Part 8

“I cannot do three years’ work in one. Besides, it is easier to fall into bad habits than to get rid of them. After all, I may get along just as well; but mother expected me to fill Lovell’s place. She wrote me in her last letter, that if I could not help myself a little, she should have to take my sister from school; she could not afford the expense of both. Poor mother.”

“Poor mother,” I echoed, and thought of what I should do, had I only a mother to write me letters full of loving words, and a sister that must be taken from school unless I could help myself in a measure. I was roused by his voice.

“We can never be young but once. I want my share of pleasure.”

“Do you find it?”

“Not yet; but I am hoping every day for something better.”

“Which you will never find, I am afraid. Judging from your own words, you are making your mother unhappy, and yourself miserable.”

“It is so; but what can I do?”

“Break off your idle habits; say good-by to your fun-loving companions, and begin to work right earnestly. This is the way others have done.”

“I ought to do it; but it is too late.”

“And you will oblige your mother to take that little sister from school?”

“Oh, I hope not; she is not so poor as she thinks. True, I have been spending a good deal this winter. Gilmore has a rich father, and I could not bear to be shabby in the suppers.”

This was my last year at Rockdale; and if the service was pleasanter, it was not less arduous. I had very little time for myself, a half hour’s stroll at twilight being my only recreation. Still I believed that I was improving, both intellectually and morally; and this sufficed me. Jennie was also climbing the hill of science rapidly. Frank Clavers’ sister had returned the year previous from boarding-school; and being pleased with Jennie, and learning that she could sing, she had offered to give her lessons in music. Seeing her fondness for books, Miss Clavers soon kindly offered to help her here also. This called for additional gratitude on my part; I had felt so troubled about this little sister, whom my mother left in my charge. Doing for myself, I hardly felt it to be right not to aid her personally more than my duties would allow. Now she had the benefit of example, and also the instruction of a young lady who was said to be a finished scholar.

Thus easily I slipped into Robert Lovell’s place as tutor, and also into his class in Sabbath-school. Teaching others is one of the best means of self-culture; and I was in this way sent to my Bible, if not more frequently, at least with a more intense desire to understand its teachings. Thinking, studying, meditating, I drew nearer the cross each day; each day began to realize more perfectly the beauty of His words who spake as never man spake, the glory of his countenance beaming with untold love; the terrible agony he suffered on the cross; his willingness to forgive sin; and above all, the encouragement in coming to him freely, as to a friend loved and confided in. Oh, why had I not seen this before? I had hopes that I did love him--that I did trust him--that I did follow him; but Oh, it was so far off. Had I been near, I should never have doubted as I had done; I should never have gone through all these months with my heart heavy, the waters going over my soul, striving to do only because I knew it to be right, and only half trusting the divine promise, “I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee.” Oh, blind and foolish heart, thus to grope in darkness when He was waiting with outstretched arms to receive thee.

How bright and beautiful my pathway now opened before me. Not that barriers were all removed, obstacles all cleared away; but I no longer felt troubled with a weak, half trust. I knew His promises were sure; that he would not leave me; that he would be in reality not a personal friend merely, but one closer than a brother. A long time had I been learning the lesson of his love, a long time discovering the depth of his tenderness; now, satisfied to rest on him, I found it joy unutterable.

XII.

My first vacation after leaving Rockdale was spent with Mr. Wyman. Four years since I had left him, poor and ignorant. Now, I certainly was not any richer. Still I had advanced in knowledge of books and in mental discipline; and although my longing after an education was not in the least abated, I had learned there is nothing really desirable in comparison with the fear of God and true holiness. I did not care now to choose in what part of his vineyard I should work. I only wished to labor for him; and to do this effectually, I must not falter in my purpose of an education.

With this intent I went into the hay-field with as much ardor as before into the school-room. Money, Mr. Stovill said, was desirable to go through college with, and I knew the worth of it.

“I see that you have not forgotten how to work,” said Mr. Wyman, coming into the meadow one sunny afternoon.

