lewis and Dorothy to have done with the problem in algebra that was vexing the latter.

"John, I have such a strong hope that you will be able to help Estelle this summer; it has a great deal to do with my joy in her coming."

John bestowed anxious eyes on her for a moment, and was silent. Presently he said,—

"Once I should have thought that you were saying that for effect, but I have learned to know that you never say things simply for effect. Having said it, you must mean it; so it makes me anxious. I cannot see how it would be possible for me to influence your sister in any way, to say nothing of the folly of hoping to help her; I don't understand what you can mean."

"She isn't a Christian, you know, John."

"I know, and I understand that it is about such help that you speak. But what puzzles me is, how you could possibly expect that anything which I might do or say could influence her when she has had you all her life."

"That is easily explained," Louise said, smiling. "In the first place, you are in the mood just now to overrate my influence over people. I have some with Estelle, but that it is not great is plainly shown in the fact that, in this most important of all matters, she has chosen her way and I have chosen mine, and we have walked separately for a good many years. Don't you know, John, that sometimes the people whom we meet but once, with whom we really have very little to do, are given a word to say or an act to perform that shall influence all our future lives?"

"Yes," John said, with sudden energy and emphasis; he certainly knew that as well as any person could. And his thoughts went immediately back to the fair young girl who had held out her hand, and whose winning voice had said, "Won't you have a card?"

"Well," Louise said, "I cannot help hoping that the Holy Spirit will give you a word or look that will influence Estelle. It doesn't seem to me that I can have her wait any longer."

There were tears in her eyes. Then John felt savage toward Estelle; he said to himself that he didn't believe he should be able to endure her; she must be a little simpleton. To have grown-up under the influence of such a sister, and yet to have deliberately chosen a course that would grieve her, argued ill for her heart or her sense or something. Altogether, though he desired to help, Louise was not awakening very hopeful sentiments toward helpfulness. There was a good understanding established between this brother and sister. For that matter, the reconstructed household understood each other well during these days—had begun to realize something of what the family relation meant.

John was certainly "a new creature in Christ Jesus." It is not always that the new life has so plain a chance of showing itself as his former life had given. No Christian doubted the presence of the unseen Guest who had come to abide with him. As for the father, while keeping absolute silence in regard to the matter, he kept also keen eyes, and told himself, a dozen times a day, that "whatever had come over John, he was another person." By slow degrees the Morgan family had settled into definite plans for the future—plans that were not matured without some soreness of heart, and even, on Louise's part, a touch of tears. The giving up of future prospects of usefulness in the church had been a trial to Lewis, and the giving up had been done by inches. At last, however, it had been made plain that, if he would keep what health and strength he had, he must be content with an active outdoor life. This settled beyond probability of a change, the father was found entirely willing to loose his hold on John, and give him, what had been the desire of his heart, a medical education. At least, he said that for this reason he was willing. Those of the family who watched him closely strongly suspected that there was very little that the father would not have been willing to give John during these days.

The father, in himself, was somewhat changed. There were other things that he was willing to do. For instance, he invited Lewis, one bright winter day when they happened to come home together, to take Louise out and pick out the spot where he would like to build a house, and they would see what kind of a one could be built one of these days. Now, strange to say, the desire to have a home of their own was less intense than it had been. They talked it up; they said it would be "nice," in fact, delightful; and then, in the same breath, Lewis wondered what mother would do when Dorothy went away; and Louise wondered whether Dorothy wouldn't need her help right there at home for the next year or two; and finally, though they made no objection to picking out the site, and even planned the house—built it, indeed, on paper a good many times—still they unanimously agreed that nothing definite could be done about it until spring. The truth was, the necessity for a home by themselves was not so apparent to this young couple as it had been. Now that spring, yes, even summer, was fairly upon them, the question of house came up again, brought forward by Farmer Morgan himself.

"Not that I am in a hurry," he said, with a little embarrassed laugh; "in fact, I hope it will be about five years in getting built, and you five more or so getting moved. I've no notion of what this house would be without you; but what I'm after is, I've made up my mind it is your right to have your own house, and I mean you shall have it."

