Chapter II: The New Pastor

IN the mean time, in the spacious chamber assigned to the clergyman, a terrible conflict was raging. Possessed of the keenest susceptibilities, with a morbid sense of his own unworthiness, he was, alas, too well aware of the impression left upon his hearers by his morning's discourse.

"God forgive me!" he ejaculated, his hands pressed to his head. "Deliver me from this terrible burden. Make known to me thy will. Thou knowest my heart. I thought I heard thy voice. Show me the way in which I should walk. How can I, laden with sorrow, stand in God's stead and preach the gospel of salvation? Make haste to help me, O Lord! All my trust is in thee."

A light tap at his door disturbed his meditations. He presented to Annie a face so pallid and suffering that she started back, exclaiming,—

"You are ill, Mr. Angus: let me call mother."

"Oh no! I am not ill,—I mean not much. Certainly, I have a headache."

"I came to say that dinner is ready. Mother will give you something for your head."

"Thank you. I will be down-stairs directly."

He turned to his washstand and dashed cold water on his burning forehead, then, crushing back the wretched doubts and fears which had oppressed him, he presented himself in the parlor.

His pallid countenance confirmed Annie's statement of his illness. Mrs. Asbury, with true motherly kindness, ordered a cup of coffee with out milk or sugar, but postponed an examination of the case until a more fitting opportunity.

Seated opposite Mr. Angus at the table was fairy little figure, introduced to him as "Our baby Ethel." She had large gray eyes shaded and deepened by long, black lashes. Raising her eyes timidly at first, she glanced at the stranger, gave a little start at the expression which beamed in his face, then her whole countenance—eyes, cheeks, and lips—grew radiant and, to the utter astonishment of all present, the shy, timid little one, whose caresses were so daintily given, so highly prized, exclaimed,—

"I love you!"

"Why, Ethel!" began her father. "Why, Baby!" repeated the mother; but Annie, catching a glimpse of intense, yearning love in the face of the clergyman, wondered in silence.

After dinner, one look of entreaty brought the little miss to the clergyman,—no longer a stranger,—when, to the undisguised astonishment of her parents, she allowed herself to be folded in his arms, her long flaxen curls floating over his breast. Nestling close to his side, with her eyes uplifted to his, she remained, quietly listening to the conversation which followed, rewarded occasionally by a smile so sweet, so full of tender yearning, that not only the child's but the mother's heart was wholly won.

Mr. Asbury had asked some questions concerning Mr. Angus's mission work in the city, and then said to his wife,—

"Marion will like to hear about this: she loves such work."

"She is a real missionary herself," urged Annie.

"I love Marion," lisped the child. "She is my Marion."

"Is she your daughter, Mr. Asbury?"

"Not exactly," laughing, "though she is as near as a daughter. She is the daughter of Mrs. Asbury's cousin, now deceased. Indeed she has lost both her parents, and we have adopted her. She calls us uncle and aunt."

"I want Marion to come home quick, pa." Then, turning again to look in the face above her, Ethel said, "I'll let my Marion love you too."

"A great piece of condescension on Ethel's part, Mr. Angus," added the mother, laughing heartily. "The little puss is extremely jealous in her affection for Marion, and scarce allows her cousin out of her sight for a moment when she is at home."

"Does your niece not live at home, then?"

"Oh, no, sir. She teaches music in Madame La Vergnes's Institute in New York; but, as her classes only occupy six hours a day, she has abundant time for her poor people."

"It is against my wish," urged her uncle, "that she should stay away from home for so many months in a year."

"But not contrary to your consent, pa," explained Annie. "You told her you wouldn't forbid it. So, Mr. Angus," she added, blushing at her own earnestness, "you musn't think our Marion naughty or obstinate. It was her duty she said, and so she went."

"Ethel, I fear you will tire Mr. Angus, sitting in his lap so long."

He pressed her tightly in his arms and waited to hear what she would say.

"He's skeezing me, ma. I guess he isn't tired. Are you?" putting her hand softly on his cheek.

He took the small hand in his, held it for a moment, asked, "At what time does your Sunday school commence?" put her hand to his lips as he said, rising, "We are friends from this time, Ethel. Good by for an hour or two," and left the room.

"I like him ever so much," exclaimed Annie. "Aren't you glad now, pa, that he has come to be our minister?"

Perhaps Mr. Asbury would have answered still more warmly could he have followed the pastor to his chamber and listened to the cry which went up from a full heart.

"Is this a ray of light from thy throne, O my heavenly Father? May I not accept it as an answer to prayer for help,—as a token of thy loving care? O God, I bless thee!"

Making his way from his chamber, he saw Ethel sitting on the lower stair waiting for him.

"You may kiss me if you want to," she said, putting up her rosy lips.

He caught her in his arms, kissed her again, the mother coming forward just in time to hear him say, "God bless you, precious child!"

How warm his heart felt with this new glow. With his whole soul he received the loving confidence of this little one as a token of divine favor. God had accepted him and would bless his work among these people.

Arriving at the chapel, the superintendent of the school came forward to meet him, with the request that, in the place of the usual exercises, he would address them. But Mr. Angus requested to be allowed to watch the workings of the school consenting, however, to talk to them at the end.

"Is this your usual number?" he inquired, glancing over the room.

"Yes sir, about the average."

"Are they punctual in their attendance,—teachers and scholars?"

"No, sir; that is one great drawback to success."

"Do these children not go to church? I saw few children there."