“Not forgetting, but still more accustomed to it, Mr. Wyman. I have been hard at it ever since I was here.”

“There is a difference between head work and hand work,” said the farmer with a quiet smile.

“I have been doing both,” I replied; “turning book leaves has not bleached my hands.”

“While I have to confess to the doing of only one. The young folks of this day have much better advantages than were common when I was a boy. We had no such schools then as Rockdale.”

“I think you do yourself injustice, Mr. Wyman, when you say that you have only been working with your hands. Had it not been for you, I could not have gone to Rockdale when I did, if ever. In word and deed, your labor has budded, blossomed, and brought forth fruit. We sometimes study quite as effectually out of books as in them.”

“True; but if I could live my life over again, I should think more of a book education. Those that know the most have the means of doing the most good.”

“There is one comforting truth,” said I, turning the hay vigorously: “God directs all our steps. He appoints our place; he gives us our work. I used to think there was in labor a great choice, and although I was willing to do any thing because I felt it to be right, still there was also a consciousness that, could I choose, such would not be my employment. I remember the morning I came here for the first time; I rebelled not a little against it. Still it was a means, a stepping-stone to the desired good.”

“And is it not the same now?”

“No; I am willing to be directed. I like to be led by Him, and feel safe in following. Then I feared continually lest I should make a mistake, and through weakness or ignorance fail to use the means to the greatest advantage. Now I try to exercise human wisdom and a prudent forethought, and still rest contented, whatever the result. The Lord knows all, and he knows whether this or that shall prosper. To do right, and to do my best, is all that he requires of me; events are with him, and success is given wheresoever he pleases.”

Saturday evening at length came. We had worked hard through the week, but the hay was not all in. Nine o’clock, and there still remained several loads. A consultation was called.

“It looks like rain,” said Mr. Wyman. “But you are all tired, and the oxen have done enough for one day; perhaps we had better let it rest. It will not rain to-night; and if it does to-morrow, it wont take long to put in three loads.”

“But to-morrow will be Sunday, Mr. Wyman.”

“I know; but it would not be right to let the hay spoil.”

“I do not understand that; the command is positive: ‘Six days shalt thou labor, and do all thy work: but the seventh day is the Sabbath of the Lord thy God: in it thou shalt not do any work, thou, nor thy son, nor thy daughter, thy man-servant, nor thy maid-servant, nor thy cattle, nor thy stranger that is within thy gates.’ Nothing can be more explicit.”

“It is also equally incumbent upon us not to waste our substance,” said Mr Wyman. “If you read the New Testament rightly, you will find that it is lawful to do works of mercy and necessity.”

“True; but would the getting in hay be counted such a work, when God expressly bids us keep his Sabbath even in harvest time?”

“Yes, if the hay was to be spoiled by the neglect, it ought to be got in.”

There was no more said. It was late, and the men dispersed. I went directly to my room, not a little disconcerted about what I might be called upon to do. Mr. Wyman was an old man, and had been very kind to me; it was not for me to speak to him as an equal. He felt it to be right; I felt it to be a direct act of disobedience. We must each act according to our conscience; and with this thought I went to sleep.

The next morning the sun peeped through a dull, hazy atmosphere, looked, and was gone, showing occasional glimpses of his face till nearly church time, when the clouds began to gather and roll themselves into inky blackness, and rain seemed inevitable.

“Put the oxen to the cart,” said Mr. Wyman; “that hay will be ruined.”

“But, pa, it is Sunday,” said Mrs. Wyman.

“Well, what if it is? You are ready to go to church, and the wagon is at the door; go on, I shall stop for the hay. It is just as much a duty to save our property as to do any thing else. We are told to be diligent in business;” and the farmer exchanged his Sunday coat for his work-day one, and went out.

“Marston,” he said as he passed through the back porch, “you load faster than any of the others. If we hurry, we can get it in and then go to church.”

“I cannot do that kind of work on the Sabbath, Mr. Wyman. I regard it as an open violation of His law.”

