Loe raamatut: «Sea-gift», lehekülg 12

I transversed the motion of my head very rapidly, and signed the negative many times.

“A leetle lodomy, drapped in ellum bark tea’s mighty good for it;” and the old lady, satisfied with her catechism, turned her trumpet and her interrogative features toward the others.

Mrs. Bemby remarked having seen mother and the others at church that morning. Mrs. Bailey then took up the thread of the discourse where I had broken it off by entering.

“As I was a saying, sister Bemby,” she resumed, “it does me a sight of good to listen to Brother Weekly’s preaching. He is so searchin’ to the sinners and comfortin’ to the saints. His sermins are well pinted, too, and not writ, neither. I jist know in my soul, d’liver me from a writ sermin.”

“Umph?” said Mrs. Dodge, in a prolonged note of inquiry, levelling her dread instrument on the speaker. Mrs. Bailey very kindly screamed the words into her ear.

“Ah, yes, I knowed ‘twas good this mordn-ing, tho’ I couldn’t hear, for I sorter felt it. Brother Weekly is always powerful in his lastly, and whedn I see old Udncle Jacob Sawney slap Sister Brewer in the back, and old Miss Parkidns twiss her cheer roudn to the wall, and git my Viney here to untie her specks, so she could rub her eyes, I knowed he was a having great freedobm; and thedn he got a leetle louder, and I thought I heerd him say: ‘He’ll meet us at the gate, Hisself;’ and somethidng told me in my heart he meadnt the Lord, and I wadnted to go just thedn, for ‘pears to me I’d be more welcome like ef He told me to come in.”

“Yes,” resumed Mrs. Bailey, without noticing her interruption; “and did you notice, Sister Bemby, how he brought it out about the tares and the wheat. Seems to me, if I was a sinner I couldn’t bear the thought of being sifted out and throwed away like a no ‘count cockle grain.”

“That was uncommon clear, Sister Bailey,” returned Mrs. Bemby, “about putting in the sickle and reaping all together, then sortin’ out the good and bad.”

“That it was, Sister Bemby,” agreed Mrs. Bailey, making a spade out of her tooth brush, and spading up half an ounce of snuff into her mouth.

There was another pause, and I looked uneasily out of the window, to see if I could discover anything of Ben, while Miss Viney rubbed her nose up again, and shot invisible marbles with the idle thumb in her lap.

Deaf old Mrs. Dodge again spoke:

“It’s a mighty cobmfort, Sister Bemby, to have odne’s chilldn a growin’ up right. There’s my Viney, she’s been a perfesser nigh upodn five year, and haidn’t backslid yit. Why dodn’t you talk to Ben, Sister Bemby? He’s a clever ‘nough boy, but he’s so mischeevous. Sednce I lost my hearidn I look ’round some in church, and no longer’n this mordning I see Ben holding up a streaked lizzard by the tail, fixing to put him on old Miss Judy Yates, who’s the feardest of ’em in the world. Brother Bemby seed him jist in time to stop him.”

“I know it, Sister Dodge,” shouted Mrs. Bemby in the trumpet’s mouth, “and I have talked to him a heap of times, but Ben says he ain’t a going to die soon, and that he’ll be a preacher yet, and he makes me laugh so I have to let him alone.”

“Is you a lover of the Lord, sir?” Mrs. Dodge inquired, pointedly addressing me.

“I am afraid not as I ought to be,” I said, confusedly, shaking my head.

“Well, you ought to love Him with all your heart whedn you think what He’s dodne fur you.”

I bowed an acknowledgment of the truth of her remark, and told Mrs. Bemby I would go out and look for Ben.

Not finding him anywhere I turned homeward, thinking on the glorious Gospel of the Son of God – a Gospel that, with the same words, can comfort sister Bailey’s simple heart, and bind up one bruised beneath a velvet robe – a Gospel for all the world! deep enough to baffle the sage – simple enough to save a child. God alone can be its Author!

Go to the rustic church, with its rude unpainted seats, its plain deal pulpit, with a pitcher of water and a cloth covered Bible on the unvarnished slab. Sit with the simple, illiterate congregation, and listen to the unpolished man in the pulpit as, with an effort, he slowly reads his text: “For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish but have eternal life.”

Hear the story of the Cross told without rhetoric, and mark the faces around you, how they glow with faith and shine with tears.

