Neither did he find any rest for his spiritual feet. For some reason he could not grasp the idea of a personal God who cared enough for him to give any practical help. In spite of all that Mrs. Arnot could say, his heart remained as cold and heavy as a stone within his breast.

But to some extent he could appreciate the picture she had presented. He saw one who, through weakness and folly, had fallen into the depths of degradation, patiently and bravely fighting his way up to a true manhood; and he had been made to feel that it was such a noble thing to do that he longed to accomplish it. Whether he could or no he was not sure, for his old confidence was all gone. But he daily grew more bent on making an honest trial, and in this effort a certain native persistency and unwillingness to yield would be of much help to him.

He was now willing, also, to receive any aid which self-respect permitted him to accept, and was grateful for the copying obtained for him by Mrs. Arnot. But she frankly told him that it would not last long. The question what he should do next pressed heavily upon him.

As he was reading the paper to Mr. Growther one evening, his eye caught an advertisement which stated that more hands were needed at a certain factory in the suburbs. He felt sure that if he presented himself in the morning with the others he would be refused, and he formed the bold purpose of going at once to the manufacturer. Having found the stately residence, he said to the servant who answered his summons:

"Will you say to Mr. Ivison that a person wishes to see him?"

The maid eyed him critically, and concluded, from his garb, to leave him standing in the hall.

Mr. Ivison left his guests in the parlor and came out, annoyed at the interruption.

"Well, what do you wish, sir?" he said, in a tone that was far from being encouraging, at the same time gaining an unfavorable impression from Haldane's dress.

"In the evening paper you advertised for more hands in your factory. I wish employment."

"Are you drunk, or crazy, that you thus apply at my residence?" was the harsh reply.

"Neither, sir; I—"

"You are very presuming, then."

"You would not employ me if I came in the morning."

"What do you mean? Who are you?"

"I am at least human. Can you give one or two moments to the consideration of my case?"

"One might afford that much," said the gentleman with a half-apologetic laugh; for the pale face and peculiar bearing of the stranger were beginning to interest him.

"I do not ask more of your time, and will come directly to the point. My name is Haldane, and, as far as I am concerned, you know nothing good concerning me."

"You are correct," said Mr. Ivison coldly. "I shall not need your services."

"Mr. Ivison," said Haldane in a tone that made the gentleman pause, "ought I to be a thief and a vagabond?"

"Certainly not."

"Then why do you, and all who, like you, have honest work to give, leave me no other alternative? I have acted wrongly and foolishly, but I wish to do better. I do not ask a place of trust, only work with others, under the eyes of others, where I could not rob you of a cent's worth if I wished. In the hurry and routine of your office you would not listen to me, so I come to-night and make this appeal. If you refuse it, and I go to the devil, you will have a hand in the result."

The prompt business-man, whose mind had learned to work with the rapidity of his machinery, looked at the troubled, half-desperate face a moment, and then said emphatically:

"By Jove, you are right! I'll give you work. Come to-morrow. Good-night, and good luck to your good intentions. But remember, no nonsense."

Here at last was a chance; here at last was regular employment. It was one step forward. Would he be able to hold it? This seemed doubtful on the morrow after he had realized the nature of his surroundings. He was set to work in a large room full of men, boys, and slatternly-dressed girls. He was both scolded and laughed at for the inevitable awkwardness of a new beginner, and soon his name and history began to be whispered about. During the noon recess a rude fellow flung the epithet of "jail-bird" at him, and, of course, it stuck like a burr. Never in all his life had he made such an effort at self-control as that which kept his hands off this burly tormentor.

He both puzzled and annoyed his companions. They knew that he did not belong to their class, and his bearing and manner made them unpleasantly conscious of his superiority; and yet all believed themselves so much more respectable than he, that they felt it was a wrong to them that he should be there at all. Thus he was predestined to dislike and ill-treatment. But that he could act as if he were deaf and blind to all that they could do or say was more than they could understand. With knit brows and firmly-closed lips he bent his whole mind to the mastery of the mechanical duties required of him, and when they were over he strode straight to his humble lodging-place.

Mr. Growther watched him curiously as he reacted into lassitude and despondency after the strain and tension of the day.

"It's harder to stand than 'tis to git along with me, isn't it?"

"Yes, much harder."

"O thunder! better give it up, then, and try something else."

"No, it's my only chance."

"There's plenty other things to do."

"Not for me. These vulgar wretches I am working with think it an outrage that a 'jail-bird,' as they call me, contaminates the foul air that they breathe. I may be driven out by them; but," setting his teeth, "I won't give up this foothold of my own accord."

"You might have been President if you had shown such grit before you got down."

"That's not pleasant to think of now."

"I might 'a known that; but it's my mean way of comfortin' people. A-a-h."

Haldane's new venture out into the world could scarcely have had a more painful and prosaic beginning; but, as he said, he had gained a "foothold."

There was one other encouraging fact, of which he did not know. Mr. Ivison sent for the foreman of the room in which Haldane had been set at work, and said:

"Give the young fellow a fair chance, and report to me from time to time how he behaves; but say nothing of this to him. If he gets at his old tricks, discharge him at once; but if he shows the right spirit, I wish to know it."



CHAPTER XXXV

"THAT SERMON WAS A BOMBSHELL"

The following Sabbath morning smiled so brightly that one might be tempted to believe that there was no sin and misery in the world, and that such a church as Mrs. Arnot condemned was an eminently proper organization. As the congregation left their elegant homes, and in elegant toilets wended their way to their elegant church, they saw nothing in the blue sky and sunshine to remind them of the heavy shadows brooding over the earth. What more was needed than that they should give an hour to their aesthetic worship, as they had done in the past when the weather permitted, and then return to dinner and a nap and all the ordinary routine of life? There were no "beasts at Ephesus" to fight now. The times had changed, and to live in this age like an ancient Christian would be like going to Boston on foot when one might take a palace car. Hundreds of fully grown, perfectly sane people filed into the church, who complacently felt that in attending service once or twice a week, if so inclined, they were very good Christians. And yet, strange to say, there was a conspicuous cross on the spire, and they had named their church "St. Paul's."

St. Paul! Had they read his life? If so, how came they to satirize themselves so severely? A dwarf is the more to be pitied if named after a giant.

It was very queer that this church should name itself after the tent-maker, who became all things to all men, and who said, "I made myself servant unto all that I might gain the more."

It was very unfortunate for them to have chosen this saint, and yet the name, Saint Paul, had a very aristocratic sound in Hillaton, and thus far had seemed peculiarly fitted to the costly edifice on which it was carved.

And never had the church seemed more stately than on this brilliant Sabbath morning, never had its elegance and that of the worshippers seemed more in harmony.

But the stony repose and calm of their Gothic temple was not reflected in the faces of the people. There was a general air of perturbation and expectancy. The peculiar and complacent expression of those who are conscious of being especially well dressed and respectable was conspicuously absent. Annoyed, vexed, anxious faces passed into the vestibule. Knots of twos, threes, and half-dozens lingered and talked eagerly, with emphatic gestures and much shaking of heads. Many who disliked rough weather from any cause avoided their fellow-members, and glided hastily in, looking worried and uncomfortable. Between the managing officers, who had felicitated themselves on having secured a congregation containing the creme de la creme of the city, on one hand, and the disquieted Mr. Blakeman, who found the church growing uncomfortably cold, on the other, Mrs. Arnot's words and acts and the minister's implied pledge to bring the matter squarely to an issue, had become generally known, and a foreboding as of some great catastrophe oppressed the people. If the truth were known, there were very general misgivings; and, now that the people had been led to think, there were some uncomfortable aspects to the question. Even that august dignitary the sexton was in a painful dilemma as to whether it would be best to assume an air of offended dignity, or veer with these eddying and varying currents until sure from what quarter the wind would finally blow. He had learned that it was Mrs. Arnot whom he had twice carelessly motioned with his thumb into a back seat, and he could not help remarking to several of the more conservative members, that "it was very unjust and also unkind in Mrs. Arnot to palm herself off on him as an ordinary pusson, when for a long time it had been the plainly understood policy of the church not to encourage ordinary pussons."