“If you cannot work for me to-day, you certainly cannot to-morrow.”

I did not stop to question; there was but one course for me. My head bowed over my hands. To lose Mr. Wyman’s friendship was more than I could bear.

“What is that to thee? follow thou me,” floated through my brain and comforted me. Presently a light hand was on my shoulder, and a kind voice said,

“Marston, will you drive us to church? I do not think it will rain at all.”

“If you desire it, Mrs. Wyman.”

We started, Mrs. Wyman with Emma and Alice. As we passed the meadow, Mr. Wyman was busily pitching on the hay, Anderson and Gregory each having a cart. The oxen stood with their great patient eyes rolling about, as if not quite sure of the right of breaking in upon their day of rest. Nothing was said, however.

We reached the church door just in time to escape a few quiet drops; but these were soon gone; the clouds unrolled and dispersed their dark folds, and before noon all was bright again.

“Oh, father, you should have heard the sermon this morning,” said Alice Wyman, a sweet, blooming girl, tripping into the parlor as though nothing had happened. The farmer sat in his straight-backed chair, the hay was all in, and he was reading the Bible.

“What was the text, child?” he at length said.

“‘Trust in the Lord, and do good; so shalt thou dwell in the land, and verily thou shalt be fed.’ Mr. Gordon spoke so beautifully of the implicit trust we are privileged to have, it seemed to me I never felt so forcibly before how far short we come of realizing all that might be ours, the contentment that would fill our hearts, would we put aside self and lean more perfectly upon Him.”

“But there is something for us to do,” said her father. “We are not to sit still; we are to act, and that diligently.”

“Yes,” answered Mrs. Wyman, “Mr. Gordon said there was something for us to do. The first act was obedience; the second was love and trust.”

By this time dinner was on the table. The farmer was evidently in no talkative mood, and few words were spoken.

In the afternoon I walked with Alice to the Sabbath-school, and returned comforted. Perhaps Mr. Wyman would turn me off; it was more than probable he would. I had displeased him. Still, having done what I thought to be right, I would trust it all to God.

The next morning as we finished breakfast, and before we arose from the table, Mr. Wyman said,

“I owe you for two weeks’ work, Marston: I am sorry for what happened yesterday; still I must have the direction of what shall be done on my own farm. I shall fill your place with some one who will do what I ask of him.”

“Had it been any other than a plain, positive command, I should have gone with you, Mr. Wyman; but so positive is the decree with regard to the Sabbath, there could be no question with me concerning my duty.”

Mrs. Wyman and Alice followed me down the walk, and begged me not to cherish unkind feelings towards Mr. Wyman.

“No fear of that,” I answered. “He has always been my friend, and I shall not think unkindly of him for this. He is too good a man not to be sorry when he thinks of it with his accustomed coolness.”

I had nothing to do but to walk back to Claverton, and tell Jennie what had befallen me.

“I am sorry, Marston; but I should have been still sorrier had you acted otherwise;” and she pressed her red lips to mine. “An entire obedience is necessary. Do not be troubled; some good will come of it.”

We walked down to the little gate, where stood a messenger from Mr. Willett.

“Mr. Willett would like to see Marston,” as Jennie took the message.

“He has not been well for several weeks, and has inquired for you continually,” she said, as she held the gate for me to pass.

Mr. Willett was pillowed up in his easy-chair, and seemed delighted to see me.

“I am glad that you are free,” he said at length. “I have been sick, and the doctor forbids all kinds of exertion. Every thing is going to ruin in the store. If you will just go in, I shall consider it a great favor, and will give you more than you can get doing any thing else.”

How soon the black cloud had showed a silver lining. I had felt so unwilling to leave Mr. Wyman, so sad and desponding, that I could not think of any thing else as I walked back to the village. With all my waywardness, God was not unmindful. Could I ever despond again? I felt at the time that it would be impossible.

“I told you something good would come of it,” said Jennie as I crossed the street and once more entered the parlor. “‘A right effort is never lost.’ This should teach us both to trust more perfectly.”

