Elsie's Widowhood

"Oh yes, mamma! and I did not mean to omit silent, ejaculatory prayer; but is it my duty to lead the devotions of others?"

"Our Saviour gave a precious assurance to those who unite in presenting their petitions at a throne of grace. 'Where two or three are gathered together in my name, there am I in the midst of them.' Some one must lead – there ought always to be several to do so – and why should you be excused more than another?"

"Elsie is willing, mamma, and Miss Pettit too."

"I am glad to hear it," the mother said, with an affectionate look at her eldest daughter. "I know it will be something of a trial to Elsie, and doubtless it is to Miss Pettit too – it is to almost every one: but what a light cross to bear for Jesus compared to that he bore for us – or those borne by the martyrs of old; or even by the missionaries who leave home and dear ones to go far away to teach the heathen! I had hoped my Vi was ready to follow her Master wherever his providence called her: that she would not keep back any part of the price, but give him all."

"Oh yes, yes, mamma!" she cried, the tears starting to her eyes, "I want to be altogether his. I have given him all, and don't want to keep back anything. I will try to do this if you think he calls me to it; though it seems almost impossible."

"My child, he will help you if you ask him; will give his Holy Spirit to teach you how to pray and what to pray for. Try to get your mind and heart full of your own and others' needs, to forget their presence and remember his: then words will come, and you will find that in trying to do the Master's work and will, you have brought down a rich blessing upon your own soul. And why should we feel it a trial to speak aloud to our Father in the presence of others of his children, or of those who are not?"

"I don't know, mamma; it does seem very strange that we should."

"I should like to attend your meetings, but hardly suppose I should be welcome," Mrs. Travilla said with a smile.

"To us, mamma," both answered, "but perhaps not to the others. Miss Pettit said there were to be none but young girls."

"Isa is invited, I presume?"

"Yes, mamma, and says she will attend; but can't promise anything more. I think she will, though, if you will talk to her as you have to us," Violet added, as they rose to return to the veranda, where the rest of the family still lingered.

And she was not mistaken. Isa was too true and earnest a Christian, too full of love for the Master and zeal for the upbuilding of his cause and kingdom, to refuse to do anything that she saw would tend to that, however much it might cost her to attempt it.

"Well, cricket," Mr. Dinsmore said, giving Violet a pet name he had bestowed upon her when she was a very little girl, "come sit on my knee and tell me if we are all to be kept in the dark in regard to the object of this secret conference with mamma?"

"Oh, grandpa," she said, taking the offered seat, and giving him a hug and kiss, "gentlemen have no curiosity, you know. Still, now it's settled, we don't care if you do hear all about it."

Both he and his wife highly approved, and the latter, seeing an interested yet regretful look on poor Molly's face, asked, "Why should we not have, in addition, a female prayer-meeting of our own? We have more than twice the number necessary to claim the promise."

The suggestion was received with favor by all the ladies present, time and place were fixed upon, and then, that they might be the better prepared to engage in this new effort to serve the Master, they agreed to take the subject of prayer for that evening's Bible study.

But once entered upon, they found it so interesting, comprehensive and profitable a theme that they devoted several evenings to it.

The children as well as their elders were continually finding discrepancies between the teachings of the Bible and those of Mr. Jones, and Elsie was not a little relieved to learn that the time for which his services had been engaged had now nearly expired. She hoped there was no danger that he would be requested to remain.

One day as she was leaving the quarter, where she had been visiting the sick, Uncle Ben, now very old and feeble, accosted her respectfully.

"Missus, I'se be bery thankful to hab a little conversation wid you when it suits yo' convenience to talk to dis chile."

"What is it, Uncle Ben?" she asked.

"May I walk 'longside ob de Missus up to de house?" he returned.

"Certainly, Uncle Ben, if you feel strong enough to do so."

"Tank you, Missus; do dese ole limbs good to stretch 'em 'bout dat much. It's 'bout Massa Jones I'se want to converse wid you, Missus. I hear dey's talkin' 'bout invitin' him to stay, and I want to ascertain if you intends to put him ober dis church."

"I, Uncle Ben!" she exclaimed, "I put a minister over your church? I have no right and certainly no wish to do any such thing. It is for the members to choose whom they will have."