But the rumor that something unusual was about to take place at St. Paul's brought thither on this particular Sabbath all kinds and descriptions of people; and the dignified functionary whose duty it was to seat them grew so hot and flustered with his unwonted tasks, and made such strange blunders, that both he and others felt that they were on the verge of chaos. But the most extraordinary appearing personage was no other than Mr. Jeremiah Growther; and, as with his gnarled cane he hobbled along at Haldane's side, he looked for all the world as if some grotesque and antique carving had come to life and was out for an airing. Not only the sexton, but many others, looked askance at the tall, broad-shouldered youth of such evil fame, and his weird-appearing companion, as they walked quite far up the aisle before they could find a seat.

Many rubbed their eyes to be sure it was not a dream. What had come over the decorous and elegant St. Paul's? When before had its dim, religious light revealed such scenes? Whence this irruption of strange, uncouth creatures—a jail-bird in a laborer's garb, and the profane old hermit, whom the boys had nicknamed "Jerry Growler," and who had not been seen in church for years.

Mrs. Arnot, followed by many eyes, passed quietly up to her pew, and bowed her head in prayer.

Prayer! Ah! in their perturbation some had forgotten that this was the place of prayer, and hastily bowed their heads also.

Mr. Arnot had been engaged in his business to the very steps, and much too absorbed during the week to hear or heed any rumors; but as he walked up the aisle he stared around in evident surprise, and gave several furtive glances over his shoulder after being seated. As his wife raised her head, he leaned toward her and whispered:

"What's the matter with Jeems? for, if I mistake not, there are a good many second-class saints here to-day." But not a muscle changed in Mrs. Arnot's pale face. Indeed, she scarcely heard him. Her soul was and had been for several days in the upper sanctuary, in the presence of God, pleading with him that he would return to this earthly temple which the spirit of the world had seemingly usurped.

When Dr. Barstow arose to commence the service, a profound hush fell upon the people. Even his face and bearing impressed and awed them, and it was evident that he, too, had climbed some spiritual mountain, and had been face to face with God.

As he proceeded with the service in tones that were deep and magnetic, the sense of unwonted solemnity increased. Hymns had been selected which the choir could not perform, but must sing; and the relation between the sacred words and the music was apparent. The Scripture lessons were read as if they were a message for that particular congregation and for that special occasion, and, as the simple and authoritative words fell on the ear the general misgiving was increased. They seemed wholly on Mrs. Arnot's side; or, rather, she was on theirs.

When, at last, Dr. Barstow rose, not as a sacred orator and theologian who is about to deliver a sermon, but rather as an earnest man, who had something of vital moment to say, the silence became almost oppressive.

Instead of commencing by formally announcing his text, as was his custom, he looked silently and steadily at his people for a moment, thus heightening their expectancy.

"My friends," he began slowly and quietly, and there was a suggestion of sorrow in his tone rather than of menace or denunciation; "my friends, I wish to ask your calm and unprejudiced attention to what I shall say this morning. I ask you to interpret my words in the light of the word of God and your own consciences; and if I am wrong in any respect I will readily acknowledge it. Upon a certain occasion Christ said to his disciples, 'Ye know not what manner of spirit ye are of'; and he at once proved how widely his spirit differed from theirs. They accepted the lesson—they still followed him, and through close companionship eventually acquired his merciful, catholic spirit. But at this time they did not understand him nor themselves. Perhaps we can best understand the spirit we are of by considering his, and by learning to know him better whom we worship, by whose name we are called.

"During the past week I have been brought face to face with the Christ of the Bible, rather than the Christ of theology and philosophy, who has hitherto dwelt in my study; and I have learned with sorrow and shame that my spirit differed widely from his. The Christ that came from heaven thought of the people, and had compassion on the multitude. I was engrossed with my sermons, my systems of truth, and nice interpretations of passages that I may have rendered more obscure. But I have made a vow in his name and strength that henceforth I will no longer come into this pulpit, or go into any other, to deliver sermons of my own. I shall no longer philosophize about Christ, but endeavor to lead you directly to Christ; and thus you will learn by comparison what manner of spirit you are of, and, I trust, become imbued with his Spirit. I shall speak the truth in love, and yet without fear, and with no wordy disguise. Henceforth I do not belong to you but to my Master, and I shall present the Christ who loved all, who died for all, and who said to all, 'Whosoever will, let him come!'

"You will find my text in the Gospel of St. John, the nineteenth chapter and fifth verse:

"'Then came Jesus forth, wearing the crown of thorns and the purple robe. And Pilate saith unto them, Behold the Man!'

"Let us behold him to-day, and learn to know him and to know ourselves better. If we discover any sad and fatal mistake in our religious life, let us correct it before it is too late."

It would be impossible to portray the effect of the sermon that followed, coming, as it did, from a strong soul stirred to its depths by the truth under consideration. The people for the time being were swayed by it and carried away. What was said was seen to be truth, felt to be truth; and as the divine Man stood out before them luminous in his own loving and compassionate deeds, which manifested his character and the principles of the faith he founded, the old, exclusive, self-pleasing life of the church shrivelled up as a farce and a sham.

"In conclusion," said Dr. Barstow, "what was the spirit of this Man when he summoned publicans and fishermen to be his followers? what was his spirit when he laid his hand on the leper? what, when he said to the outcast, 'Neither do I condemn thee; go and sin no more'? what, when to the haughty Pharisees, the most respectable people of that day, he threatened, 'Woe unto you!'

"He looked after the rich and almost perfect young man, by whom he was nevertheless rejected, and loved him; he also said to the penitent thief, 'To-day thou shalt be with me in Paradise.' His heart was as large as humanity. Such was his spirit.'"

After a moment's pause, in which there was a hush of breathless expectancy, Dr. Barstow's deep tones were again heard. "God grant that henceforth yonder doors may be open to all whom Christ received, and with the same welcome that he gave. If this cannot be, the name of St. Paul, the man who 'made himself the servant unto all that he might gain the more,' can no longer remain upon this church save in mockery. If this cannot be, whoever may come to this temple, Christ will not enter it, nor dwell within it.'"

The people looked at each other, and drew a long breath. Even those who were most in love with the old system forgot Dr. Barstow, and felt for the moment that they had a controversy with his Master.

The congregation broke up in a quiet and subdued manner. All were too deeply impressed by what they had heard to be in a mood for talking as yet; and of the majority, it should be said in justice that, conscious of wrong, they were honestly desirous of a change for the better.

During the sermon Mr. Growther's quaint and wrinkled visage had worked most curiously, and there were times when he with difficulty refrained from a hearty though rather profane indorsement.

On his way home he said to Haldane, "I've lived like a heathen on Lord's day and all days; but, by the holy poker, I'll hear that parson hereafter every Sunday, rain or shine, if I have to fight my way into the church with a club."

A peculiar fire burned in the young man's eyes and his lips were very firm, but he made no reply. The Man whose portraiture he had beheld that day was a revelation, and he hoped that this divine yet human Friend might make a man of him.

"Well," remarked Mr. Arnot, sententiously, "that sermon was a perfect bombshell; and, mark my words, it will either blow the doctor out of his pulpit, or some of the first-class saints out of their pews."

But a serene and hopeful light shone from Mrs. Arnot's eyes, and she only said, in a low tone:

"The Lord is in his holy temple."



