Part 4
After the guests had departed the Doctor decided he would fill his lungs with fresh air by a short stroll in the park before retiring. Thus to saunter was a favorite experience with him after an evening spent in close quarters. He could be alone, yet not alone,--in the world, yet not of it.
“These breathing places are delicious,” he mused, “good for all, day or night; to the poor a blessed change from close and narrow homes, and to the wealthy if they only knew it, from their over-heated rooms. Fresh air in the lungs and a good quaff of pure water are the most healthy somnorifics I know. Thank Heaven, this park furnishes such luxuries to all.” This as he took a seat near a fountain which overflowed conveniently for the thirsty wayfarer.
The trees overhead were coming into new leaf, and the grass plots newly trimmed,--the resurrection of spring evidently near at hand. Arc lights from a distance shone through, giving a silvery lustre to the undersides of the new foliage, and a radiant glow which permeated the long vista.
He looked above into the azure,--it was a starlit night; also towards the horizon, down one of the wide avenues which intersected at the park. Upon a public building in the distance some statuary above the cornice stood distinct in outline against the sky, but from time to time the figures were obscured by clouds of smoke or steam enveloping as in a luminous mist. The figures came and went as if they themselves were endowed with movement. He watched the smoke-mist, tracing to its source,--a press establishment,--the newspaper workers busy while the public slept. He hoped that to-morrow’s issue might bring news of something better than the smoke of war, mists of politics, and the vile conflicts of the debased side of humanity. Why not accentuate the good in the world instead of the evil? Such would be the way of truth in life, to overcome the evil with the good. But he did not feel very sanguine that to-morrow’s issue would be of that sort,--certainly not so long as the use and abuse of head-lines purposely to mislead the public for the sake of cash obtained.
He then looked more carefully at the fountain. It was a gift to the city from a dear friend of both himself and Paul, their old friend John Burlington, whose philanthropy took many practical forms for the benefit of the public. He skirted the park on his way out, and noticed a barber shop across the street in which a few days previous he had been shaved. Why that particular shop? Because therein he had been shaved by a young woman, of whom in justice it must be said she did it remarkably well. “Woman’s sphere is rapidly increasing,” he mused, “but in such matters, at what a terrible risk and sacrifice of womanly reserve; a gain in wages and publicity, a loss of refinement and the other feminine attributes. Is not woman’s head-gear sufficiently complicated already to furnish employment to experts of her own sex without attempting to scrape a man’s chin? Certainly the latter was a risky business for a woman to attempt on short notice.”
There was a hotel on the corner. He stopped to purchase a cigar, but it was too late. Too late for that, but not too late for others passing in and out. A couple passed through an inconspicuous entrance with a peculiar dim lantern in the vestibule near by, and soon disappeared. They appeared to be sneaking in, yet perfectly familiar with the premises.
A gay crowd of young people on bicycles passed by; it seemed unusually late to see so many out. As they wheeled off, talking in high spirits, there was naught, however, to distinguish them from a party of industrious young workers who had been kept indoors during the day, and whose youth demanded outdoor exercise, even if it had to be taken after dark.
“Where are their parents? still snoozing?” queried the Doctor,--“a ride after midnight may lead to a ‘skip by the light of the moon,’ but that’s none of my business,” and the bachelor doctor wended his way back towards his own domicile.
He was just about to enter when he spied a slight, agile figure, an elderly lady dressed in black, approaching and motioning to detain him. He could not mistake that light airy step, the nervous activity, the characteristic gestures. It must surely be she whose activity in good works he had known so long and well, yet he little expected to see her alone in the public street at that hour.
He ran down to meet her, took her arm under his and begged her to come in.
“I can’t, my dear, positively I can’t,” in a voice sweet and cheerful, as if she wished it but was too busy.
“Well, let me escort you home, then,” insisted the Doctor.
“No, my dear, not necessary at all, not a bit. I never have any difficulty at night. I wouldn’t take you on any account. I’ve been to the----” and she hesitated.
“Well, what can I do for you, Aunt Mary?”
She smiled as if the name was most welcome,--patted the Doctor on the back, called him one of “her boys,” and stopped a minute to chat.
But who was Aunt Mary?
One of those excellent, self-sacrificing Christian women, loving and lovable, whose whole life was devoted to helping and encouraging those in distress. Her vocation especially among the worthy poor, where her heart was ever willing, and her activity constant in their behalf; striving to bring hope and efficient aid to those who were struggling against adversity, kindness where it was most needed, affection where it was seldom met. Among many friends she had a small coterie of gentlemen whom she called her boys. To these she appealed in emergencies, and was sure to receive without further inquiry, simply because “Aunt Mary wanted it.” As sometimes the case with Christian women of her active, sympathetic, sanguine type, she had been led to join a few others in the work of redemption conducted under the auspices of the Midnight Mission. Aunt Mary was returning from the Mission when she caught sight of the Doctor, her heart full to overflowing about some hopeful cases among the unfortunate outcasts she had met. Like an Angel of Mercy she had been spending her evening talking with purity of thought and action to some, and waiting for others who might wander in from the streets. She had been holding out her arms to welcome, to give shelter in the Home--Christ-like--“Come unto Me, all ye that are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest.”