"But you pays de money and provides de house for him, Missus."

"That is true; but it does not give me the right to say who he shall be. Only if you should choose one whose teachings I could not approve – one who was not careful to teach according to God's word – I should feel that I could not take the responsibility of supporting him."

"I'se glad of dat, Missus," he said with a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes; "'cause I'se want de Bible truff and nuffin else. And young Massa Jones, he preach bery nice sometimes, but sometimes it 'pears like he disremembers what's in de bressed book, and contradicts it wid some of his own notions."

"Then you don't wish him to stay?"

"No, Missus, dat I don't! hopin' you won't be displeased wid me for sayin' it."

"Not at all, Uncle Ben: I find the very same objection to him that you do."

On reaching the house she bade the old man a kindly good-bye, and directed him to go to the kitchen and tell the cook, from her, to give him a good dinner, with plenty of hot, strong coffee.

Rosie and Walter were on the back veranda looking out for mamma.

"Oh we're so glad you've tum home, mamma!" cried Walter, running to meet her and claim a kiss.

"Yes, mamma, it seemed so long to wait," said Rosie, "and now there is a strange gentleman in the drawing-room, waiting to see you. He's been here a good while, and both grandpas are out."

"Then I must go to him at once. But I think he is not likely to detain me long away from you, darlings," the mother said.

She found the gentleman – a handsome man of middle age – looking not at all annoyed or impatient, but seemingly well entertained by Isa and Violet, who were there, chatting sociably together over some pretty fancy work, when he was shown in by the servant.

They withdrew after Isa had introduced Mrs. Travilla and Mr. Embury.

The former thought it a little singular when she learned that her caller's errand was the same with that of Uncle Ben, i. e., to talk about Mr. Jones and the propriety of asking him to take permanent charge of the two churches: yet with this difference – that he was personally not unfavorable to the idea.

"I like him very well, though he is not by any means Mr. Mason's equal as a preacher," he said, "and I think our little congregation can be induced to give him a call; but we are too few to support him unless by continuing the union with this church, so that the small salary we can give will still be supplemented by the very generous one you pay, and the use of the cottage you built for Mr. Mason. I am taking for granted, my dear Madame, that you intend to go on doing for your retainers here as you have hitherto."

"I do," she said, "in case they choose a minister whose teachings accord with those of the inspired word. I cannot be responsible for any other."

"And do those of Mr. Jones not come up to the standard?"

"I regret to have to say that they do not; his preaching is far from satisfactory to me; he makes nothing of the work of the Spirit, or the danger of grieving Him away forever; nothing of the danger of self-deception; instructing those who are in doubt about the genuineness of their conversion that they must not be discouraged, instead of advising them to go to Christ now and be saved, just as any other sinner must. I fear his teaching may lead some to be content with a false hope. Then he often speaks in a half hesitating way, which shows doubt and uncertainty, on his part, of truths which are taught most plainly and forcibly in scripture. In a word, his preaching leaves the impression upon me that he has no very thorough acquaintance with the Bible, and no very strong confidence in the infallibility of its teachings. Indeed so glaring are his contradictions of scripture, that even my young children have noticed them more than once or twice."

"Really, Mrs. Travilla, you make out a strong case against him," remarked her interlocutor, after a moment's thoughtful silence, "and upon reflection I believe a true one. I am surprised at myself that I have listened with so little realization of the important defects in his system of theology. I was not ardently in favor of calling him before; now I am decidedly opposed to it."

He was about to take leave, but, the two Mr. Dinsmores coming in at that moment, resumed his seat, and the subject was reopened.

They soon learned that they were all of substantially the same opinion in regard to it.

In the course of the conversation some account was given Mr. Embury of the Sunday evening Bible study at Viamede.

He seemed much interested, and at length asked if he might be permitted to join them occasionally.

"My boys are away at school," he said, "my two little girls go early to bed, and my evenings are often lonely – since my dear Mary left me, now two years ago," he added with a sigh. "May I come, Mrs. Travilla?"