CHAPTER XXXVI

MR. GROWTHER FEEDS AN ANCIENT GRUDGE

The problem in regard to the future of St. Paul's Church, which had so greatly burdened Dr. Barstow, was substantially solved. Christ had obtained control of the preacher's heart, and henceforth would not be a dogma, but a living presence, in his sermons. The Pharisees of old could not keep the multitudes from him, though their motives for following him were often very mixed. Although the philosophical Christ of theology, whom Dr. Barstow had ably preached, could not change the atmosphere of St. Paul's, the Christ of the Bible, the Man of Sorrows, the meek and lowly Nazarene, could, and the masses would be tempted to feel that they had a better right in a place sacred to his worship than those who resembled him in spirit as little as they did in the pomp of their life.

There would be friction at first, and some serious trouble. Mr. Arnot's judgment was correct, and some of the "first-class saints" (in their own estimation) would be "blown out of their pews." St. Paul's would eventually cease to be the fashionable Church par excellence; and this fact alone would be good and sufficient reason for a change on the part of some who intend to be select in their associations on earth, whatever relations with the "mixed multitude" they may have to endure in heaven. But the warm-hearted and true-hearted would remain; and every church grows stronger as the Pharisees depart and the publicans and sinners enter.

The congregation that gathered at the evening service of the memorable Sabbath described in the previous chapter was prophetic. Many of the wealthy and aristocratic members were absent, either from habit or disgust. Haldane, Mr. Growther, and many who in some respects resembled them, were present. "Jeems," the discriminating sexton, had sagaciously guessed that the wind was about to blow from another quarter, and was veering around also, as fast as he deemed it prudent. "Ordinary pussons" received more than ordinary attention, and were placed within earshot of the speaker.

But the problem of poor Haldane's future was not clear by any means. It is true a desire to live a noble life had been kindled in his heart, but as yet it was little more than a good impulse, an aspiration. In the fact that his eyes had been turned questioningly and hopefully toward the only One who has ever been able to cope with the mystery of evil, there was rich promise; but just what this divine Friend could do for him he understood as little as did the fishermen of Galilee. They looked for temporal change and glory; he was looking for some vague and marvellous change and exaltation.

But the Sabbath passed, and he remained his old self. Hoping, longing for the change did not produce it.

It was one of Mr. Growther's peculiarities to have a fire upon the hearth even when the evenings were so warm as not to require it. "Might as well kinder git ourselves used to heat," he would growl when Haldane remonstrated.

After the evening service they both lowered at the fire for some time in silence.

"Except ye be converted, and become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven," had been Dr. Barstow's text; and, as is usually the case, the necessity of conversion had been made clearer than just what conversion is; and many more than the disquieted occupants of the quaint old kitchen had been sent home sorely perplexed how to set about the simple task of "believing." But it was a happy thing for all that they had been awakened to the fact that something must be done. After that sermon none could delude themselves with the hope that being decorous, well-dressed worshippers at St. Paul's would be all that was required.

But Mr. Growther needed no argument on this subject, and he had long believed that his only chance was, as he expressed it, "such an out-and-out shakin' to pieces, and makin' over agin that I wouldn't know myself." Then he would rub his rheumatic legs despondently and add, "But my speretual j'ints have got as stiff and dry as these old walkin' pins; and when I try to git up some good sort o' feelin' it's like pumpin' of a dry pump. I only feel real hearty when I'm a cussin'. A-a-h!"

But the day's experience and teaching had awakened anew in his breast, as truly as in Haldane's, the wish that he could be converted, whatever that blessed and mysterious change might be; and so, with his wrinkled face seamed with deeper and more complex lines than usual, the poor old soul stared at the fire, which was at once the chief source of his comfort and the emblem of that which he most dreaded. At last he snarled:

"I'm a blasted old fool for goin' to meetin' and gittin' all riled up so. Here, I haven't had a comfortable doze today, and I shall be kickin' around all night with nothin' runnin' in my head but 'Except ye be convarted, except ye be convarted'; I wish I had as good a chance of bein' convarted as I have of bein' struck by lightnin'."

"I wish I needed conversion as little as you," said Haldane despondently.

"Now look here," snapped the old man; "I'm in no mood for any nonsense to-night. I want you to know I never have been convarted, and I can prove it to you plaguy quick if you stroke me agin the fur. You've got the advantage of me in this business, though you have been a hard cuss; for you are young and kind o' limber yet." Then, as he glanced at the discouraged youth, his manner changed, and in a tone that was meant to be kindly he added, "There, there! Why don't you pluck up heart? If I was as young as you be, I'd get convarted if it took me all summer."

Haldane shook his head, and after a moment slowly and musingly said, as much to himself as to the giver of this good advice:

"I'm in the Slough of Despond, and I don't know how to get out. I can see the sunny uplands that I long to reach, but everything is quaking and giving way under my feet. After listening to Dr. Barstow's grand sermon this morning, my spirit flamed up hopefully. Now he has placed a duty directly in my path that I cannot perform by myself. Mrs. Arnot has made it clear to me that the manhood I need is Christian manhood. Dr. Barstow proves out of the Bible that the first step toward this is conversion—which seems to be a mysterious change which I but vaguely understand. I must do my part myself, he says, yet I am wholly dependent on the will and co-operation of another. Just what am I to do? Just when and how will the help come in? How can I know that it will come? or how can I ever be sure that I have been converted?"

"O, stop splittin' hairs!" said Mr. Growther, testily. "Hanged if I can tell you how it's all goin' to be brought about—go ask the parson to clear up these p'ints for you—but I can tell you this much: when you git convarted you'll know it. If you had a ragin' toothache, and it suddenly stopped and you felt comfortable all over, wouldn't you know it? But that don't express it. You'd feel more'n comfortable; you'd feel so good you couldn't hold in. You'd be fur shoutin'; you wouldn't know yourself. Why, doesn't the Bible say you'd be a new critter? There'll be just such a change in your heart as there is in this old kitchen when we come in on a cold, dark night and light the candles, and kindle a fire. I tell you what 'tis, young man, if you once got convarted your troubles would be wellnigh over."

Though the picture of this possible future was drawn in such homely lines, Haldane looked at it with wistful eyes. He had become accustomed to his benefactor's odd ways and words, and caught his sense beneath the grotesque imagery. As he was then situated, the future drawn by the old man and interpreted by himself was peculiarly attractive. He was very miserable, and it is most natural, especially for the young, to wish to be happy. He had been led to believe that conversion would lead to a happiness as great as it was mysterious—a sort of miraculous ecstasy, that would render him oblivious of the hard and prosaic conditions of his lot. Through misfortune and his own fault he possessed a very defective character. This character had been formed, it is true, by years of self-indulgence and wrong, and Mrs. Arnot had asserted that reform would require long, patient, and heroic effort. Indeed, she had suggested that in fighting and subduing the evils of one's own nature a man attained the noblest degree of knighthood. He had already learned how severe was the conflict in which he had been led to engage.

But might not this mysterious conversion make things infinitely easier? If a great and radical change were suddenly wrought in his moral nature, would not evil appetites and propensities be uprooted like vile weeds? If a "new heart" were given him, would not the thoughts and desires flowing from it be like pure water from an unsullied spring? After the "old things"—that is the evil—had passed away, would not that which was noble and good spring up naturally, and almost spontaneously?

This was Mr. Growther's view; and he had long since learned that the old man's opinions were sound on most questions. This seemed, moreover, the teaching of the Bible also, and of such sermons as he could recall. And yet it caused him some misgivings that Mrs. Arnot had not indicated more clearly this short-cut out of his difficulties.

But Mr. Growther's theology carried the day. As he watched the young man's thoughtful face he thought the occasion ripe for the "word in season."

"Now is the time," he said; "now while yer moral j'ints is limber. What's the use of climbin' the mountain on your hands and knees when you can go up in a chariot of fire, if you can only git in it?" and he talked and urged so earnestly that Haldane smiled and said:

"Mr. Growther, you have mistaken your vocation. You ought to have been a missionary to the heathen."

"That would be sendin' a thief to ketch a thief. But you know I've a grudge agin the devil, if I do belong to him; and if I could help git you out of his clutches it would do me a sight o' good."