As the Doctor left Aunt Mary at the door of her own modest home, his thoughts reverted irresistibly to his evening’s experience considered as a whole.
The lights and shadows of city life, the contrasts, the changes that a day may bring forth. Then of the countless fields of work for truth as each one sees it in his own environment. Surely the Christ life was the most beautiful and helpful of all.
He recalled how Adele Cultus had once experienced an ardent desire to work in the slums and been prevented by circumstances, yet continued to progress in her own sphere. He thought he detected a spiritual similarity between her and Aunt Mary, yet to outward view there was little to suggest such comparison; yet again there was, for the elderly sympathy for others might have once in youth taken a youthful form of expression,--and the present youthful girl who began by sympathy for others might yet attain to her ideals.
Then his thoughts wandered off in quite another direction. The fresh foliage in the park had forcibly reminded him of the coming season for travel, the time had arrived to make final arrangements for a contemplated trip abroad. Paul and he had so decided during the winter, and already engaged state-rooms. They had often spent summers in England and on the Continent, and this time looked forward to a longer absence than usual,--a visit to Greece, and possibly to the Far East. The Doctor had longed to stand upon a pinnacle of the Himalayas, having then about as much idea of what a pinnacle in that region might prove to be, as many possess of the veritable north pole.
His thoughts were certainly vague, yet again quite definite after their kind. When he turned in to bed and began to enter the domain of Travellers’ Hope, he thought he saw Aunt Mary attending meeting in Exeter Hall, London, and Adele Cultus playing golf with the divinities on Olympus. He was hoping Adele would win, when--he forgot to notice whether she did or not.
VI
AN AVATAR IN THE OCCIDENT--THE THEOPHANY OF SPRING
The advent of spring brought with it the spirit of locomotion to many others besides the Doctor and Paul,--it generally does to a sane mind in a healthy body. With the resurrection of new life comes the exuberant desire to live in the open, more freely, and have one’s being in action, to exercise “thought, being and joy” to the fullest extent.
To none was this more forcibly true than to Adele Cultus, whose whole being responded when the sun shone forth and the birds sang. This condition of things had been greatly strengthened in her limited experience thus far, by a conversation she once had with her father, when she sought his advice in connection with teaching a class in Sunday-School. It was soon after she graduated, and although she was by no means ignorant of academic phraseology in regard to certain matters, she was not satisfied; she wanted a simpler, useful way of expressing facts involving doctrine, and had asked her father a direct question which might have proved a poser to some parents, but certainly not to Professor Cultus, who earnestly desired that his daughter should be spared the mental strife in his own experience over moral and ethical questions involving discussion which really did not help towards better living. The Professor detected that she wished to talk with him seriously; so he drew her towards him, made her sit upon his knee that she might feel near him in love and affection,--comfortably at home while her spirit sought the truth.
“Well, my daughter, what can Father do to help you? Any college conundrums? Life is full of conundrums, you know!”
Adele smiled. “Oh, yes, I suppose so. But what I want is a simple answer--my class must understand, and think about it afterwards.”
“Perhaps you know the answer yourself, already,” said the Professor, “and only wish to quiz me.”
Adele shifted her position on his knee, as if uneasy. “Why, of course I know; I suppose everybody knows,--but I want to be helped. Knowing is not enough. What is sin, anyhow? I know it’s detestable, but I can’t help it. That’s about all I do know, really.”
The Professor drew a breath of relief. Adele saw her father’s eyes brighten, and instantly felt that he would help her.
“Not such a poser as you think,” said the Professor, with marvelous cheerfulness, considering the topic, “although an immense amount has been written about it which certainly is confusing.” Adele, noticing that to him it certainly was not so gloomy as she had expected, at once felt at ease also.
“I don’t care what has been written about it to confuse,--what is it? Some speak of a particular sin first committed by Adam and Eve, and we have inherited it from them. Well, Father dear, I don’t believe I inherited sin from you, even if I do have it myself. God in Heaven is Love,--I can’t believe such a thing of Him. Every baby I look at tells me it isn’t sinful. Why, they stretch out their little hands to you to take ’em in your arms.”
Her father appeared rather more solemn in aspect than before; experiencing a peculiar paternal sensation of mysterious responsibility. He let Adele continue.
“Others,” said she, “speak as if it were a condition we each have to experience for some reason or other. That seems reasonable, because we do. But it’s very confusing to teach, or even to talk of to any one else, even if we all do have the experience. What is it, anyhow?” and she looked at her father straight in the eyes.