"Yes," she said, reading approval in the eyes of her father and grandfather, while her own tender heart sympathized with the bereaved husband, though at the same time her sensitive nature shrank from the invasion of their family circle by a stranger.

He read it all in her speaking countenance, but could not deny himself the anticipated pleasure of making the acquaintance of so lovely a family group – to say nothing of the intellectual or spiritual profit to be expected from sharing in their searching of the scriptures.

Mr. Embury was a man of liberal education and much general information – one who read and thought a good deal and talked well.

The conversation turned upon literature, and Mr. Dinsmore presently carried him off to the library to show him some valuable books recently purchased by himself and his daughter.

They were still there when the tea-bell rang, and being hospitably urged to remain and partake of the meal with the family, Mr. Embury accepted the invitation with unfeigned pleasure.

All were present even down to little Walter, and not excepting poor Molly.

Her apartments at Viamede being on the same floor with dining-room, library and parlors, she joined the family gatherings almost as frequently as any one else – indeed whenever she preferred the society of her relatives to the seclusion of her own room.

Mr. Embury had occasionally seen her at church. Her bright, intellectual face and crippled condition had excited his interest and curiosity, and in one way and another he had learned her story.

Truth to tell, one thing that had brought him to Viamede was the desire to make her acquaintance – though Molly and the rest were far from suspecting it at the time.

He had no definite motive for seeking to know her, except that his large, generous heart was drawn out in pity for her physical infirmity, and filled with admiration of her cheerfulness under it, and the energy and determination she had shown in carving out a career for herself, and steadily pursuing it spite of difficulties and discouragements that would have daunted many a weaker spirit.

She had less of purely physical beauty than any other lady present, her mother excepted, yet there was something in her face that would have attracted attention anywhere; and her conversational powers were enviable, as Mr. Embury discovered in the course of the evening, for so delightful did he find the society of these new friends, both ladies and gentlemen, that he lingered among them until nearly ten o'clock, quite oblivious of the flight of time until reminded of it by the striking of the clock.

"Really, Mrs. Travilla," he said, rising to take leave, "I owe you an apology for this lengthened visit, which has somehow taken the place of my intended call; but I must beg you to lay the blame where it should fall, on the very great attractiveness of your family circle."

"The apology is quite out of proportion to the offence, sir," she returned, with a kindly smile; "so we grant you pardon, and shall not refuse it for a repetition of the misdeed."

"I wish," he said, glancing round from one to another, "that you would all make me a return in kind. I will not say that Magnolia Hall is equal to Viamede, but it is called a fine place, and I can assure you of at least a hearty welcome to its hospitalities."

CHAPTER XIII

"I preached as never sure to preach again,And as a dying man to dying men."– Richard Baxter.

There was a stranger in the pulpit the next Sunday morning; one whose countenance, though youthful, by its intellectuality, its earnest thoughtfulness, and a nameless something that told of communion with God and a strong sense of the solemn responsibility of thus standing as an ambassador for Christ to expound his word and will to sinful, dying men, gave promise of a discourse that should send empty away no attentive hearer hungering and thirsting for the bread and the water of life.

Nor was the promise unfulfilled. Taking as his text the Master's own words, "They hated me without a cause," he dwelt first upon the utter helplessness, hopelessness and wretchedness of that estate of sin and misery into which all mankind were plunged by Adam's fall; then upon God's offered mercy through a Redeemer, even his only begotten and well-beloved Son; upon the wondrous love of Christ "in offering himself a sacrifice to satisfy divine justice and reconcile us to God," as shown first in what he resigned – the joy and bliss of heaven, "the glory which he had with the Father before the world was" – secondly in his birth and life on earth, of which he gave a rapid but vivid sketch from the manger to the cross – showing the meekness, patience, gentleness, benevolence, self-denial, humility and resignation of Jesus – how true, guileless, innocent, loving and compassionate he was; describing the miracles he wrought – every one an act of kindness to some poor sufferer from bereavement, accident, disease, or Satan's power; then the closing scenes of that wondrous life – the agony in the garden, the cruel mockery of a trial, the scourging, the crucifixion, the expiring agonies upon the cross.

He paused; the audience almost held their breath for the next words, the silent tears were stealing down many a cheek.