Then let us stand on the broad stone steps beneath the clanging chimes and gilded spire. See the white-gloved drivers curb the prancing steeds – the liveried footmen hold the blazoned door, while silken trains sweep down the carriage step and rustle up the aisle. Let us go in and stand in the purpled gloom of the soft stained light. The golden legend over the chancel is illegible in the darkness, and only the bright figures on the windows up in the vaulted roof show that the glorious sunlight is over the earth. The tufted aisles make no echo to the footsteps, and the only sound is the occasional closing of a pew door by the silent ushers. The cushioned seats are filled, the gas jets around the preacher’s stand are lit, and all is so hushed we almost expect the sermon to be whispered, when, with a trembling sob, as if its very pipes were sinful, the organ’s wail of penitence is heard. Moaning and groaning at the very bottom of its voice, it grows louder and higher, till its weird minor strains peal through the church, as if its windy heart will burst, and still higher and higher it screams and shrieks, in its agony of remorse, then, with a galop down the scale, it breaks out into a lively polka of forgiveness, and is as happy as an organ can be, till its jig-and-break-down repertoire is exhausted, when it stands on one leg of a note and waits for the singing. A low, soft trill, like a mocking bird’s song at night, breaks forth from we know not where, and its quivering melody fills the vast edifice; but ere we have discovered its source or meaning it is joined by another sound – a high zooning tone – like a bee far up in the air. This follows the first through all its wonderful manœuvres, and a faint conception begins to dawn on us that perhaps a song is intended. This idea is entertained for a few seconds, when it is forever put to flight by the sudden, sonorous bellowing of a bull over its slaughtered kindred, and while its terrible tones are thundering from the floor to the roof, we find that it, too, is following the others, and adding its powerful roar to their melody. But surprises are not over yet, for just as the three get fairly under way, they are quickly joined by a bronchial cat, unusually hoarse, that also takes after the others, though on a lower key and in strange fuzzy tones. This zoological vocale is persevered in by the four till, at last, they approximate a tune. We have some light thrown on the subject from the remark of a gentleman with an eye-glass to a lady with diamonds sitting just in front of us:

“Trilla’s soprano is better to-day in Te Deum than ‘twas last evening in Trovatore, but Catta’s contralto is horrid.” “Taurini’s bass is magnificent, though, isn’t it?” the young fop adds in a whisper, as, with a long orchestral flourish, the organ ceases to play and the services commence. Worshipping God by proxy! Because Taurini has a richer, better voice, and can say “We praise Thee, oh! God” in a deeper tone than we, we pay him to say it in our most holy place, careless whether an oath were last on his lips, or an early bar-room his only preparation for the Sabbath. But all is so different from the little wooden church, that we almost feel that they are serving another God with a different religion. We feel out of place and disappointed, and are about to leave, when the preacher ascends the pulpit and announces his text:

“For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish but have eternal life.”

We are at home now; the same verse that has brought tears from the simple minded, carries conviction to the heart of the rich and the wise. Though the service in its appointments may be fanciful – though the sermon be burdened with rhetorical roses, or ridiculous in rustic exposition, or flagrant misconstruction – Christ’s words stand forth with the same grandeur of simplicity and force as they did when the trembling, conscience-convicted Sanhedrimite sought Him in the darkness, and received the light of God.

CHAPTER XVI

The first of October found us all again in Wilmington. Father returned from Havana the latter part of September, having completed all the necessary arrangements in reference to Carlotta’s property. He found the agent reliable, and having proved the death and identity of Mr. Rurleston, he administered on the estate, and qualified as guardian for Carlotta under the Spanish law.

Ned and I began the winter in hard study, as our last session in a preparatory school. Frank, however, declared his intention of going to Chapel Hill, the seat of the University of North Carolina, in January, and joining the Freshman Class, half advanced, getting the advantage of a year’s start by the half session.

Sure enough, in January he left for the Hill, and we soon received letters from him telling of the wonderful charms of college life, and of the rapid progress he was making in his studies.

The spring passed and Frank came home a Sophomore. Ned and I felt quite tame before him, though his foppish ways and overbearing air only added to the dislike I entertained for him.

Lulie, poor thing, was as proud of him as if he had been her son, and whenever we met was continually quoting what Frank said, and telling what Frank did. In the kindness of her dear little heart she ever tried to consider my feelings, and it was the inadvertence of these remarks in my presence that made them doubly painful.

Between Carlotta and myself there had sprung up a strong, confidential friendship. She was so beautiful in person and character, so pure, so trusting, that had it not have been for our daily intimacy, I could have loved her even to the effacing of Lulie’s image. As it was, she was only my best friend, and Lulie my hopeless idol.