A strong, impressive, additional experience, which was inspiring for both of them, resulted; and Adele afterwards looked back upon it as one of life’s turning points, if not a veritable crisis.
Truth paternal, as if direct from “Our Father,” rose instantly within the innermost consciousness of Professor Cultus, father of his beloved daughter sitting on his knee, seeking the truth where she believed it could be found. He knew intuitively what sort of definition could alone satisfy Adele at that time in her life. He must speak the pure helpful truth in sincerity, just as he saw it himself, no more, no less:--and this being the case, the Holy Spirit of Truth in Life gave him power of utterance. He answered promptly. Adele never forgot his words, or to be more precise, the wonderful concept as to facts in nature which his words instilled within her own personality. The thoughts engendered became a part of her being, and produced a purer atmosphere for body, mind and heart.
“Adele, my darling, think of life this way. Truth is like the light, the light you see with your physical eyes;--and light is as righteousness. Sin, as you know, your conscience tells you so, is the absence of righteousness; and this precisely as darkness is the absence of light. Christ, the historic Jesus of Nazareth, is well known, to those who know Him personally, and therefore most competent to judge, as the Light of the World in regard to spiritual life. It was He, among all the founders of the great historic religions, who really, truly, brought that spiritual life and immortality into the brighter light we now enjoy. His personality, as the very source of this light which enlightens, grows clearer and more potent as the history of the world progresses; His personality the most enlightening influence ever known in human experience and the progress of civilizations. He was a thoroughly truthful, righteous man, actuated by love for humanity; whose life, words, deeds and sufferings for truth’s sake, embodied the truth, and nothing but the truth. And now, Adele, with these thoughts about the Light of the World one can understand better, and more light will shine upon your inquiry.
“If one does not live in the good light of righteousness and seek the very brightest and best he can get, then such a person will certainly be more or less in the dark,--the darkness of sin. Of course this condition of living away from the light given us will result in violations of the divine laws in nature, a breaking of the divine rule of duty which is to seek the light of truth, not darkness. Adele, your conscience will tell you the truth, therefore always turn from darkness towards light. Go out into the world somewhere when you can’t see clearly in your mind, and look upwards, the spiritual light will soon come to you, my darling; but be sure to look upwards, always upwards, beyond yourself,--toward the Light of the World.”
“I never did like cloudy days,” mused Adele,--and then audibly, to encourage her father to continue--“I think I know what you mean, Father; please go on.”
“Let me tell you a great secret,” said her father, drawing her still closer. He loved her as the apple of his eye, and was intensely desirous that she should be spared those unnecessary troubles in this life from which he himself had suffered. “Let me tell you a great secret, Adele, one of the most practical mysteries in nature, because able to banish many worries from your own heart-life. Don’t bother, my dear, about overcoming sin, or sins, simply turn from them when they seem near by, moving out into the light, any light you can find,--and the darkness will flee away. Do you understand, my daughter? All sin, but only when they deliberately choose to seek and stay in the dark; all sin, just as we all walk in the dark sometimes, but it is useless to fight in the dark except to get out of it; therefore turn at once toward the light so that you may see what you can see, the better the light the more clearly you will see;--this is a fact in nature both as to physical and spiritual sight, a great secret in nature, hid from many ‘who love darkness.’ Go out into the sunlight whenever you can, so warm and beautiful, and the darkness of sin will flee away,--you will see truth clearer and brighter than ever before.”
“Father, I begin to see a little already,” and she kissed him.
Her natural tendencies were to look upwards and enjoy things. The Professor’s little sermon on Light as Righteousness appealed to her strongly as the truth; and what he had hoped for, namely, that sin, as such, should be put in the dark background so that her mind would not dwell upon it at all, was for once an actual experience in her life. This practical experience was what she most needed then and there. Her father had helped her to look upwards towards the Light of the World, and when she did, she saw no sin nor darkness whatsoever. This was indeed a secret worth knowing to live by. It not only gave her a chance for practical application in her class which she immediately decided to put in practice, but it generated a train of thought which she applied many times in later experience. On the very next Sunday she took her own way to bring the matter home to her class, several members of which would have been much improved by a judicious use of soap and water. She touched upon this somewhat delicate subject by simply suggesting that if any one wished to know what sin was, he could easily find out by looking at his dirty hands in the bright sunshine,--the sin spots could then be easily seen. “Your inside is just like your outside,” said she, “both want watching and washing _in a good light_ to find those dirty sin spots, and get rid of them.” The class understood her perfectly; the boys especially, the girls, too, each after his own kind.
