The High Calling

Bauer looked doubtfully at her. Helen was quick to detect the slight hint of suspicion as to her sincerity.

"Do you doubt? What makes you?"

"Well, I—it isn't common for girls to care much about such things generally, and I couldn't help–"

Bauer stumbled along painfully and finally stopped, and Helen was cruel enough to enjoy his confusion.

"But I am interested, Mr. Bauer. I really am. And you must believe I am.

You will, won't you?"

"Yes! yes!" Bauer flung the last shred of his doubt to the winds and eagerly begged pardon for his distrust.

"All right. Now that we have settled the quarrel, we will be good friends, won't we?"

"Yes," said Bauer, smiling. "If you want to call it a quarrel."

"It was a quarrel all right," said Helen hastily. "Now you must tell me what your ambitions are, what you are really working for. I have wondered often if it wasn't awfully dangerous to be experimenting with electricity, and how do you try new things with wires and batteries and dynamos and—and—things without getting killed several times while you are trying?"

"It's not as dangerous as some other things," thought Bauer, as Helen, in her real earnestness, put her work down and came across the room and took a chair by the table opposite him. If she had been a real coquette intent on making an onslaught on poor Bauer she could not have chosen a more perfect way to do it. For if you want to engage the hearty good will of anyone, ask him rapid fire questions about the one thing he is most interested in and would like to talk about, if his modesty did not forbid.

So Felix Bauer was never in so electrically dangerous a situation in all his life as at this moment when Helen Douglas came over and sat down there with a real eagerness to know about his ambitions as an inventor. For Helen was honestly interested in many things that naturally belong to mere man's domain, especially in the realm of mechanical invention.

"Walter has told me what you said about making a writing machine that would take a visible spelled word on paper when you talked into it. You don't really think a thing like that could be done, do you?"

Bauer looked at the handsome quizzical face opposite, gravely.

"Do you? How do you dare say what can or cannot be done in the great universe of electricity?"

"But it would throw out a great army of stenographer girls and that would be a pity. Only, you know," said Helen demurely, "Walter could marry one of them and you could marry another. That would take care of two of them."

Bauer stared, and then blushed furiously and finally laughed.

"Walter has been taking my name–"

"Not in vain," interrupted Helen. "I thought your suggestion for the talking machine was fascinating. I don't suppose you are working at that, are you?"

"No. I haven't got that far yet."

"Can you tell me if you are working on some new thing?"

"I don't mind." Bauer got up and pulled a piece of paper towards him and began to sketch something. Helen got up and went to the end of the table where she could see better.

"There, Miss Douglas. This is my idea for a chicken raiser."

"An incubator?"

"Yes. You see this dome is glass, very much like those domes the glass blowers make to put over their glass ships and flowers. The bottom here is wood. The eggs are placed on it in even rows. Here is a hole in the bottom through which the electric lamp is put. A thermostat will regulate the temperature to a fraction of any degree. And—that is all there is to it except to try it on the eggs to see if they will really hatch out."

"I don't see how they could help it!" said Helen enthusiastically.

"I don't either. There's only one thing I can see that is essential."

"What is that?" Helen asked eagerly.

"The eggs will have to be good," said Bauer solemnly.

Helen in her eagerness to see the drawing, had edged around the table and her face was near Bauer's as she bent over the drawing. She stared at Bauer's solemn face a moment and then burst out laughing, at the same time moving back to the end of the table.

"I believe you are making fun of me," she said. In reality there was a part of Bauer's nature which was unexpected. His quiet habits and his slow speech were apt to give an impression of dullness of intellect and lack of mental quickness. Helen was finding out that Bauer was in many ways the quickest of all her acquaintances. And he had a fund of smileless humour that came as a surprise even to those who thought they knew him best.

"No, I was not making fun of you," said Bauer. As a matter of fact, he was on the defensive with his own feelings, trying by any means to beat them down into the lonesome place where they belonged when that radiant face appeared so near his own.

"Have you tried the machine yet to see if it will work on good eggs?" asked Helen, after a pause, during which Bauer drew a few more lines on the paper.

"No, I'm going to make a full trial of it when I go back to Burrton."