"If I ever do get out I shall indeed have to thank you."

"I don't want no thanks, and don't desarve any. You're only giving me a chance to hit the adversary 'twixt the eyes," and the old man added his characteristic "A-a-h!" in an emphatic and vengeful manner, as if he would like to hit very hard.

Human nature was on the side of Mr. Growther's view of conversion. Nothing is more common than the delusive hope that health, shattered by years of wilful wrong, can be regained by the use of some highly extolled drug, or by a few deep draughts from some far-famed spring.

Haldane retired to rest fully bent upon securing this vague and mighty change as speedily as possible.



CHAPTER XXXVII

HOPING FOR A MIRACLE

Mr. Ivison, Haldane's employer, was a worshipper at St. Paul's, and, like many others, had been deeply impressed by the sermon. Its influence had not wholly exhaled by Monday, and, as this gentleman was eminently practical, he felt that he ought to do something, as well as experience a little emotion. Thus he was led to address the following note to Haldane:

Last week I gave you a chance; this week I am induced to give you a good word. While I warn you that I will tolerate no weak dallying with your old temptations, I also tell you that I would like to see you make a man of yourself, or, more correctly, perhaps, as Dr. Barstow would express it, be made a man of. If one wants to do right, I believe there is help for him (go and ask the Rev. Dr. Barstow about this); and if you will go right straight ahead till I see you can be depended upon, I will continue to speak good words to you and for you, and perhaps do more. GEORGE IVISON.

This note greatly encouraged Haldane, and made his precarious foothold among the world's industries seem more firm and certain. The danger of being swept back into the deep water where those struggle who have no foothold, no work, no place in society would not come from the caprice or forgetfulness of his employer, but from his own peculiar temptations and weaknesses. If he could patiently do his duty in his present humble position, he justly believed that it would be the stepping-stone to something better. But, having learned to know himself, he was afraid of himself; and he had seen with an infinite dread what cold, dark depths yawn about one whom society shakes off as a vile and venomous thing, and who must eventually take evil and its consequences as his only portion. The hot, reeking apartment wherein he toiled was the first solid ground that he had felt beneath his feet for many days. If he could hold that footing, the water might shoal so that he could reach the land. It is true he could always look to his mother for food and clothing if he would comply with her conditions. But, greatly perverted as his nature had been, food and clothing, the maintenance of a merely animal life, could no longer satisfy him. He had thought too deeply, and had seen too much truth, to feed contentedly among the swine.

But the temptations which eventually lead to the swine—could he persistently resist these? Could he maintain a hard, monotonous routine of toil, with no excitements, no pleasures, with nothing that even approached happiness? He dared not give way; he doubted his strength to go forward alone with such a prospect. If conversion be a blessed miracle by which a debased nature is suddenly lifted up, and a harsh, lead-colored, prosaic world transfigured into the vestibule of heaven, he longed to witness it in his own experience.

It was while he was in this mood that his thoughts recurred to Dr. Marks, the good old clergyman who had been the subject of his rude, practical joke months before. He recalled the sincere, frank letter which led to their evening interview, and remembered with a thrill of hope the strong and mysterious emotion that had seized upon him as the venerable man took his hand in his warm grasp, and said in tones of pathos that shook his soul, "I wish I could lead you by loving force into the paths of pleasantness and peace." Wild and reckless fool as he then was, it had been only by a decided effort and abrupt departure that he had escaped the heavenly influences which seemed to brood in the quiet study where the good man prayed and spun the meshes of the nets which he daily cast for souls. If he could visit that study again with a receptive heart, might not the emotion that he bad formerly resisted rise like a flood, and sweep away his old miserable self, and he become in truth a "new creature"?

The thought, having been once entertained, speedily grew into a hope, and then became almost a certainty. He felt that he would much rather see Dr. Marks than Dr. Barstow, and that if he could feel that kind, warm grasp again, an impulse might be given him which even Mrs. Arnot's wise and gentle words could not inspire.

Before the week was over he felt that something must be done either to soften his hard lot or to give him strength to endure it.

The men, boys, and girls who worked at his side in the mill were in their natures like their garb, coarse and soiled. They resented the presence of Haldane for a twofold reason; they regarded the intrusion of a "jail-bird" among them in the light of an insult; they were still more annoyed, and perplexed also, that this disreputable character made them feel that he was their superior. Hence a system of petty persecution grew up. Epithets were flung at him, and practical jokes played upon him till his heart boiled with anger or his nerves were irritated to the last degree of endurance. More than once his fist was clenched to strike; but he remembered in time that the heavier the blow he struck, the more disastrously it would react against himself.

After the exasperating experiences and noise of the day, Mr. Growther's cottage was not the quiet refuge he needed. Mr. Growther's growl was chronic, and it rasped on Haldane's overstrained nerves like the filing of a saw. Dr. Barstow's sermons of the previous Sabbath had emphatically "riled" the old gentleman, and their only result, apparently, was to make him more out-of-sorts and vindictive toward his poor, miserable little self than ever. He was so irascible that even the comfortable cat and dog became aware that something unusual was amiss, and, instead of dozing securely, they learned to keep a wary and deprecatory eye on their master and the toes of his thick-soled slippers.

"I've been goin' on like a darned old porkerpine," he said to Haldane one evening," and if you don't git convarted soon you'd better git out of my way. If you was as meek as Moses and twice as good you couldn't stand me much longer;" and the poor fellow felt that there was considerable truth in the remark.

The mill closed at an earlier hour on Saturday afternoon, and he determined to visit Dr. Marks if he could obtain permission from his employer to be absent a few hours on Monday morning. He wrote a note to Mr. Ivison, cordially thanking him for his encouraging words, but adding, frankly, that he could make no promises in regard to himself. "All that I can say, is," he wrote, "that I am trying to do right now, and that I am grateful to you for the chance you have given me. I wish to get the 'help' you suggest in your note to me, but, in memory of certain relations to my old pastor, Dr. Marks, I would rather see him than Dr. Barstow, and if you will permit me to be absent a part of next Monday forenoon I will esteem it a great favor, and will trespass on your kindness no further. I can go after mill-hours on Saturday, and will return by the first train on Monday."

Mr. Ivison readily granted the request, and even became somewhat curious as to the result.

When Mrs. Arnot had learned from Haldane the nature of his present employment, she had experienced both pleasure and misgivings. That he was willing to take and try to do such work rather than remain idle, or take what he felt would be charity, proved that there was more good metal in his composition than she had even hoped; but she naturally felt that the stinging annoyances of his position would soon become intolerable. She was not surprised, although she was somewhat perplexed, at the receipt of the following letter:

MY DEAR MRS. ARNOT.—You have been such a true, kind friend to me, and have shown so much interest in my welfare, that I am led to give you a fuller insight into my present experiences and hopes. You know that I wish to be a Christian. You have made Christian manhood seem the most desirable thing that I can ever possess, but I make little or no progress toward it. Something must be done, and quickly too. Either there must be a great change in me, or else in my circumstances. As there is no immediate prospect of the latter, I have been led to hope that there can be such a change in me that I shall be lifted above and made superior to the exasperating annoyances of my condition. Yes, I am hoping even far more. If I could only experience the marvellous change which Dr. Barstow described so eloquently last Sunday evening, might I not do right easily and almost spontaneously? It is so desperately hard to do right now! If conversion will render my steep, thorny path infinitely easier, then surely I ought to seek this change by every means in my power. Indeed, there must be a change in me, or I shall lose even the foothold I have gained. I am subjected, all day long, to insult and annoyance. At times I am almost desperate and on the verge of recklessness. Every one of the coarse creatures that I am compelled to work with is a nettle that loses no chance to sting me; and there is one among them, a big, burly fellow, who is so offensive that I cannot keep my hands off him much longer if I remain my old self. You also know what a reception I must ever expect in the streets when I am recognized. The people act as if I were some sort of a reptile, which they must tolerate at large, but can, at least, shun with looks of aversion. And then, when I get to Mr. Growther's cottage I do not find much respite. It seems like ingratitude to write this, but the good old man's eccentric habit of berating himself and the world in general has grown wearisome, to say the least. I want to be lifted out of myself—far above these petty vexations and my own miserable weaknesses.