A trip to Smithville closed our vacation, and we began to get ready for college. All the arrangements were made, and the day before our departure came round. Ned, who, of course, was to be my chum, had come into town with his baggage, and was to stay all night with me, to be ready for the early morning train. That night, after tea, he ran over to Dr. Mayland’s to tell Lulie good-bye, and Carlotta and I took our seat on the stoop. Neither of us spoke for some time, for I felt really sad now that the time had come for parting.

“You will write to me while I am gone, Carlotta?” I said, at length. “I will enjoy a letter from you more than from any one else I know.”

“Yes,” she said, smiling. “I will write if you will promise to reply faithfully, and not to make fun of my letters.”

“That would be impossible, even if I were not too anxious to hear from home and from you. I will miss your bright face and sunny smiles sadly while I am away,” I continued, looking up at the stars slowly coming out, “for no matter where I am, or whom I am with, I never feel so well satisfied and happy as when I am with you.”

“It is I, indeed, who will miss you,” she said, with the least possible sigh, “for you have been so kind and attentive, so considerate of all my wishes, yet so unobtrusive in your attentions, that I can never get another to fill your place.”

“You will not forget me, then?” I said, drawing a little nearer to her.

“Never!”

She looked so beautiful in the soft twilight, as she gazed at me earnestly and said this “Never!” that I did more than I intended – I took her hand and pressed it in mine, though I tried to do it in a brotherly way. But there was a thrill in her touch, nevertheless. I could see her face flush, even in the twilight, as she drew her hand once or twice, as if she would take it away.

“Carlotta,” I said, still holding her hand, “I have told you how I once loved Lulie – ”

“And there she is now,” she said, quickly withdrawing her hand, then putting it back in mine, as if it was nothing to be ashamed of.

Sure enough, Lulie, Frank and Ned crossed over from Dr. Mayland’s and approached our stoop.

“John, I have come over to say good-bye, as you would not come to see me,” said Lulie, seating herself at Carlotta’s feet.

“‘Twas because I thought you would, of course, be engaged for to-night, not because I did not want to,” I replied, in a tone divided between a sneer and a smile.

“You know I am always glad to see you, John,” she said, rising again to her feet; “but we have not long to stay, Frank, and had better go now, as he is so ungracious, even on the eve of parting.”

“Pardon me, Lulie,” I said, her words recalling me to a sense of propriety. “Do not let us part in bad humor.”

“Certainly not,” she replied; “but,” changing the subject, “do you not dread the ordeal of initiation? Frank says, though, he will not let the fellows, as he calls them, trouble you much.”

“We are obliged to Frank for his kind intentions, but hope to be able to take care of ourselves,” I replied, my ungracious feelings returning reinforced.

“I’ve a great notion to let you fellows alone, and let our class have its own way with you,” said Frank, tapping the railing with a little gold headed switch he called a cane.

I had it on my tongue to tell him that I wished he would, but I restrained myself, and only said that I hoped we could stand it.

Lulie gave me her hand most cordially, and bade us both farewell, and she and Frank walked away – she looking up at him and talking to him as if her life was his, and he walking on as if only a toy hung upon his arm.

Father returned from down town, and, requesting my presence in the library, I left Ned with Carlotta and went in the house. Father was seated at his escritoire and motioned me to a chair near him. “As you leave very early in the morning,” he said, through his teeth, holding between them one end of a tape he was tying around a bundle of papers he had assorted, “I thought we had best arrange our money matters to-night.”

He took a roll of bank bills from a drawer, and, counting out a goodly heap, pushed it towards me, saying, “That will be enough for all your expenses till late in the session. Whenever you find you need more, write and I will remit. I do not want you to be extravagant, my son, neither do I want you to be a niggard; I will, however, trust to your own good sense to regulate your expenditure.”