Leaning over the pulpit with outstretched hand, with features working with emotion, "I have set before you," he said in tones thrilling with pathos, "this Jesus in his life and in his death. He lived not for himself, but for you; he died not for his own sins, but for yours and mine: he offers you this salvation as a free gift purchased with his own blood. Yea, risen again, and ever at the right hand of God, he maketh intercession for you. If you hate him, is it not without a cause?"

The preacher had wholly forgotten himself in his subject; nor did self intrude into the prayer that followed the sermon. Truly he seemed to stand in the immediate presence of Him who died on Calvary and rose again, as he poured out his confessions of sins, his gratitude for redeeming love, his earnest petitions for perishing souls, blindly, wickedly hating without a cause this matchless, this loving, compassionate Saviour. And for Christ's own people, that their faith might be strengthened, their love increased, that they might be very zealous for the Master, abounding in gifts and prayers and labors for the upbuilding of his cause and kingdom.

"The very man we should have here, if he can be induced to come," Mr. Dinsmore said in a quiet aside to his daughter as the congregation began to disperse, going out silently or conversing in subdued tones; for the earnest, solemn discourse had made a deep impression.

"Yes, papa. Oh, I should rejoice to hear such preaching every Sabbath!" was Elsie's answer.

"And I," Mr. Embury said, overhearing her remark. "But Mr. Keith gave us expressly to understand that he did not come as a candidate; he is here for his health or recreation, being worn out with study and pastoral work, as I understand."

"Keith?" exclaimed Mr. Dinsmore. "I thought there was something familiar in his face. Elsie, I think he must belong to our Keiths."

"We must find out, papa," she said. "Oh, I shall be glad if he does!"

"Shall I bring him up and introduce him?" Mr. Embury asked. "Ah, here he is!" as, turning about, he perceived the young minister close at hand.

"Dinsmore! Travilla! those are family names with us!" the latter said, with an earnest, interested look from one to the other as the introductions were made.

"As Keith is with us," Mr. Dinsmore answered, grasping his hand. "I opine that I am speaking to a grandson of my cousin Marcia Keith and her husband, Stuart Keith, of Pleasant Plains, Indiana?"

"Yes, sir; I am the son of Cyril, their second son, and bear the same name. And you, sir, are the Cousin Horace of whom I have so often heard my grandmother and Aunt Mildred speak?"

"The same."

"And Mrs. Travilla is Cousin Elsie?" turning to her with a look of great interest and pleasure mingled with admiration; but which quickly changed to one of intense, sorrowful sympathy as he noticed her widow's weeds. He had often heard of the strong attachment between herself and husband, and this was the first intimation he had had of her bereavement.

She read his look and gave him her hand silently, her heart too full for speech.

"You will go home with us, of course," said Mr. Dinsmore, after introducing his wife and the other ladies of the family.

"And stay as long as you possibly can," added Elsie, finding her voice. "Papa and I shall have a great many questions to ask about our cousins."

"I shall be most happy to accept your kind invitation, if Mr. Embury will excuse me from a prior engagement to dine and lodge with him," replied Mr. Keith, turning with a smile to the proprietor of Magnolia Hall, who was still standing near in a waiting attitude.

"I am loath to do so," he said, pleasantly, "but relatives have the first claim. I will waive mine for the present, in your favor, Mrs. Travilla, if you will indemnify me by permission to call frequently at Viamede while Mr. Keith stays; and afterward, if you don't find me a bore. I might as well make large demands while I am about it."

"Being in a gracious mood, I grant them, large as they are," she responded, in the same playful tone that he had used. "Come whenever it suits your convenience and pleasure, Mr. February."

"Viamede!" said Mr. Keith, meditatively, as they drove homeward. "I remember hearing Aunt Mildred talk of a visit she paid there many years ago, when she was quite a young girl, and you, Cousin Elsie, were a mere baby."

"Yes," said old Mr. Dinsmore. "It was I who brought her. Horace was away in Europe at the time, and the death of Cameron, Elsie's guardian, made it necessary for me to come on and attend to matters. Mildred was visiting us at Roselands that winter, and I was very glad to secure her as travelling companion. Do you remember anything about it, Elsie?"