Once, before I left home, I played a rude joke on our good old pastor. Instead of resenting it he wrote me such a kind letter that I went to his study to apologize. While there his manner and words were such that I had to break away to escape a sudden and mysterious influence that inclined me toward all that is good. I have hoped that if I should visit him I might come under that influence again, and so be made a new and better man.

I have also another motive, which you will understand. Mother and I differ widely on many things, and always will; but I long to see her once more. I have been thinking of late of her many kindnesses—o that she had been less kind, less indulgent! But she cannot help the past any more than I can, and it may do us both good to meet once more. I do not think that she will refuse to see me or give me shelter for a few hours, even though her last letter seemed harsh.

I shall also be glad to escape for a few hours from my squalid and wretched surroundings. The grime of the sordid things with which I have so long been in contact seems eating into my very soul, and I long to sleep once more in my clean, airy room at home.

But I am inflicting myself too long upon you. That I have ventured to do so is due to your past kindness, which I can only wonder at, but cannot explain. Gratefully yours, E. HALDANE.

Mrs. Arnot was more than curious; she was deeply interested in the result of this visit, and she hoped and prayed earnestly that it might result in good. But she had detected an element in the young man's letter which caused her considerable uneasiness. His idea of conversion was a sudden and radical change in character that would be a sort of spiritual magic, contravening all the natural laws of growth and development. He was hoping to escape from his evil habits and weaknesses, which were of long growth, as the leper escaped from his disease, by a healing and momentary touch. He would surely be disappointed: might he not also be discouraged, and give up the patient and prayerful struggle which the sinful must ever wage against sin in this world? She trusted, however, that God had commenced a good work in his heart, and would finish it.

Even the sight of his native city, with its spires glistening in the setting sun, moved Haldane deeply, and when in the dusk he left the train, and walked once more through the familiar streets, his heart was crowded with pleasant and bitter memories, which naturally produced a softened and receptive mood.

He saw many well-remembered faces, and a few glanced at him as if he suggested one whom they had known. But he kept his hat drawn over his eyes, and, taking advantage of the obscurity of the night, escaped recognition.

"It is almost like coming back after one has died," he said to himself. "I once thought myself an important personage in this town, but it has got on better without me than it would have done with me. Truly, Mrs. Arnot is right—it's little the world cares for any one, and the absurdest of all blunders is to live for its favor."

It was with a quickly beating heart that he rang the bell at the parsonage, and requested to be shown up to Dr. Marks' study. Was this the supreme moment of his life, and he on the eve of that mysterious, spiritual change, of which he had heard so much, and the results of which would carry him along as by a steady, mighty impulse through earth's trials to heaven's glory? He fairly trembled at the thought.

The girl who had admitted him pointed to the open study door, and he silently crossed its threshold. The good old clergyman was bending over his sermon, to which he was giving his finishing touches, and the soft rays of the student's lamp made his white hair seem like a halo about his head.

The sacred quiet of the place was disturbed only by the quill of the writer, who was penning words as unworldly as himself. Another good old divine, with his Bible in his hand, looked down benignantly and encouragingly at the young man from his black-walnut frame. He was the sainted predecessor of Dr. Marks, and the sanctity of his life of prayer and holy toil also lingered in this study. Old volumes and heavy tomes gave to it the peculiar odor which we associate with the cloister, and suggested the prolonged spiritual musings of the past, which are so out of vogue in the hurried, practical world of to-day. This study was, indeed, a quiet nook—a little, slowly moving eddy left far behind by the dashing, foaming current of modern life; and Haldane felt impressed that he had found the hallowed place, the true Bethel, where his soul might be born anew.



CHAPTER XXXVIII

THE MIRACLE TAKES PLACE

"The body of my sermon is finished; may the Lord breathe into it the breath of life!" ejaculated Dr. Marks, leaning back in his chair.

Haldane now secured his attention by knocking lightly on the open door. The old gentleman arose and came forward with the ordinary kindly manner with which he would greet a stranger.

"You do not remember me," said Haldane.

"I cannot say that I do. My eyesight is not as good as when I was at your age."

"I am also the last one you expect to see, but I trust I shall not be unwelcome when you know my motive for coming. I am Egbert Haldane, and I have hoped that your study would remain open, though nearly all respectable doors are closed against me."

"Egbert Haldane! Can I believe my eyes?" exclaimed the old clergyman, stepping eagerly forward.

"When last in this place," continued the youth, "I was led by your generous forgiveness of my rude behavior toward you to say, that if I ever wished to become a Christian I would come to you sooner than to any one else. I have come, for I wish to be a Christian."

"Now the Lord be praised! He has heard his servant's prayers," responded Dr. Marks fervently. "My study is open to you, my son, and my heart, too," he added, taking Haldane's hand in both of his with a grasp that emphasized his cordial words. "Sit down by me here, and tell me all that is on your mind."

This reception was so much kinder than he had even hoped, that Haldane was deeply moved. The strong, genuine sympathy unsealed his lips, and in honest and impetuous words he told the whole story of his life since their last interview. The good doctor was soon fumbling for his handkerchief, and as the story culminated, mopped his eyes, and ejaculated, "Poor fellow!" with increasing frequency.

"And now," concluded Haldane, "if I could only think that God would receive me as you have—if he would only change me from my miserable self to what I know I ought to be, and long to be—I feel that I could serve him with gratitude and gladness the rest of my life, even though I should remain in the humblest station; and I have come to ask you what I am to do?"

"He will receive you, my boy; he will receive you. No fears on that score," said the doctor, with a heartiness that carried conviction. "But don't ask me what to do. I'm not going to interfere in the Lord's work. He is leading you. If you wanted a text or a doctrine explained I'd venture to give you my views; but in this vital matter I shall leave you in God's hands, 'being confident of this very thing, that he which hath begun a good work in you will perform it until the day of Jesus Christ.' I once set about reforming you myself, and you know what a bungle I made of it. Now I believe the Lord has taken you in hand, and I shall not presume to meddle. Bow with me in prayer that he may speedily bring you into his marvellous light and knowledge." And the good man knelt and spread his hands toward heaven, and prayed with the simplicity and undoubting faith of an ancient patriarch.

Was his faith contagious? Did the pathos of his voice, his strongly manifested sympathy, combine with all that had gone before to melt the young man's heart? Or, in answer to the prayer, was there present One whose province it is to give life? Like the wind that mysteriously rises and comes toward one with its viewless, yet distinctly felt power. Haldane was conscious of influences at work in his heart that were as potent as they were incomprehensible. Fear and doubt were passing away. Deep emotion thrilled his soul. Nothing was distinct save a rush of feeling which seemed to lift him up as on a mighty tide, and bear him heavenward.

This was what he had sought; this was what he had hoped; this strong, joyous feeling, welling up in his heart like a spring leaping into the sunlight, must be conversion.

When he arose from his knees his eyes were full of tears, but a glad radiance shone through them, and grasping the doctor's hand, he said brokenly:

"I believe your prayer has been answered. I never felt so strangely—so happy before."

"Come with me," cried the old man, impetuously, "come with me. Your mother must learn at once that her son, who 'was dead, is alive again';" and a few moments later Haldane was once more in the low carriage, on his way, with the enthusiastic doctor, to his old home.

"We won't permit ourselves to be announced," said the childlike old clergyman as they drove up the gravelled road. "We will descend upon your mother and sisters like an avalanche of happiness."