"No, sir; they seldom go."

Declining a seat on the platform, Mr. Angus drew an arm-chair near the Bible class and waited for the superintendent to call the school to order. The gong sounded, but the noise did not decrease. The second time, with the aid of the teachers, the loud whispering abated, when, in a low voice, impossible to be heard at the farther end of the room, the superintendent offered prayer. A hymn was given out, and all looked around for the lady who usually played the melodeon. She was absent, and at last, just as the singing was to be omitted, Annie Asbury came forward blushing, and said, "I will try to play."

Mr. Angus was afflicted with a keen ear for discords. I can only say that during the singing he was agonized. Before the closing exercises he had made up his mind that here at least there was work for the pastor. The apathy was alarming. With few exceptions, the teachers hurried through the lesson, accepting without reproof the too evidently manufactured excuses in place of a well-learned lesson; then shutting the book, he or she became totally oblivious of all that was passing, some even leaving the class to talk with another teacher.

That was a face thoroughly in earnest which confronted the school when the superintendent announced that "Rev. Mr. Angus, our pastor, will address you."

In a full, impressive voice the clergyman began.

"Boys and girls,—yes, and teachers too,—we are strangers to-day, but we shall not continue so. I have a good memory for names and faces. I intend to know you all, every one. I have come here to be one of you, to love you, and I hope to be loved in return. My business is to lead every one in this room to the arms of the blessed Saviour, and I ask you all to help me. As many as are willing, I ask to come after school and give me your hand in token of your acceptance of this contract. Until we meet again next Sunday, I ask you to consider seriously a few questions. You can give your answers in writing if you please. I shall like that best; or you may come to me,—not in classes, but individually, and answer them.

"First. What do I come to Sunday school for,—to please God, or to please my parents, or to please myself?"

"Second. Does my coming just as I have been used to coming please God,—does it please my parents,—does it please me?"

"Third. If I neither please God, my parents, nor myself, in what way can I change my actions to do so?"

"Now, with the permission of your superintendent, I will ask you to rise and join me in one verse.

"Praise God, from whom all blessings flow; Praise Him, all creatures here below; Praise Him above, ye heavenly host; Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost."

"Remember God is here: let us not mock Him; now begin." His voice was a deep, rich baritone, which resounded through the chapel, carrying the scholars and teachers with him. At the close, he stood with his hand extended toward a little girl near him. Boys and girls pressed forward, each one giving his own name, until only the teachers remained. To these, as they gathered around him, he said,—

"Will it be too much for me to ask that each one of you will ponder the questions I gave you? The work of a Sunday-school teacher may be wearisome and unpleasant, or it may be glorious, most blessed. It is God's own work; and He is a good paymaster."

Annie persuaded her brother to wait for Mr. Angus, but hesitated about joining him when she saw how sad he looked. With a frankness which was her peculiar charm she said, timidly,—

"We waited to walk home with you, but perhaps you would rather go alone."

"Thank you, yes." Then, rousing himself, he added, "You are very kind. I shall be glad of your company."

It was true that in the excitement of the past hour his own personal grief had been absorbed in the sorrow he felt at finding the Sunday school in such a low condition. He began to realize that this was the keynote by which he must judge of the spiritual state of the church. Then doubts of his fitness for the work assailed him, and he was appalled with the reflection that it was too late now to recede. It was at this minute that Annie met him. He would have given much to be alone, to fight his battle unobserved; but no, it was better that he should not dwell on such painful, unavailing thoughts.

Annie glanced at him occasionally, as with knitted brows he hurried forward, but did not speak until he was about to turn the wrong way.

"This is our street, Mr. Angus," she said.

"Pardon me, Annie, I am usually quick at finding my way, but—I am thinking about your Sunday school. Were the children more inattentive to-day than usual?"

"No, sir. Marion goes wild about it. She thinks everything in it is horrid. I heard her talking to the superintendent; she told him the mode of teaching, the want of order, the singing, were all as bad as could be; but Marion is a singer, you know."

"How long has this gentleman been superintendent?"

"Only a few weeks. They tried one and another, but nobody would take it. Marion said Mr. Molton only accepted because he was too good-natured to say 'I won't,' as the others did."

At the close of the evening service the congregation were not a little astonished by the request to remain in their seats for a few minutes after the benediction had been pronounced, nor was the astonishment abated when the young pastor elect began to address them. It was as well for them to know it now as any time. He never made any unnecessary preliminary remarks; he made a fierce dash at any subject and done with it.

Every eye was fixed on him when he began.

"Owing to my peculiar views as to the dignity of the office of an ambassador of Christ, I declined to come among you as a candidate for your favor. I knew nothing of the state of your church and society. I had no experience to guide me, except that derived from my mission work among the poorest of the poor,—among those so eager for the bread of life that it was a glorious privilege to break it for them. I find your church large in numbers; I—yes I must say it—I am appalled, I am young. It is not yet too late for you to relieve me from the responsibilities which may prove too much for me."

His head sank on his breast as a murmur, "No! no! We want you," ran through the audience. His voice trembled with emotion as, after a brief pause, he spoke again. "God's will be done; there is a great work to do here. We must begin with the Sunday school. The help of every father and mother and child is necessary. Above all, we must earnestly besiege the throne of grace for divine help. Brethren and sisters, pray for each other and pray for your pastor, for his guidance; that he may be holy, humble, earnest, and hopeful in his work of winning souls for the Master."