Chapter V: Conflict

"Justice and Mercy for my life
Contend! Oh, smile and heal the strife."

"YES, I was thinking of that. We will talk it over when we come together this evening. Just tell Deacon Griffin about it now, won't you? I want to speak to one of the boys. Excuse me." And Mr. Earle hurried down the aisle and out of the door.

"Herbert, one moment, please."

Herbert Bradford turned back to meet his pastor, wondering but pleased, for Mr. Earle was a favourite with the young people of his congregation, and his influence over them was something remarkable. He had that rare and happy faculty of making the shyest and most awkward schoolboy among them feel quite at ease in his presence, and the timid, self-conscious girl ceased to feel the hot blood mounting to her forehead, and forgot that she had two hands to be properly folded, and, too, he knew how to draw out hidden conversational powers, often quite astonishing the possessors themselves.

"I have a letter here from Tom Nichols," he said, as he joined Herbert. "I suppose you would like to read it?"

"Yes, sir, I always like Tom's letters. I wish he was back here. He is a capital fellow!" said Herbert, with enthusiasm.

"Yes, Tom is a fine boy, and his letters are always pleasant. But you will find this one different from any he ever wrote before. There's good news in it, Herbert," said Mr. Earle, with a little ripple of joy in his voice that was testimony as to the excellence of the "news."

Herbert looked up with a bit of wonder in his eyes; then, as it flashed upon him what the good news might be, he dropped his head and a sad look crept over his face. Mr. Earle's way led up the street and Herbert's down; so they parted at the first corner, without further talk, only the minister said, as he turned off—

"I wish, my boy, that you could write me just such a letter."

The other boys had gone on, and Herbert walked slowly along, opening the letter and reading it on the way. A part of it ran thus:

"DEAR FRIEND:—I've done it! A week ago tonight I made a resolve that I would turn square about and serve God the rest of my life. I was quite afraid that he would not have me for his own, I had resisted so long: for he has been calling me almost ever since I can remember, and I have been promising, and putting off, until I began to think that maybe he would just turn around and put me off. But I found out by my Bible that he is always ready to receive any and all that come, and now I know it, I feel it, that he has accepted me, that Christ is my Saviour and Friend. I am very glad that I did not wait any longer.

"If I should live to be an old man, I should not have any too much time to work for Jesus. I want to go right to work for him. I wish you would tell me how. We have a very good minister here, but I do not feel as well acquainted with him, and he does not know or understand me as you do. I want to thank you for your faithfulness when I was with you; and will you forgive me that I was so careless and ungrateful? . . .

"I wish I could see the boys. Tell them from me that I wish they would begin right away to serve Christ. It is not dull or gloomy work. I never was so happy. There are some nice boys here, and we have a pleasant Sunday-school class and a good teacher, but I don't believe I shall ever like any boys quite as well as some of the Westville boys. I pray for them every day. I want them to love Jesus.

"Your friend,

"TOM NICHOLS."

Mr. Nichols and Mr. Earle were old friends, and when the first-named gentleman went abroad with his invalid wife for a protracted stay, Tom came to Westville to stay with Mr. Earle. He had belonged to that troublesome Sunday-school class, and was about the most mischievous boy in it. His fun would out at the most unseasonable times, and the boy-loving Mr. Earle was sometimes troubled and puzzled us to the best way of managing his charge. But the faithful work was accepted, the earnest prayers answered, and on this Sabbath morning, the good pastor came before his people with a new courage, an increased strength, brighter hopes and stronger faith. One more soul saved! The door of another young heart thrown open to Christ! Another young life consecrated to the Lord's work! No wonder that there was an unusual emphasis put upon the selections, more earnestness in the prayers and thanksgiving, and an unwonted vigour thrown into the preaching, so that Deacon Griffin said to his wife, as they rode homeward,—

"I don't understand our pastor's mood to-day. I thought I could detect a sort of an undertone of triumph running through all the services this morning. And for my part, things look very gloomy. The state of religion in our church seems to be at a low ebb."

"I noticed it too," replied Mrs. Griffin. "When he read, 'I will praise the Lord with my whole heart in the assembly of the upright and in the congregation,' it seemed as if he really had something unusual to thank God for; but I haven't heard of any encouraging signs."