The curtains in the sitting-room were not drawn, and the family group was before them. The apartment was furnished with elegance and taste, but the very genius of dreariness seemed to brood over its occupants. The sombre colors of their mourning dresses seemed a part of the deep shadow that was resting upon them, and the depth and gloom of the shadow was intensified by their air of despondency and the pallor of their faces. The younger daughter was reading, but the elder and the mother held their hands listlessly in their laps, and their eyes were fixed on vacancy, after the manner of those whose thoughts are busy with painful themes.

Haldane could endure but a brief glance, and rushed in, exclaiming:

"Mother, forgive me!"

His presence was so unexpected and his onset so impetuous that the widow had no time to consider what kind of a reception she ought to give her wayward son, of whom she had washed her hands.

Her mother-love triumphed; her heart had long been sore with grief, and she returned his embrace with equal heartiness.

His sisters, however, had inherited more of their mother's conventionality than of her heart; and the fact that this young man was their brother did not by any means obliterate from their minds the other facts, that he had a very bad reputation and that he was abominably dressed. Their greeting, therefore, was rather grave and constrained, and suggested that there might have been a death in the family, and that their brother had come home to attend the funeral.

But the unworldly Dr. Marks was wholly absorbed in the blessed truth that the dead was alive and the lost found. He had followed Haldane into the apartment, rubbing his hands, and beaming general congratulation. Believing that the serene light of Heaven's favor rested on the youth, he had forgotten that it would be long before society relaxed its dark frown. It seemed to him that it was an occasion for great and unmixed rejoicing.

After some brief explanations had been given to the bewildered household, the doctor said:

"My dear madam, I could not deny myself the pleasure of coming with your son, that I might rejoice with you. The Lord has answered our prayers, you see, and you have reason to be the happiest woman living."

"I am glad, indeed," sighed the widow, "that some light is beginning to shine through this dark and mysterious providence, for it has been so utterly dark and full of mystery that my faith was beginning to waver."

"The Lord will net suffer you to be tempted above that you are able," said the clergyman, heartily. "When relief is essential it comes, and it always will come, rest assured. Take comfort, madam; nay, let your heart overflow with joy without fear. The Lord means well by this young man. Take the unspeakable blessing he sends you with the gladness and gratitude of a child receiving gifts from a good Father's hands. Since he has begun the good work, he'll finish it."

"I hope so. I do, indeed, hope that Egbert will now come to his senses, and see things and duty in their true light, as other people do," ejaculated the widow, fervently. "If he had only taken the excellent advice you first gave him here how much better it would have been for us all! But now—" A dreary sigh closed the sentence.

"But now," responded the doctor, a little warmly, "the Lord has saved a soul from death, and that soul is your only son. It appears to me that this thought should swallow up every other; and it will, when you realize it," he concluded, heartily. "This world and the fashion of it passeth away. Since all promises well for the world to come, you have only cause for joy. As for my excellent advice, I was better pleased with it at the time than the Lord was. I now am thankful that he let it do no more harm than it did."

"We cannot help the past, mother," said Haldane, eagerly, "let us turn our eyes to the future, which is all aglow with hope. I feel that God has forgiven me, and the thought fills my heart with a tumult of joy. Your warm embrace assures me that you have also forgiven the wrong, the shame, and sorrow you have received at my hands. Henceforth it shall be my life-effort that you receive the reverse of all this. I at last feel within me the power to live as a true man ought."

"I trust your hopes may be realized, Egbert; I do, indeed; but you were so confident before—and then we all know what followed," concluded his mother, with a shudder.

"My present feeling, my present motives, in no respect resemble my condition when I started out before. I was then a conceited fool, ignorant of myself, the world, and the task I had attempted. But now I feel that all is different. Mother," he exclaimed with a rush of emotion, "I feel as if heaven had almost begun in my heart! why, then, do you cloud this bright hour with doubts and fears?"

"Well, my son, we will hope for the best," said his mother, endeavoring to throw off her despondency, and share in the spirit which animated her pastor. "But I have dwelt so long in sorrow and foreboding that it will require time before I can recover my old natural tone. These sudden and strong alternations of feeling and action on your part puzzle and disquiet me, and I cannot see why one brought up as you have been should not maintain a quiet, well-bred deportment, and do right as a matter of course, as your sisters do. And yet, if Dr. Marks truly thinks that you mean to do right from this time forward, I shall certainly take courage; though how we are going to meet what has already occurred I hardly see."

"I do, indeed, believe that your son intends to do right, and I also believe that the Lord intends to help him—which is of far greater consequence," said Dr. Marks. "I will now bid you good-night, as to-morrow is the Sabbath; and let me entreat you, my dear madam, in parting, to further by your prayer and sympathy the good work which the Lord has begun."

Haldane insisted on seeing the old gentleman safely back to his study. Their ride was a rather quiet one, each being busy with his own thoughts. The good man had found his enthusiasm strangely quenched in the atmosphere in which Mrs. Haldane dwelt, and found that, in spite of himself, he was sharing in her doubts and fears as to the future course of the erratic and impulsive youth at his side. He blamed himself for this, and tried to put doubt resolutely away. By a few earnest words he sought to show the young man that only as the grace of God was daily asked for and daily received could he hope to maintain the Christian life.

He now began to realize what a difficult problem was before the youth. Society would be slow to give him credit for changed motives and character, and as proof would take only patient continuance in well-doing. The good doctor now more than suspected that in his own home Haldane would find much that was depressing and enervating. Worse than all, he would have to contend with an excitable and ungoverned nature, already sadly warped and biased wrongly. "What will be the final result?" sighed the old gentleman to himself. But he soon fell back hopefully on his belief that the Lord had begun a good work and would finish it.

Haldane listened attentively and gratefully to all that his old friend had to say, and felt sure that he could and would follow the advice given. Never before had right living seemed so attractive, and the path of duty so luminous. But the thought that chiefly filled him with joy was that henceforth he would not be compelled to plod forward as a weary pilgrim. He felt that he had wings; some of the divine strength had been given him. He believed himself changed, renewed, transformed; he was confident that his old self had perished and passed away, and that, as a new creature, ennobling tendencies would control him completely. He felt that prayer would henceforth be as natural as breathing, and praise and worship, the strong and abiding instincts of his heart.



CHAPTER XXXIX

VOTARIES OF THE WORLD

When Haldane returned he found that his sisters had retired. He was not sorry, for he wished a long and unrestrained talk with his mother; but that lady pleaded that the events of the evening had so unnerved her, and that there was so much to be considered, that she must have quiet. In the morning they would try to realize their situation, and decide upon the best course to be pursued.

Even in his exaltation the last suggestion struck Haldane unpleasantly. Might not his mother mark out, and take as a test of his sincerity, some course that would accord with her ideas of right, but not with his? But the present hour was so full of mystical and inexplicable happiness that he gave himself up to it, believing that the divine hands, in which he believed himself to be, would provide for him as a helpless child is cared for.

The mill-people among whom he had worked the previous week would scarcely have recognized him as he came down to breakfast the following morning, dressed with taste and elegance. It was evident that his sisters could endure him with better grace than when clad in his coarse, working garb, redolent with the hitherto unimagined odors pertaining to well-oiled machinery. They, with his mother, greeted him, however, with the air of those who are in the midst of the greatest misfortunes, but who hope they see a coming ray of light.

With their sincere but conventional ideas of life he was, in truth, a difficult problem. Nor can they be very greatly blamed. This youth, who might have been their natural protector against every scandalous and contemptuous word, and whose arm it would have been their pride to take before the world, had now such a reputation that only an affection all-absorbing and unselfish would be willing to brave the curious and scornful stare that follows one who had been so disgraced. Mrs. Haldane and her daughters were not without natural affection, but they were morbidly sensitive to public opinion. Like many who live somewhat secluded from the world, they imagined that vague and dreaded entity was giving them much more attention than it did. "What will people say?" was a terrible question to them.