I folded the money up, and, putting it in my purse, was about to leave, when he closed the desk, and, jingling the keys into his pockets, said:

“Sit down a moment, John, I want to say a few words to you in reference to your conduct while you are away. I am sure your mother has instructed you thoroughly in your Christian duty, and, therefore, I do not fear that I shall ever be mortified by a letter confessing debauch and dissipation. I trust that your early training, with your own sense of propriety, will deter you from anything so ruinous; but I have a word or two of advice in regard to your deportment towards your fellow students and to your instructors. I have been at college myself and know something of what I say. You will, of course, be teased, or ‘devilled,’ as they term it, unmercifully. Every conceivable effort will be made to mortify you, and to present you in most ridiculous attitudes, and every one in the class above you will try his wits at your expense. You will be made the victim of many a practical joke, and will suffer frequent inconvenience from the temporary abstraction of your books or the derangement of your furniture. Bear every thing with quiet dignity, do not attempt to reply to anything that is said, and, if possible, keep from showing in the slightest way that you are teased. If their efforts are without success they will soon desist, and you will be unmolested. It is a most contemptible and barbarous practice, this striving to wound and crush the feelings of another, simply because he is a stranger, as if that fact alone did not entitle him to more consideration. I hope, John, that when you join this privileged class of persecutors you will never indulge in anything so unfeeling.

“To recommend care in the selection of your associates is a piece of advice as important as it is trite. Associates will be forced upon you by the location of your room, by your class and your boarding house. Look well to a student’s moral and social status before you take him as a companion. Do not feel flattered into any concessions of your principles by an intimacy with a member of a higher class. While a Fresh, you would feel quite honored by an invitation to the room of a Senior, and you would find it very hard to refuse a drink with him, lest you should appear squeamish in his eyes. But remember that advancement is only a question of time and study, and possess independence enough to refuse all solicitations to evil, however flattering to your vanity they be. Ned, I am glad to learn, will room with you, and he and your books will be society enough for you, if you study as you now think, and I hope you will.

“In regard to your deportment towards your tutors I have a word to say, and then I have done my rather tedious exhortation. Be polite and dignified in their presence, be attentive in the lecture room, but not ostentatiously so, making a pretence of continually gazing at the professor, being the first to answer fly questions, or selecting a seat very near his desk, as there is nothing more displeasing to him than the endeavor of a student to make up for lack of merit by sycophantic fawning. While it is well to establish a personal acquaintance and good understanding with all those under whose instruction you are placed, yet do not make a display of intimacy with them, as the reputation of a ‘boot-lick’ is easily earned, and is exceedingly odious. The most disagreeable temptation to which you will be exposed is to join rebellion against college authority. You will be continually solicited to aid in schemes to break the laws of the institution, to annoy the professors, and to deface and misplace college property. Every conceivable plan for the defeat of the very objects of the institution will be set on foot, and you will be scoffed at and ridiculed if you refuse to join. Will you have the moral courage to refuse in the face of a jeering class? I hope so, my son. You will find it easy after the first time or two, and you will be respected all the more for your firmness. Write to your mother and myself often, and write freely. Tell us of your trials and difficulties, and express all your feelings without hesitation. But, lest my much advice may seem to evince a doubt of your strength of character, I will cease. Let’s go to Carlotta and Ned.”

He lowered the gas, and as we walked out of the library laid his arm on my shoulder in a tender way, that I have never forgotten – for a caress was a novelty from him.

That night, as Ned and I were about to go up to our rooms, I kissed mother good night, and said to her:

“Have you no parting advice for me, mother? I believe everybody has had some kind of valedictory for me.”

She drew me to her and said, smiling, as she parted my hair with one hand:

“I have nothing special to say, John, even though you are going away from me for the first time. I have endeavored from your infancy to instruct you in your duty to your fellow man, as well as to God. It now only remains with you to perform that duty. The one great thing I have always striven to impress upon your mind is to act from principle. Whatever you propose to do, consider carefully whether it be in itself right – not whether the time or occasion renders it so. I have placed your Bible in your trunk; read it without fail once every day, and, as you have always done, seek counsel of Heaven; and if my poor prayers will avail anything, you will ever be fortified with grace and courage from on high.”

In my room, as I undressed, I could not help looking around at the familiar articles of furniture, in order to remember exactly how the room looked after I was gone. Everything had a farewell for me.

The very bureau seemed to sigh as I took my toilet articles from its slab; and the chairs, with their worn rounds and knife-notched backs, seemed to creak an humble good-bye; the rug that I had scorched so often making squibs; the pitcher, whose lip I had broken by jerking it against a table, when a cat with a fit, on whose head I was pouring water, suddenly revived and sprang up under my hand; the book-case, through whose glass doors peeped the familiar faces of Swiss Family Robinson, Sandford and Merton, Tom Brown at Rugby, and the portentous covers of Latin Grammar, Greek Reader, Cæsar, Virgil and Sallust; the closet, with my gun and sporting furniture, and the bed, with its flowered coverlid, all looked as if they would be sad after I was gone, and as I went to sleep I felt prematurely homesick.