"No, I should think not," responded the deacon, sadly. "'Pears to me if Mr. Earle had thought of the big crowd they had up to Wynn's sociable night, and the half dozen we had at prayer-meeting Thursday night, he couldn't have read and preached so jubilant like. Some of the psalms of confession or lamentation would have seemed more suitable in these times. I don't know what he meant."

He found out that evening. A few faithful ones were in the habit of communing together for half an hour before evening service, for a little talk with each other and with God over the interests of the kingdom, and here Mr. Earle told them of the news that had gladdened his heart, and of one or two things that had occurred in their midst, causing him to hope that God was not far from them.

"We will watch more closely, work more diligently and pray more earnestly," said the pastor.

"Yes, we will!" exclaimed Deacon Griffin, whose whole heart—and it was a large one—was warmed by this bit of sunshine; and such a prayer as he then and there offered! Such thanksgiving! Such entreaty! Surely God must have heard.

Meantime a great tumult arose in Herbert Bradford's heart as he read Tom's letter. Tom a Christian! It could not be; and he read the letter over, to make sure that he had taken in its meaning. Yes, it was so.

"That wild boy! And he loved fun so, too! And I was going there next summer. Now we won't ever have any more good times, and he will always be dinging at me about this thing; and Mr. Earle, he wishes, and Miss Wynn, she—well, she don't say much. I suppose she knows a fellow can't stand it; but she means it. I think most every Sunday that she will bring some of us around before long, in spite of ourselves. My! How her face would glow! It would be almost worthwhile, just to see how glad she would be. That was a splendid letter she wrote last week. I almost made up my mind then to do as Tom has—turn right about. Pshaw! I can't. I don't want to, either. There's time enough five years from now.

"Is there?"

He was just passing a house where a bit of crape and white ribbon fluttered from the door-knob, and perhaps that suggested the question. Anyway, it had thrust itself in, and refused to be put aside; and Herbert found in the course of that week that to get back to his old state of careless indifference, he would have to fight his way through a host of questions, suggestions, and facts that came up from he knew not where, meeting him at every turn.

Of late, he had fallen into the habit of spending an hour or more of Sabbath afternoon over the next Sabbath-school lesson. He certainly made a great show of being studious, bringing out all the commentaries, Bible dictionaries, and books of reference that the house afforded. To-day he was out of sorts, declaring to himself that he was half a mind not to go near the class again. Anyway he wasn't going to study, he didn't want to see or hear of a Bible, he would read his library book—it looked interesting.

Dragging an easy chair into the recess of a bay window, he settled down in it, saying to himself, "Now, I won't think of Tom nor Mr. Earle again to-day," and began to read. But relief from his troublesome thoughts did not come that way. In the very first chapter, he was met by a boy as restless and unsatisfied as himself, and not finding him a very agreeable companion, he threw down the book, and then yawned and oh deared, then went after a dish of apples, then to the store-room for a lunch, though he had just been to dinner.

On his way back, he looked into the dining room to see what time it was. "Only four o'clock! Three hours to evening service! What shall I do with myself? I suppose I may as well go at that lesson. It won't be any worse than doing nothing. I can't stop thinking. I wish I could!"

The books were soon brought out, and study commenced. He began picking out prophecies concerning Christ in the book of Isaiah. Pencil and paper were called into use, and he went on busily and contentedly for a while, though now and then a verse made him think of Tom, and Mr. Earle, and Miss Wynn, and what he knew they were all praying for, the thing he knew he ought to do, but didn't want to, and didn't mean to. All the glorious prophecies and abundant promises given to the world through the inspired writer were not for him that day. Though he copied and arranged them, realizing something of their beauty and significance, he felt that he had no part in them. Suddenly he started, laid down his pencil and shut his Bible, then opened and read again—

"'The way of peace they know not; and there is no judgment in their goings: they have made them crooked paths; whosoever goeth therein shall not know peace.'"