"And if it should be a success, I suppose there would be money in it too, wouldn't there?"

"I suppose so," said Bauer indifferently.

"Then you might actually become rich?"

"I suppose I might. A man who invented a little mouse trap, I understand, made a fortune from it. There are all sorts of possibilities in the world of invention."

"Would you care to be rich?" asked Helen absently.

"I might." For the first time in his life Felix Bauer had flash into his soul the power of money to buy, what? Love? Would it be worth anything if it could be bought? And yet women like Helen Douglas felt the power of money and—and—demanded it in the young man who aspired to be a possible wooer in this age. Was she like all the rest? And if he should some time be rich would that make any difference? And if so, what difference?

"Money is a great power nowadays," said Helen calmly.

"Yes," said Bauer, slower than usual. And at that moment Mrs. Douglas came in.

"Are you willing to show this to mother?" asked Helen.

"Certainly," said Bauer, smiling. "I am sure she will not betray my secret."

Mrs. Douglas, who had instantly taken a great liking to Bauer from the moment of his arrival, was as enthusiastic as Helen and praised the inventor until he was well nigh overwhelmed.

"I need all this encouragement to help me face Anderson. He will probably pick some flaw in it somewhere. He is merciless with all the fellows."

"I don't see what a teacher is for," said Helen indignantly. "Half of the teachers I know pound at the students all the time instead of giving them encouragement."

"They probably need it," said Mrs. Douglas, wisely.

"Mr. Bauer is going to get rich with his invention," said Helen gaily.

"I'll tell you what I will do, if it goes," said Bauer cheerfully. "I'll divide with Walter. We'll manufacture the incubator ourselves and so get all the profits."

"Don't count your chickens before they are hatched," said Mrs. Douglas, and then added gratefully, "I appreciate that thought of Walter. The poor fellow seems to have lost his ambition since the affair of the arc light. I know you will do all you can to encourage him."

"Indeed I will, Mrs. Douglas. I can't tell you how much I owe to Walter.

He is like a brother to me."

The minute he uttered the words he caught himself up and half turned, blushing furiously, towards Helen. But she had already started to go out of the library and Bauer was not sure that she had heard him or paid any attention.

Mrs. Douglas, however, had seen his face and his half startled look and deepening colour, and her own face grew grave. It did not seem possible to her that anything serious could happen to the quiet German student during his brief stay with the family. And yet, she was a wise and observant woman who did not at all blind herself to the fact that her daughter had natural gifts of physical and mental attractions, which young men like Bauer inevitably feel. And it needed only this one glimpse of Bauer's face to reveal to her quick mother's sense the fact that Helen had attracted him, how far or how deeply for the loss of his own peace, of course she could not tell.

It was partly on that account that Mrs. Douglas welcomed Helen's confidence when, that same afternoon, the girl came into her mother's room and after a few moments of nervous, restless and aimless talk came and sat down on a low chair near Mrs. Douglas and said, "Mother, I want a plain talk."

"A plain talk" in the Douglas family meant heart secrets, and Mrs.

Douglas knew at once what Helen wanted.

"Hide nothing," said Esther, smiling, and patting Helen's head cheerfully.

"Hide nothing," repeated Helen, with a faint smile; which meant that the utmost frankness was going to be shown on both sides.

"Mother," said Helen, after a pause of some length during which her mother calmly went on with her sewing. "How old were you when you were married?"

"Not quite twenty-two."

"And how old was father?"

"Twenty-six. Almost twenty-seven."

"Were you very much in love with him?"

Esther let her work fall from her hands into her lap, and looked out across the room over her daughter's head. The passing of the years had not dimmed the love light in Esther's eyes nor faded the glow of the love look on her face.

"I can't tell you how much I was in love with him. He was the whole world to me."

"More than your own father and mother?"

"Yes, more."

"More and different?"

"Yes, more and different."

There was another pause and Helen put her hand up to her mother's. The girl had not yet looked up. Her eyes were cast down and she seemed very thoughtful.

"Mother, do you think I will ever feel that way? As you did?"