Mr. Willett recovered rapidly; and by the time vacation was over, I was appointed a regular teacher in the Rockdale academy.

“This will delay your college course, but it will be better for you in the end,” said Mr. Harlan. “You are still young enough to wait next year, and your salary will enable you to begin. Besides, if you choose to study while teaching, I will aid you all I can; and I have little doubt you can enter the Sophomore class instead of the Freshman.”

This was a step I had not thought of, and I quickly resolved not a moment should be lost; to teach and to study should be my work for another year.

Among the first of the new pupils that particularly interested me when I entered upon my duties was Ezra Metcalf. Stimulated by his little teacher, he had put forth very commendable effort; and through the interest of Mr. Gordon and one or two benevolent ladies of Terryville, Mr. Harlan had been induced to take him, the boy paying his board, as I had done, by labor.

XIII.

It proved as Mr. Harlan had said. The next year I entered the Sophomore class, once more finding myself face to face with Frank Clavers and Harry Gilmore. Their greeting was most cordial, and Harry’s friendship was as warm as ever. Although my year’s salary had clothed me decently and left me something for books, it still required the closest economy to get along; making me appear, to those who had plenty, as close and parsimonious. This was in itself a trial, and the hardest with which I had to contend. Yet my frank avowal of a scanty purse saved me from many temptations. In the various expedients of the students for killing time I was not expected to share; and still I always had a spare dollar for a new book, or sufficient to expend upon a course of scientific lectures; while there were some lavish in expenditures for rides, suppers, ices, and sherbet, who were at times obliged to deny themselves the means of improvement.

It was not trying to acknowledge poverty when the admission brought no dishonor. Still, when with some of my class-mates who were rich men’s sons, and well supplied with pin-money, I found to my cost that I had not learned the lesson of self-conquest so perfectly as I had flattered myself. I was once looking at a second-hand book in the presence of Morris and Wright, two of the richest students in college.

“That is what I call small business, to look up old threadbare books,” said Morris, in a tone that I could not avoid hearing, at the same time ordering a new copy of the same work; to which Wright replied, while a contemptuous smile wreathed his proud lips. I could have wept with vexation; and the next moment was ashamed of myself for giving way to such a weak, ignoble feeling.

Through all these days Jennie’s letters comforted me, and Mr. and Mrs. Harlan did not forget me.

“Regard the right,” said the latter in one of her letters, “and seek for companions such as honor it. Think too much of yourself to cherish a selfish thought or feeling; and let every act prove that a light purse does not of necessity imply low tastes or a meagre intellect.”

Little did the good woman imagine all the trials springing out of my weakness. Still the strife was short, and invariably I found my way back to the sheltering arms of that Friend who looks not alone to the outward, and who judges not as man judges.

Overhearing one of the professors saying that he could not find a suitable gardener for his grounds, and having learned a good deal of gardening from Mr. Harlan, I offered myself, and was accepted. I needed exercise. This was just as good as boating, ball-playing, or the gymnasium.

One Saturday, as I returned from the river with a wheelbarrow of pebbles for the flooring of a new arbor I had just planned, I met several of my class-mates at the gate. Conquering my first impulse of false shame, I advanced as though it was the most pleasant exercise imaginable.

“Gardening for the pleasure of it?” said Stevens, in a tone of irony he knew so well to use.

“Not for pleasure, Stevens, but from necessity;” and I walked on. The next meeting was easier. I had filled the wheelbarrow again, and was crossing the carriage-way, when Wright drove leisurely along in an open buggy. As he passed me he touched his hat, while a mocking smile wreathed his lips:

“There goes the best scholar in his class.”

“And the best I intend to be,” I said to myself, but without any unpleasant feeling.

Finishing my task, I went to the office for letters; passing the hotel just as the numerous hacks had left a greater number of guests than usual. I had nearly passed, when suddenly my name was called, and in a voice that seemed strangely familiar. It was Silas June. He had given up study, and had been two years in the city, and talked largely of city pleasures and pursuits. His uncle had recently become very wealthy through land speculation, and had generously offered Mrs. June a home, and also taken Silas into his employ as a clerk.