In running over the chapter, to see if it contained any special reference to the Messiah, his eye had rested upon this verse; and it seemed as though the idea of crooked paths, contrasted with the white line he had promised to follow, met him everywhere. That promise! He already saw where it would lead him, and the thought of it greatly disturbed him. He left his books and went up to his own room in search of diversion. There the framed motto met him as he opened the door. He turned, shut the door quickly, and went down-stairs again, and wandered from room to room until his sister Julia exclaimed—

"Why, Bertie! What does ail you? You don't stay put anywhere."

"I don't know. I guess I'm tired of Sunday," answered Herbert.

"Well, I never knew you to act so before; and it is like all the Sundays, isn't it? Just so much church and Sunday-school, and just so many hours between, and cold meat and pickled oysters for dinner, because Bridget had gone to her church; mamma reading the 'Meditations,' and papa poring over a big book, and you and I—Oh! I've got a splendid book; don't you want to read it? It is about a boy—"

"Oh, one of those awful good boys, I suppose," interrupted Herbert, with an emphasis that said, "I don't want to hear anything about your 'good boys.'"

"No, sir!" returned Julia. "He was a real hateful boy—a great deal hatefuller than you are when you tease me."

"Indeed! He must have been hateful. I think I'll take a dose."

"But," said Julia, laughing, "I suppose I ought to tell you that he did most all of his bad things before the book begins, and in the first chapter somebody spoke a word that made him stop short off and turn right about."

But Herbert was gone, banging the door after him. What was the matter with people and things to-day? What possessed everybody and everything to bring up the very thoughts he was trying to get rid of? We all know that when our attention is turned to any particular subject, we are astonished at the frequent recurrence of things that seem to bear upon that very point. Herbert imagined that a very unusual combination of events had conspired to rob him of peace.

Only a few days ago, during the discussion of some school affair, Perry Morse had said to the boys, "You needn't worry about that; Herbert Bradford always keeps his promises." And Herbert had been rather proud of being known as a boy who could be relied upon.

Now here was that foolish promise to Miss Wynn. He had promised to let Christ decide all questions that might come up for decision, and here at the outset was Christ himself saying, "Follow me;" and to Herbert this meant a full surrender, and that he was not ready to make. He went to evening service with his father and Julia, and of course, in his state of mind, he thought Mr. Earle preached right at him. "He might just as well have called my name straight out," he said to himself.

The days that followed were not very pleasant ones. He could not get rid of his troublesome thoughts. In the morning, he longed for night, that he might go to sleep and forget everything; but when night came, he dreaded to go to bed, for he was tormented with the fear that he should never wake up again in this world. Wednesday was New Year's. The boys had arranged a grand skating party. Though one of the foremost and most enthusiastic planners, Herbert had suddenly lost his interest in the frolic. Still he meant to join them, and came down to the river just as a group were strapping their skates, all talking and laughing, full of glee. One, Johnny Davis, stood a little aloof looking rather sober.

"Don't you skate to-day?" asked Herbert, coming up to him with his skates over his shoulder.

"No!" answered the boy shortly. "There's never any good times for me. My old skates have given out entirely, and I cannot afford a new pair. I thought I'd come down and see the boys off; but I'd better have stayed at home," and he choked a little at the thought of his poverty.

"No," said Herbert, "it's a good thing you came. My skates are aching for a chance to cut that ice; so, if you will take charge of them, I'll be much obliged. I don't feel like going."

He turned and ran up the street before the astonished boys understood what he was about.

"Well, Johnny," said Lewie Amesbury, "that's good for you; but for the life of me, I can't make out what the fellow means. He has acted like sixty all the week!"

While the boys were puzzling over his queer behaviour, Herbert was walking rapidly up the street, thinking in this wise:

"A pretty mess I've made of it! What will the boys say? And what would they say if they knew that I was afraid to go on the ice? Yes! Actually afraid. Fool and coward that I am. But they won't think of that, for I have often been down the river when the ice bent and cracked under me. But I couldn't go to-day, though it is thick and strong. The fact is, I am afraid to die; and it seems as though death was lurking around somewhere, waiting for me. This question will have to be settled pretty soon, or I shall be crazy. Dear me! What did I promise for, and why did Tom's letter come just then, and why did everything happen just in the way it did. There's Mr. Earle now! I've got to meet him—there's no dodging that!"