Mrs. Douglas was startled by the question, in spite of the fact that from Helen's babyhood the utmost frankness had existed between them. She wanted a few moments before she spoke. Helen was "till looking down, but her hand tightened its hold on her mother's.

"Yes, Helen, I would not wish you any greater happiness than to love as your mother did."

"But men like father seem very scarce."

Mrs. Douglas could not help laughing, and at that Helen looked up soberly.

"You know they are, mother," said Helen almost indignantly. "Just look at that Randolph boy. And—and—Mr. Damon. I don't believe there are any young men like father was when he was young. Wasn't he very handsome?"

"He certainly was, and he is now."

"And didn't he talk sensibly? Didn't he know how to say things?"

"He didn't say anything very wise or deep while he was courting me," laughed Esther. "I would not dare say how many foolish things he said. I don't remember all of them."

"Mother, you know what I mean. The young men nowadays can't talk any. They don't know half so much as the young women. Why, I feel superior to all the young men I know."

Mrs. Douglas looked amused.

"And I could never marry an inferior man. I would just despise myself and him, too. But why should I get married at all, mother? Why can't I just be a physical training teacher all my life?"

"I don't want you to marry an inferior man, You would just despise yourself and if you do not love in a natural way someone who is altogether worthy of you, you ought never to marry at all. What has made you think of it?"

Helen did not look up, and after a long pause Esther said gently, "Hide nothing?"

Then Helen looked up suddenly and burst out: "That horrid Mr. Damon proposed to me last night! I went with him to the organ recital and he was very nice at first, but on the way home he made a fool of himself and tried to make one of me. I told him I wouldn't marry him if he was the only man left. Why, mother, he is ten years older than I am, and he has false teeth and I believe he wears a wig and he makes a living selling rubber goods!" And at that Helen burst into a flood of weeping, laying her head down in her mother's lap.

When she was cried out, Esther said: "Mr. Damon is a good man, or I wouldn't have let you go with him. But I had no idea he was thinking of you that way. Of course he is out of the question. Not on account of the false teeth, the wig and the rubber goods, for women marry men with those encumbrances every day and are happy, but for other reasons."

"Mother, did you ever have any other proposals besides father's?"

"Yes, I had three while I was in college."

"At my age?"

"I was two years younger."

"That makes me feel better some; but I don't want such things to come to me. It frightens me."

"Daughter, you probably know you are more than good looking. Do you?"

"Yes," said Helen, in a low tone.

"It is a great gift, but it is a dangerous one. You must use it in the right way."

"Mother, I do try. I am not a flirt, am I, mother?" Helen looked up appealingly.

"Look right into my eyes, mother, and see?"

Mrs. Douglas looked and with a sigh of relief saw there as pure and womanly a soul waiting development as ever lived.

"No, thank God, Helen, I believe you realise what your beauty might mean to bless or to curse. But sometimes the hurt comes in spite of one's self."

There was a very long pause and then Helen said timidly, "Mother, you are thinking of someone in particular. I have tried to be very careful. I had to be kind. But how could I know–"

"You mean Felix Bauer?"

"Yes, mother."

"Do you mean he has spoken to you in so short a time?"

"No, no, mother, not spoken. Only, only, looked at me. You don't blame me, do you, do you, mother?"

Helen began to cry again, but in a different way from the outburst before. She cried softly and Mrs. Douglas could feel the girl's hand pressing her arm convulsively.

She was really puzzled to know what to say in spite of the evident fact that Felix Bauer had simply yielded to the inevitable through no fault of Helen's or anybody's. At last she said:

"Do you feel superior to Mr. Bauer?"

Helen raised her head and blushed as she looked up.

"Why, no, that is, of course, he knows German and I don't, and he knows a lot about electricity and I don't and—and–"

"He's not much of a talker," said her mother.

"No, but on that account he avoids saying so many foolish things. And he is very interesting, and, and, good. But he is only a poor student and it looks now as if he might grow up to be nothing but a manufacturer of incubators to raise chickens."

"Which is almost as bad as rubber goods," murmured Esther.

Helen did not reply. After a while her mother said, "Tell me just one thing dear, if you can. Do you care for Mr. Bauer?"