As to the train of thought generated within herself, that also took form, and in a way to strengthen her ideals of what good thoughts should be. She retired to bed that blessed night after her father had told her about the Light of the World and of always looking upwards, with no fear of sin whatever. It is something to be turned from, like many other kinds of dirt in nature, only one had to look upwards in order to avoid it because it soiled the mind as well as the body. There was a lovely picture of the Christ Child in the arms of His Mother, hanging over her writing-desk in her room. As she looked upwards, it appeared bathed in sunlight, and the Baby was so very fresh and clean.
And when the morning rays came into her bedroom, Adele whispered to herself, “Oh, there’s the dawn! the light is coming! The roseate first, and then the golden rays! How beautiful! The Angels of Light! coming to drive away darkness--and sin.” She cherished this symbolism her father had given her, throughout her whole life; and from that day sunrise meant much more to Adele than to many who had none to tell them how the beauties and mysteries of nature are really blended together as one. All may see the facts and be helped, if they will only look upwards towards the Light of the World.
It was not surprising, therefore, at the present period of her career, when the advent of spring approached, that Adele enjoyed the prospect exceedingly. Incidentally she had heard of several who were going abroad that season, among them the Doctor and Paul. “Oh, how I wish I were going! The very thought is exhilarating; what would the realization be! If----”
She went to the window and looked upwards. “What a lovely day!--I think I will take a stroll in the park,” and she picked up a little book which the Doctor had loaned her. “I’ll take this with me and read it; it’s something about Oriental theophanies, whatever that may be. I’ll just read it and imagine I’m out in the Orient. If one cannot go, the next best thing is to imagine one is there,--with a book.”
She was dressing to go out when her thoughts took another flight. “People talk about waiting for things to turn up, they always say circumstances don’t suit just now, and then collapse. Of course they collapse,--I should if always waiting--I am sure I should. I couldn’t stand it. Why not hurry up the circumstances? Mother often makes the circumstances, and then people fall in; I’ve seen her do it fifty times. Oh, how I wish I could go abroad!”--then taking her book she set out for a stroll.
Adele in the park, how different from the Doctor, the circumstances altogether different. Not at night and alone, but when the sunlight gave brilliancy and she was liable at any moment to meet some one she knew.
There was, however, a quiet nook where she hoped to be able to read undisturbed, an inconspicuous seat partially surrounded by a cultivated thicket of shrubbery. This seemed to suit her present mood, and she was soon engrossed in the little book so full of the Oriental way of looking at things, figures of speech in which the forces of nature were personified, and the most ordinary facts described in language which might lead plain people to imagine supernatural operations in nature. It was not so easy as she imagined, however, to keep her mind in focus. Of course she had to nod to several of the girls as they passed by, and with one eye still following them she observed how the birds were ruining a newly planted flower bed, nipping off the young shoots and gobbling up the seed which should be left to sprout later. Of course that had to be stopped,--she must frighten off the birds to save the plants. Returning to her book, she noticed some manuscript leaves inserted. They were in the Doctor’s handwriting and so palpably intended to be read with the text in order to elucidate further the author’s ideas, that Adele had no hesitation whatever in reading them, and became absorbed at once. They seemed like what her father had told her, only in another form. The Doctor had used Western phraseology to convey Oriental imagery and ideas,--to show how Oriental imagery may still be forcible to Western sense,--how the truth was in all, to be perceived by each after his own fashion. Of course the Doctor’s effort was crude, and well showed how such ideas may lose force when separated from the civilization which had originally called them forth; but of this Adele had no realizing sense. They spoke to her so that she could understand. She did not criticise, but sought the truth no matter how crude the effort,--thereby manifesting the prime element essential in all true criticism, namely, sympathy with the author. What she read was entitled:
THE THEOPHANY OF SPRING.
In the Domain of Nature, during early Spring, one sees the Spirit of New Life as an avatar, a coming of the Deity, or manifestation of the Mind in Nature, down to earth--to produce a resurrection of thought, being, joy, from an apparent death and past.
To rescue mankind from destruction, the Spirit form is clothed with Hope as with a garment, hope in tangible manifestation, an admirable exhibition of an abstract idea, a law in nature, in concrete fulfilment,--obedience.
Clothed in delicate, lace-like foliage and young blossoms, the verdant coloring of many shades, the Presence of the Spirit is manifest. As movement tells of the wind, so do the youthful forms tell of refinement, modesty, purity. How exquisite the affinity, the relationship to the azure blue, the heavens above from which new life must come with light, warmth, and nourishment; and with the fleecy clouds floating in the vast expanse, white, the blending of all colors; marking the heavenly route by which the Spirit had passed in coming down to Mother Earth. Sparkling gems, the gift from April showers, decked her hopeful garments; not after man’s arrangement; there was a method in the natural spirit-art which embodied both the good and the true with the beautiful. Wherever the brilliant points could accentuate a graceful fold, or enlighten the mind, or give nourishment, produce good results in any way, as moisture gives life and sustentation, there were the sparkling gems upon the Theophany of New Life.