“I suppose you are planning ways and means yet,” he said at length. “I remember you used to be good at this.”

“Practice makes perfect,” I answered.

“I have never had any thing else to do, and I am now quite as expert as ever.”

“I told you I should get along just as well without so much study, although I did not then dream of the good in store for me. Uncle is rich, and without a family of his own. He must do something with his money, and I shall come in for a large share.”

“I hope you will repay him by making a good and noble man.”

“I shall please him, if that is what you mean, although it goes greatly against my inclination to sit bound down day after day to the day-book and ledger. Still night comes, and I enjoy while he sleeps.”

“You enjoy; how so?”

“Go to parties, operas, theatres, or into some saloon; anywhere, if I find good company.”

“You used to try to deceive yourself with regard to study,” I said, with a degree of earnestness that made him laugh heartily. “Do not deceive yourself now, and run into company that will lead you to ruin, just because your uncle is rich enough to give you the opportunity. Deception cannot prosper.”

“Don’t everybody deceive--everybody but you and Lovell?”

“That many practise it, I allow, and that some for a time succeed, is very possible; but the end is not yet.”

“There is no use in denying self-interest is the motive,” he answered; “and if some noble deeds and benevolent actions are performed, the mainspring is the same. I humor my uncle, for I need his money; you study enough to kill a common man, making this a stepping-stone to something else. What’s the difference?”

There was a difference, notwithstanding his fluent speech. Back as far as I could look there was still one purpose-- a strong and noble manhood, a life of usefulness and honor; and in my estimation, a good education would greatly contribute to bring this about. This was why I studied, why I was resolved to study--not merely distinction, worldly honor, or aggrandizement, but to possess a truly excellent character, worthy the regard of others and the respect of myself.

XIV.

At length a year in college had passed; one more layer was unwrapped from round the kernel of college lore, and as Juniors we were trying with renewed powers honorably to rival each other.

Not alone to us change had come, but to others. Miss Clavers had opened a seminary in the little village bearing her father’s name, and Jennie was an assistant. How full of love and encouragement were her letters. How strange it all seemed: no longer a little girl that nestled in my arms, and looked up to me as one able to do so much, but a tall, stately young woman, going in and out before her pupils with the conscious grace of one who feels that she is able to do all that she has undertaken.

It was a bright autumn day when Stevens invited a party of some half a dozen students to walk with him to a town not far distant. For the last six months I had been on friendly terms with him, so I did not think it strange when he invited me; neither did I refuse to go. It was a perfect day: the rich, fervid hues of autumn were spread over miles of forest-trees and shrubbery; a thin veil of mist hung over every winding stream, while the brilliant sunshine illuminated the many varying shades of wood, water, and cloud, blending all in perfect harmony.

That hazy, dreamy atmosphere, how well I remember it. The memory of that walk makes my heart beat with much of its youthful buoyancy. Under the exhilarating influence of the day, and our unexpected freedom, we ran, laughed, shouted--appearing, as we really were, a company of grown-up school-boys. I remember Harry Gilmore’s mirthful tone as we pelted him with chestnuts, and how Wright forgot his dignity when we covered his hat and shoulders with red and yellow leaves.

After visiting a gallery of paintings, which was the ostensible object of the excursion, and which we all expressed ourselves as sorry to leave, Stevens invited us to step into a restaurant for refreshment. Wright and Gilmore left us to make a call, but the remainder of the party entered the saloon.

When seated in an elegant room, we were soon supplied with tempting viands. Not satisfied with a lavish profusion of fruits, cakes, and ices, Stevens rang for the waiter, to whom he gave orders in an undertone, the nature of which was evident from the speedy appearance of glasses and bottles.

“Now to the health of the company: may the shadow of each never be less,” said Stevens, filling his glass. There was a burst of applause, and I looked around the table, hoping to find at least one representative of total abstinence; but with the exception of my own, every glass was drained.