Helen bent her head and warm colour flowed over her cheeks, then she looked up.

"No, mother, not that way."

Mrs. Douglas sighed and said to herself, "Poor Bauer. He will have to outlive it somehow. I hope his studies will help him out."

That was what Bauer was saying to himself back in Burrton after that eventful Christmas vacation. He had parted with the family in a cheerful fashion, but all his self-possession and restraint and feeling of utter hopelessness regarding Helen could not prevent his giving her a look that told his story as plain as day when he said good-bye. Helen had gone upstairs and cried half the forenoon at the memory of Bauer's face. But Bauer did not know that. Neither did he know that the very fact of his silence had made Helen think favourably towards him. He had at least succeeded in securing a place in Helen's exclusive list of possible lovers, for she was obliged to confess as the days went on that she missed Felix Bauer, and that she could not say of him as she could of all her other admirers that she was superior to him.

It might have gone badly with Felix Bauer at this crisis in his life if an event had not occurred which compelled him to come to Walter's assistance. This event was as unexpected to Walter as anything could be. And the suddenness of it smote both the friends for a time into a condition of mutual dependence.

The President of Burrton followed the custom in other schools of inviting some well known speaker to have charge of the chapel services for special lectures or religious addresses. When the announcement was made that Dr. Powers, the eminent scholar and theologian, would preach at Burrton on a special date, Walter and Bauer both planned to go, and when the time came they found themselves in the audience with one of the largest crowds that had ever gathered at Burrton Chapel service.

The address was on the subject of "Modern Belief." As the speaker went on, Walter, who had at first not paid close attention, began to fasten his whole hearted and minded interest on the statements that were being made. As the talk went on, Walter felt as if all the ground of his religious faith was slipping out from under him. The speaker gradually unfolded a universe of religious thought from which all the miracles were excluded. There was no reason, he said, for believing in the superhuman or the wonderful. Everything in the Bible could be explained on natural grounds and what could not be explained was either a mistake or a misapprehension on the part of the writers. God was defined as a power and all personality taken from him. Christ was only a superior man who said many things not agreeing with the facts of modern psychology. Much of his forecast of the future had been discredited. There was no such thing as a resurrection and a future existence was very problematical.

When the address was over, Walter sat like one dazed and did not rise to go out. Bauer whispered to him:

"Are you sick?"

"No," said Walter with an effort. He rose and went up to his room and Bauer, who did not know what was the matter, went in with him, as the two friends invariably spent their Sunday evenings together.

But on this occasion Walter almost stunned Bauer with a request made in a low voice.

"I want to be alone, Bauer, if you don't mind."

Bauer rose at once.

"I am on hand to serve you, Walter. Don't forget?"

"No," Walter said abruptly.

Bauer went out, and Walter went into his bedroom and got down on his knees.

That same evening at Milton, Mrs. Douglas had just gone up to her room, and as her custom had been for years, she had kneeled to pray for her children and especially for her absent boy.

Over both mother and son the darkness brooded. Only the stars shone through it.

CHAPTER IX

WALTER DOUGLAS was not what would be called ordinarily a religious young man. That is, he was not pious, in the sense that he was a lover of prayer meetings and church gatherings. He was a member of the Congregational church at Milton and had joined it from the Sunday School when he was twelve years old, growing up in the church like any average boy whose father and mother were members. He had a tremendous respect for his father's and mother's religious life and example and would probably have been willing to die for their faith if not for his own. For the rest, he had grown up in the home atmosphere, which from his childhood had been deeply reverent towards the Bible and the superhuman element.

The effect on his mind, now, of the address he had just heard, was very much the same as if someone far above him in education and age had attacked his father and mother, bringing forward a great array of argument and proof to show that they were unworthy of his love and confidence. Walter's mind could not have been more disturbed by such an attempt than it actually was by what had been said that evening, undermining his lifelong confidence in Christ as a divine being, and the superhuman and miraculous as part of his own life.