Nothing could be further from their nature than an attempt to attract the world's attention by loud manners or flaunting dress; but it was essential to their peace that good society should regard them as eminently respectable, aristocratic, and high-toned—as a family far removed from vulgar and ordinary humanity. That their name, in the person of a son and brother, had been dragged through courts, criminal records, and jails, was an unparalleled disaster, that grew more overwhelming as they brooded over it. It seemed to them that the world's great eye was turned full upon them in scorn and wonder, and that only by maintaining their perfect seclusion, or by hiding among strangers, could they escape its cruel glare.

After all, their feelings were only morbid developments of the instincts of a refined womanly nature; but the trouble was, they had not the womanly largeness of heart and affection which would have made them equal to the emergency, however painful. Poor Mrs. Haldane was one of those unfortunate people who always fall below the occasion; indeed, she seldom realized it. Providence had now given her a chance to atone for much of her former weakness and ruinous indulgence, but her little mind was chiefly engrossed with the question, What can we do to smooth matters over, and regain something like our old standing in society? As the result of a long consultation with her daughters, it was concluded that their best course was to go abroad. There they could venture out with him who was the skeleton of the household, without having every one turn and look after them with all kinds of comment upon their lips. After several years in Europe they hoped society would be inclined to forget and overlook the miserable record of the past few months.

That the young man himself would offer opposition to the plan, and prefer to return to the scene of his disgrace, and to his sordid toil, did not enter their minds.

In the enthusiasm of his new-born faith Haldane had determined to face the public gaze, and hear Dr. Marks preach. It is true, he had greatly dreaded the ordeal—and for his mother and sisters, far more than for himself. When he began to intimate something of this feeling his mother promptly motioned to the waitress to withdraw from the room. He then soon learned that they had not attended church since Mrs. Haldane's return from her memorable visit to Hillaton, and that they had no intention of going to-day.

"The very thought makes me turn faint and sick," said the poor, weak gentlewoman.

"We should feel like sinking through the floor of the aisle," chorused the pallid young ladies.

Haldane ceased partaking of his breakfast at once, and leaned back in his chair.

"Do you mean to say," he asked gloomily, "that my folly has turned this house into a tomb, and that you will bury yourselves here indefinitely?"

"Well," sighed the mother, "if we live this wretched life of seclusion, brooding over our troubles much longer, smaller tombs will suffice us. You see that your sisters are beginning to look like ghosts, and I'm sure I feel that I can never lift up my head again. I know it is said that time works wonders. Perhaps if we went abroad for a few years, and then resided in some other city, or in the seclusion of some quiet country place, we might escape this—" and Mrs. Haldane finished with a sigh that was far worse than any words could have been. After a moment she concluded: "But, of course, we cannot go out here, where all that has happened is so fresh, and uppermost in every one's mind. The more I think of it, the more decided I am that the best thing for us all is to go to some quiet watering-place in Europe, where there are but few, if any, Americans; and in time we may feel differently."

Her son ate no more breakfast. He was beginning to realize, as he had not before, that he was in a certain sense a corpse, which this decorous and exquisitely refined family could not bury, but would hide as far as possible.

"You then expect me to go with you to Europe?" he said.

"Certainly. We could not go without a gentleman."

"That I scarcely am now, mother, in your estimation or in society's. I think you could get on better without me."

"Now, Egbert, be sensible."

"What am I to do in this secluded European watering-place, where there are no Americans, and at which we are to sojourn indefinitely?"

"I am sure I have not thought. Your sisters, at least, can venture out and get a breath of fresh air. It is time you thought of them rather than of yourself. You could amuse yourself with the natives, or by fishing and hunting."

"Mother!" he exclaimed, impetuously, "I no longer desire to merely amuse myself. I wish to become a man, in the best sense of the word."

Mrs. Haldane evidently experienced a disagreeable nervous shock at the sudden intensity of his manner, but she said, with rebuking quietness:

"I am sure I wish you to become such a man, thoroughly well bred, and thoroughly under self-control. It is my purpose to enable you to appear like a perfect gentleman from this time forward, and I expect that you will be one."

"What will I be but a well-dressed nonentity? what will I be but a coward, seeking to get away as far as possible from the place of my defeat, and to hide from its consequences?" he answered, with sharp, bitter emphasis.

"Egbert, your tendency to exaggeration and violent speech is more than I can bear in my weak, nervous condition. When you have thought this matter over calmly, and have realized how I and your sisters feel, you will see that we are right—that is, if Dr. Marks is correct, and you do really wish to atone for the past as far as it now can be done."

The young man paced restlessly up and down the room in an agitated manner, which greatly disquieted his mother and sisters.

"Can you not realize," he at last burst out, "that I, also, have a conscience? that I am no longer a child? and that I cannot see things as you do?"

"Egbert," exclaimed his elder sister, lifting her hand deprecatingly, "we are not deaf."

"If you will only follow your conscience," continued Mrs. Haldane, in her low monotone, "all will be well. It is your being carried away by gusts of impulse and violent passions that makes all the trouble. If you had followed your conscience you would at once have left Hillaton at my request, and hidden yourself in the seclusion that I indicated. If you had done so, you might have saved yourself and us from all that has since occurred."

"But I would have lost my self-respect. I should have done worse—"

"Self-respect!" interrupted his mother, with an expression akin to disgust flitting across her pale face. "How can you use that word after what has happened, and especially now that you are working among those vulgar factory people, and living with that profane old creature who goes by the name of 'Jerry Growler.' To think that you, who bear your father's name, should have fallen so low! The daily and hourly mortification of thinking of all this, here, where for so many years there was not a speck upon our family reputation, is more than flesh and blood can endure. Our only course now is to go away where we are not known. Our best hope is to make you appear like what your father meant you should be, and try to forget that you have been anything else; and if you have any sense of obligation to us left you will do what you can to carry out our efforts. Dr. Marks thinks you have met with 'a change of heart.' I am sure yon can prove it in no better way than by a docile acquiescence in the wishes of one who has a natural right to control you, and whose teachings," she added complacently, "had they been followed, would have enabled you to hold up your head to-day among the proudest in the land."

Haldane buried his face in his hands, and fairly groaned, in his disappointment and sense of humiliation.

"Is it possible," asked one of his sisters "that you thought that we could all go out to church to-day as usual, and commence life to-morrow where he left off when you first went away from home?"

"I expected nothing of the kind," said her brother, lifting up a face that was pale from suppressed feeling; "the fact is, I have thought little about all this that is uppermost in your minds. I have been all through the phase of shrinking from the world's word and touch, as if my whole being were a diseased nerve. While in that condition I suffered enough, God knows; but even in the police court I was not made to feel more thoroughly that I was a disgraced criminal than I have been here, in my childhood's home. Perhaps you can't help your feeling; but the result is all the same. Through the influence of a woman who belongs to heaven rather than earth, I was led to forget the world and all about it; I was led to wish to form a good character for its own sake. I wanted to be rid of the debasing vices of my nature which she had made me hate, and which would separate me from such as she is. I wanted your forgiveness, mother. More than all, I wanted God's forgiveness, and that great change in my nature which he alone can bestow. I felt that Dr. Marks could help me, because I believed in him; and he did carry me, as it were, to the very gate of heaven. I expected, at least, a little sympathy from you all, and a God-speed as I went back to my work tomorrow. I even hoped that you might take me by the hand, and say to those who knew us here, 'My son was lost, but is found. He wishes to live a manly, Christian life, and all who are Christians should help him.' I find, on the contrary, that Christ and his words are forgotten; that I am regarded as a hideous and deformed creature, that must be disguised as far as possible, and spirited off to some remote corner of the earth, and there virtually buried alive. Thus different are the teachings of the Bible and the teachings of the world. I thought I could not endure my hard lot at Hillaton any longer, but I shall go back to it quite content."

As the youth uttered these words, with his usual impetuosity, his mother could only weep and tremble in her weak and nervous way; but his sisters exclaimed:

"Go back to your old mill-life at Hillaton!"