So the house was a settled fact; and Lewis and his wife were undeniably pleased, yet nobody hurried. The necessity for haste in the matter was past.

So, as I say, they had journeyed into June, when Estelle was to make her first visit at the farmhouse. She was to have come the summer before, but home matters had detained her; and Louise, as she arranged roses in the white vases of her room, rejoiced that it had been so, and smiled over the different dress the home and family wore from that which they would have worn to Estelle only a year before. These were the closing touches to the adornments; for Lewis had already gone to the train to meet his sister, accompanied by Dorothy and little Nellie. Louise, under plea of escaping from the afternoon sun, declined the ride; in reality, feeling not sure of herself, lest when she got that bright young sister in her arms again she might not disgrace the welcome by crying outright. Who would have supposed that the months of separation would have stretched themselves out so! Louise was to have gone home certainly in a year from the date of her departure, and yet she didn't. It often happens in this world that, with all our planning, our lives move in exactly different lines from what we have prepared. So Louise had really never looked upon the face of her beautiful young sister since that morning when she became a bride. It is surely not much wonder that her heart beat hard at the sound of carriage-wheels, and it seemed to her, for a moment, that she could not get down the stairs.

It was not until just as daylight was fading that John came to be introduced to the new-comer. He had planned differently; but unexpected business had detained him at the village until a late hour, then he had taken his supper alone, and came to the piazza to meet Estelle, just as they were about adjourning to the house.

"Come," Louise said; "these insects must be shut out and you must be shut in. Oh, here comes John."

At that moment Dorothy brought the large lamp, and the glow of it fell full on Estelle's face. John had decidedly dreaded this ordeal. His life had been spent so much in shadow that there were certain creations before whom he was unreasonably timid—among these were young ladies; and to meet one, too, whom he was expected to help was formidable. Still, John's strong point was decision of character. What had to be done was to be done promptly, and with as little appearance of shrinking as possible. So he advanced boldly and raised his eyes to Estelle's fair, bright face. But instead of the greeting, in every way cordial, which he had planned, he gave Estelle the benefit of a prolonged astonished stare; and at last the words, uttered in an explosive tone, as by one from whom they were forced by astonishment, were,—

"You are the very one!"

"Of course," said Estelle, mischief shining in every line of her beautiful face; and, nothing daunted by this strange greeting, she held out her hand cordially, while Louise looked on amazed. "Did you think I was somebody else? Shake hands, won't you?"

"Is it possible that you remember me?" John said at last slowly, as one awakening from a dream, and then looking from her to Louise, then back again to her, studying the two faces like one who had been puzzled, but who had just found the answer to his riddle.

"Not in the least," Estelle said promptly. "I don't think I ever saw you before in my life; but since you seem to be acquainted with me, I thought I would be friendly."

"You have seen me before," John said, recovering his natural manner, and giving the small white hand a cordial grasp; "and it is your resemblance to Louise which gave me such a vivid impression of your face and so strange a feeling of having seen you before somewhere."

Then Estelle laughed. "What an idea!" she said gaily. "I don't look the least in the world like Louise, and never did; and, what is more trying, I am not in the least like her, as you will find to your sorrow. Where did you see the being whom you think I am? I'd like to have a glimpse of her."

Nothing but bright, thoughtless mischief in voice or manner; but John was still earnest and eager.

"Louise," he said, turning to her for sympathy, "isn't it strange that it should happen so? She is the very young lady who gave me that card on that miserable and memorable night, and invited me to the meeting."

A vivid blush overspread Estelle's face. She had given some curious thoughts to the forlorn specimen of humanity whom she had invited to the meeting; it was the only attempt she had ever made at evangelistic effort, and it stood out in her memory. She had commented upon his appearance to her mother; she had given a laughing description of him to her young friends. Now it seemed a most improbable thing that this well-dressed, nice looking young man and her forlorn tramp were one and the same!

"Are you an adept at masquerades?" she asked at last. "You certainly played the character of a woe-begone street wanderer to perfection; or else you are doing the well-dressed young man very well. Which is the assumed character?"