He was stunned by it and at first his only desire was to be alone. As the night wore on, this desire gave way to a longing for counsel from someone who could answer his questions and relieve his mind of the terrible uncertainty which had invaded it. And it was at least a strange comment on the teaching force in the Burrton school that Walter at this crisis could not think of anyone to whom he cared to go with a religious doubt. There were plenty of men at Burrton occupying responsible places as professors or instructors who knew plenty of mathematics and physics and electricity and engineering and science. But not one that Walter could think of who knew or cared about a student's moral or religious character. The president was a keen, wide-awake, sharp man of affairs, but as Walter thought of him he shrank from the idea of going to him with a real heart trouble or with a genuine mental difficulty. He would as soon have thought of telling his personal griefs or sorrows into a phonograph. And yet President Davis of Burrton was a church member, a highly educated gentleman, a great money getter from rich men, and had the reputation in the educational world of being a success as such school presidents go. He could extract half a million for Burrton from some great pirate of industry, but he did not know how to extract a poisonous doubt from a tortured mind like Walter's, or, better yet, instill the balm of healing faith into a spirit that had for the time being lost its God and its heaven. Great thing, our boasted education is, isn't it! How many of our cultured, highly developed university men are all head and no heart! And yet in the history of this old world who would dare say that in the long run it does not need more heart than head, or at least an equal division of each, for its comfort, its happiness and its real progress?

Walter, going over the list of possible men who might help him now, thought of the pastor of the Congregational church in Burrton. This man was a strong, earnest pastor, a tireless worker and an interesting preacher. But here again Walter had no one to blame but himself that he did not feel well enough acquainted with this man to go to him with his personal religious questions. He had been to the church several times and he always liked the Rev. James Harris, but like so many students who are attendants and workers in their own churches, Walter on coming to Burrton had found it easy to lapse into lazy Sunday morning habits. After he had a late breakfast and read the Sunday morning Daily Megaphone, it was generally too late to go to the Sunday School and it was easier on stormy Sundays to curl up on a lounge and read a novel, or on pleasant Sundays to stroll out to the lake two miles away and get an appetite for a big dinner. Then an afternoon of sleep or visiting or walking out used up the rest of the day for him. One of the topics he had avoided with his mother on his recent visit home had been his Sunday program, and he recalled even now the earnest wish she had expressed that he would get to work in the Sunday School when he went back to Burrton. No, he had been so indifferent to all church matters while a student that he could not bring himself to go to the minister, he was too much a stranger to him, and this was a matter that seemed to call for a friend.

"Oh, I wish mother was here!" he exclaimed out loud.

And then because he felt so hungry for comfort and so eager to relieve his mind of its burden, he went over to his writing desk, and wrote a long letter to his mother.

When he finished, it was after one o'clock and he went to bed and slept as if exhausted, but to his dismay when he awoke, his depression and fear were there to greet him and he found himself waiting for his mother's answer almost as if her letter were a reprieve from a sentence of death.

A part of this letter will reveal Walter's excited and even chaotic feeling.

"The bottom seems to be dropped right out of everything, mother. Of what use is it to try to do right when there isn't any likelihood of a future and no personal God and no Redeemer, and no standard for conduct? The doctor said we could not depend upon Christ's own statements about his own resurrection. How then can we trust Him for any statement He made about Himself? The fellows here in Burrton who have money to spend and do about as they please, the fast set that drinks and carouses and gambles and gives the chorus girls wine suppers seems to be pretty happy. They don't worry over the matter of sin or moral responsibility or going to church or getting serious over the condition of the heathen or the wrongs of the world, or the 'high calling' you are so fond of calling my attention to. And why should I be any different from them? Mother, does it pay to be religious? It seems to me religious people are always sober, dull people, always talking reform and disagreeable things and never having much fun. But I want you to help me, mother, no one else can, if you can't. I don't seem to be able to pray any. Why should I pray, if there isn't any super-human, nothing but a force somewhere? I am just groping in the dark and it's awful dark. And I don't know a soul here to help me any. Bauer—well—I never said a word to him on religious matters. I don't know whether he is a Catholic or what he is. And I don't know any minister in Burrton well enough to go to him. And the teachers here don't care about the students' religious life, or if they do I never saw any signs of it, at least not enough to show where to go now.