"Not very much, grandpa," she said: "a little of Cousin Mildred's kindness and affection; something of the pain of parting from my dear home and the old servants. But I have a very vivid recollection of a visit paid to Pleasant Plains with papa," and she turned to him with a deeply affectionate look, "shortly before his marriage. I then saw Aunt Marcia, as both she and papa bade me call her, and Cousin Mildred and all the others, not forgetting Uncle Stewart. We had a delightful visit, had we not, papa?"

"Yes, I remember we enjoyed it greatly."

"I was just then very happy in the prospect of a new mamma," Elsie went on, with a smiling glance at her loved stepmother, "and papa was so very good as to allow me to tell of my happiness to the cousins. Your father was quite a tall lad at that time, Cousin Cyril, and very kind to his little cousin, who considered him a very fine young gentleman."

"He is an elderly man now," remarked his son. "You have seen Aunt Mildred and some others of the family since then?"

"Yes, several times; she and a good many of the others were with us at different times during the Centennial. But why did you not let us know of your coming, Cousin Cyril? why not come directly to us?"

"It was a sudden move on my part," he said, "and indeed I was not aware that I was coming into the neighborhood of Viamede, or that you were there. But I am delighted that it is so – that I have the opportunity to become acquainted with you and to see the place, which Aunt Mildred described as a paradise upon earth."

"We think it almost that, but you shall judge for yourself," she said, with a pleased smile.

"Beautiful! enchanting! the half had not been told me!" he exclaimed in delight, as, a few moments later, he stood upon the veranda gazing out over the emerald velvet of the lawn, bespangled with its many hued and lovely flowers, and dotted here and there with giant oaks, graceful magnolias, and clusters of orange trees laden with their delicate, sweet-scented blossoms and golden fruit, to the lakelet whose waters glittered in the sunlight, and the fields, the groves and hills beyond.

"Ah, if earthly scenes are so lovely, what must heaven be!" he added, turning to Elsie a face full of joyful anticipation.

"Yes," she responded in low, moved tones, "how great is their blessedness who walk the streets of the Celestial City! How their eyes must feast upon its beauties! And yet – ah, methinks it must be long ere they can see them, for gazing upon the lovely face of Him whose blood has purchased their right to enter there."

"Even so," he said. "Oh, for one glimpse of His face! Dear cousin," and he took her hand in his, "let the thought of the 'exceeding and eternal weight of glory' your loved one is now enjoying, and which you will one day share with him, comfort you in your loneliness and sorrow."

"It does, it does!" she said tremulously, "that and the sweet sense of His abiding love, and presence who can never die and never change. I am far from unhappy, Cousin Cyril. I have found truth in those beautiful words,

'Then sorrow touched by Thee, grows brightWith more than rapture's ray,As darkness shows us worlds of lightWe never saw by day.'"

They had been comparatively alone for the moment, no one near enough to overhear the low-toned talk between them.

The young minister was greatly pleased with Viamede – the more so the more he saw of it – and with his new-found relatives, the more and better he became acquainted with them; while they found him all his earnest, scriptural preaching had led them to expect.

His religion was not a mask, or a garment to be worn only in the pulpit or on the Sabbath, but permeated his whole life and conversation; as was the case with most if not all of those with whom he now sojourned; and like them, he was a happy Christian; content with the allotments of God's providence, walking joyously in the light of his countenance, making it the one purpose and effort of his life to live to God's glory and bring others to share in the blessed service.

He was strongly urged to spend the Winter at Viamede as his cousin's guest, and preacher to the two churches.

He took a day or two to consider the matter, then, to the great satisfaction of all concerned, consented to remain, thanking his cousins warmly for their kindness in giving him so sweet a home; for they made him feel that he was entirely one of themselves, always welcome in their midst, yet at perfect liberty to withdraw into the seclusion of his own apartments whenever duty or inclination called him to do so.

The well-stocked library supplied him with all needed books, there were servants to wait upon him, horses at his disposal, in short, nothing wanting for purposes of work or of recreation. Again and again he said to himself, or in his letters to those in the home he had left, that "the lines had fallen to him in pleasant places."