Viewing it from John's standpoint, there was no comical side to this episode in his life. He answered her with intense gravity,—

"The street wanderer was a real, and certainly a sufficiently dreary, wanderer; he thought himself a hopeless case; but he will never cease to thank God for sending you to put out a rescuing hand that night."

The flush that had been fading from Estelle's face became vivid again; how was she going to jest with one who took matters so solemnly? She did not know what to say to him, and turned away embarrassed. Now indeed was John roused. Intensity was a part of his nature; what he did at all, he did with all his might. Louise, looking on, anxious as to what this revelation would effect, was presently satisfied that it had roused his interest in her as nothing else could have done. The fact that the one who had been the direct means of bringing him into the light of Christ was herself walking in darkness filled him with pain.

From that hour he fixed upon her as the subject for his constant prayer; he brought her before his Master only as one can who has learned the sweetness of being a servant of Christ, and who longs to call in others. Now and then a word with her, as opportunity offered, but the most of his strength spent on his knees.

It chanced that on the way to the district prayer-meeting, which, by the way, had been started, and which had flourished. John was Estelle's companion. It was really the first time he had seen her alone. He had not to waste time in trying to make up his mind to speak to her on the subject; he was eager to speak.

"I was so surprised," he said. "I had been so accustomed to pray for the one who gave me that card as one would for a saint almost. I had not thought of the possibility of your not being a Christian."

"And now all those prayers have been lost—so much wasted strength! What a pity!" Estelle did not really mean to be wicked, although her tone was mischief itself. She had accustomed herself to parrying personalities on this subject in some such jesting way; the usual effect was to shock into silence the person addressing her, and so give her freedom for the time being. She did not even mean irreverence; she meant simply fun, and to be let alone. John, however, was not used to sparkling nonsense in conversation. Since he began to converse at all, he had talked nearly always with earnest people, and been tremendously in earnest himself. So he answered her as if the remark had been made in all gravity.

"No, I don't think that; for of course God know just where you were, and he accepted the spirit of the prayer. But isn't it strange that with Louise for a sister you have lived so many years without Christ?"

Louise was a person about whom Estelle did not jest; she could be flippant to her, but not about her, so to this sentence she had no answer at first but silence; then she rallied.

"Come now, isn't it strange that with Lewis for a brother, and Mrs. Morgan for a mother, you lived so many years without paying any attention to these things? Didn't you ever hear that people who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones?"

"Ah, but," said John eagerly, "I didn't believe in it; I didn't think there was any such thing as conversion, nor any reality in religion. I was a fool, to be sure, but I was an honest one; I really didn't believe in these things. But you had a different bringing up. My mother is a young Christian, you know. You had no such doubts to trammel you, had you?"

"No," said Estelle slowly, reluctantly obliged to be truthful before this truthful young man; thinking of her mother, of her father, of her sister Louise, she must say, "No."

"Then why haven't you been a Christian these many years?"

"I don't know."

"Then why don't you be one now?"

"I don't know."

John was betrayed into an exclamation not unlike the half sneer with which he used to express his entire disapproval of an act, and his tones were very significant as he said, "Seems to me if I were you I'd find out."

Estelle was silent; this to her was an entirely new way of approaching the subject. This grave young man gave her some thinking to do. She had had her bit of scepticism to struggle with, albeit she did not know it by that name. In her heart she had believed that some persons were by nature religious in their youth; mamma was, and Louise was like her. Mamma said that Louise, when just a baby, would lie quiet by the hour to be read to from the Bible; while she, Estelle, never lay quiet at any time for anything but sleep. She was not by nature religious, she argued; some time, when she was old and gray-haired, it would become natural to her to think about these things. Some people were called in their youth, and some in later life; it must be that she was designed for a middle-aged Christian. Into the face of this theory came John—young, keen, intense, fierce by nature, as irreligious by nature as a man could be, as far-away from even outward respect for the cause as a scoffer could be. Louise, whose intuition had shown her somewhat of this reasoning, had taken pains to explain in detail John's past life and John's intense nature. Here was a problem that Estelle must work out for herself; that she had begun to work at it was evidenced by her grave, sincere answer, "I don't know."