"Yes, by the first train, to-morrow."

"Well!" they chorused, with a long breath, but as all language seemed inadequate they added nothing to their exclamation.

Mrs. Haldane slowly wiped her eyes, and said, "Egbert is excited now, and does not realize how we feel. After he has thought it all over quietly he will see things in a different light, and will perceive that he should take counsel from his mother rather than from a stranger" (with peculiar emphasis on this word). "If he really wishes to do his duty as a Christian man, he will see that the first and most sacred obligations resting on him are to us and not to others, even though they may be more angelic than we are. You promised last evening that it would be your life-effort to make amends for the wrongs you have inflicted upon us; and going back to your old, sordid life and vulgar associations would be a strange way of keeping this pledge. I suggest that we all retire to our rooms, and in the after part of the day we shall be calmer, and therefore more rational;" and the ladies quietly glided out, like black shadows. Indeed, they and their lives had become little more than attenuated shadows.

There is nothing which so thoroughly depletes and robs moral character of all substance—there is nothing which so effectually destroys all robust individuality—as the continuous asking of the question, "What will, people say?"

Poor Haldane went to his room, and paced it by the hour. He had learned thus early that the Christian life was not made up of sacred and beatific emotions, under the influence of which duty would become an easy, sun-illumined path.

He already was in sore perplexity as to what his duty was in this instance. Ought he not to devote himself to his mother and sisters, and hope that time would bring a healthful change in their morbid feeling? Surely what they asked would not seem hard in the world's estimation—a trip to Europe, and a life of luxurious ease and amusement—for society would agree with his mother, that he could be as good and Christian-like as he pleased in the meantime. The majority would say that if he could in part make amends by acquiescence in so reasonable a request, and one that promised so much of pleasure and advantage to himself, he ought certainly to yield.

But all that was good and manly in the young fellow's nature rose up against the plan. In the first place, he instinctively felt that his mother and sisters' views on nearly all subjects would be continually at variance with his own, since they were coming to look at life from such totally different standpoints. He also believed that he would be an ever-present burden and source of mortification to them. As a child and a boy he had been their idol. They had looked forward to the time when he, with irreproachable manners and reputation, would become their escort in the exclusive circles in which they were entitled to move. Now he was and would continue to be the insuperable bar to those circles; and by their sighs and manner he would be continually reminded of this fact. Fallen idols are a perpetual offence to their former worshippers, as they ever remind of the downfall of towering hopes.

With all his faults, Haldane had too much spirit to go through life as one who must be tolerated, endured, kept in the background, and concerning whom no questions must be asked.

He did think the matter over long and carefully, and concluded that even for his mother and sisters' sake it would be best that they should live apart. If he could thoroughly retrieve his character where he had lost it, they would be reconciled to him; if he could not, he would be less of a burden and a mortification absent than present.

When he considered his own feelings, the thought of skulking and hiding through life made his cheek tingle with shame and disgust. Conscience sided with his inclination to go back to his old, hard fight at Hillaton; and it also appeared to him that he could there better maintain a Christian life, in spite of all the odds against him, than by taking the enervating course marked out by his mother. He also remembered, with a faint thrill of hope, that whatever recognition he could get at Hillaton as a changed, a better man, it would be based on the rock of truth.

He therefore concluded to go back as he had intended, and with the decision came his former, happy, mystical feeling, welling up in his heart like the sweet refreshing waters of a spring, the consciousness of which filled his heart with courage and confidence as to the future.

"Surely," he exclaimed, "I am a changed, a converted man. These strange, sweet emotions, this unspeakable gladness of heart in the midst of so much that is painful and distracting, prove that I am. I have not taken this journey in vain."

Haldane met only his sisters at dinner, for the scene of the morning had prostrated his mother with a nervous headache. In spite of his efforts, it was a constrained and dismal affair, and all were glad when it was over.

In the evening they all met in Mrs. Haldane's room, and the young man told them his decision so firmly and quietly that, while they were both surprised and angry, they saw it was useless to remonstrate. He next drew such a dreary picture of the future as they had designed it, that they were half inclined to think he was right, and that his presence would be a greater source of pain than of comfort to them. He also convinced them that it would be less embarrassing for them to go to Europe alone than with his escort, and that the plan of going abroad need not be given up.

But Mrs. Haldane was strenuous on the point that he should leave Hillaton, accept of her old offer, and live a quiet, respectable life in some retired place where he was not known.

"I will not have it said," she persisted, "that my son is working as a common factory hand, nor will I have our name associated with that wretched old creature whose profanity and general outlandishness are the town-talk and the constant theme of newspaper squibs. You at least owe it to us to let this scandal die out as speedily as possible. If you will comply with these most reasonable requirements, I will see that you have an abundant support. If you will not, I have no evidence of a change in your character; nor can I see any better way than to leave you to suffer the consequences of your folly until you do come to your senses."

"Mother, do you think a young fellow of my years and energy could go to an out-of-the-way place, and just mope, eat, and sleep for the sake of being supported? I would rather starve first. I fear we shall never understand each other; and I have reached that point in life when I must follow my own conscience. I shall leave to-morrow morning before any of you are up; and in my old working clothes. Good-by;" and before they could realize it he had kissed them and left the room.

They weakly sighed as over the inevitable; but one of his sisters said, "He will be glad enough to come to your terms before winter."



CHAPTER XL

HUMAN NATURE

At an early hour Haldane, true to his purpose, departed from the home of his childhood in the guise of a laborer, as he had come. His mother heard his step on the stairs, for she had passed a sleepless night, agitated by painful emotions. She wished to call him back; she grieved over his course as a "dark and mysterious providence," as a misfortune which, like death, could not be escaped; but with the persistence of a little mind, capable of taking but a single and narrow view, she was absolutely sure she was right in her course, and that nothing but harsh and bitter experience would bring her wayward son to his senses.

Nor did it seem that the harsh experience would be wanting, for the morning was well advanced when he reached his place of work, and he received a severe reprimand from the foreman for being so late. His explanation, that he had received permission to be absent, was incredulously received. It also seemed that gibes, taunts, and sneers were flung at him with increasing venom by his ill-natured associates, who were vexed that they had not been able to drive him away by their persecutions.

But the object of their spite was dwelling in a world of which they knew nothing, and in which they had no part, and, almost oblivious of their existence, he performed his mechanical duty in almost undisturbed serenity.

Mr. Growther welcomed him back most heartily and with an air of eager expectation, and when Haldane briefly but graphically narrated his experience, he hobbled up and down the room in a state of great excitement.

"You've got it! you've got it! and the genuine article, too, as sure as my name is Jeremiah Growther!" he exclaimed; "I'd give the whole airth, and anything else to boot, that was asked, if I could only git religion. But it's no use for me to think about it; I'm done, and cooled off, and would break inter ten thousand pieces if I tried to change myself. I couldn't feel what you feel any more than I could run and jump as you kin. My moral j'ints is as stiff as hedge-stakes. If I tried to git up a little of your feelin', it would be like tryin' to hurry along the spring by buildin' a fire on the frozen ground. It would only make one little spot soft and sloppy; the fire would soon go out: then it would freeze right up agin. Now, with you it's spring all over; you feel tender and meller-like, and everything good is ready to sprout. Well, well! if I do have to go to old Nick at last, I'm powerful glad he's had this set-back in your case."

Long and earnestly did Haldane try to reason his quaint friend out of his despairing views of himself. At last the old man said testily:

"Now, look here; you're too new-fledged a saint to instruct a seasoned and experienced old sinner like me. You don't know much about the Lord's ways yet, and I know all about the devil's ways. Because you've got out of his clutches (and I'm mighty glad you have) you needn't make light of him, and take liberties with him as if he was nobody, 'specially when Scripter calls him 'a roarin' lion.' If I was as young as you be, I'd make a dead set to git away from him; but after tryin' more times than you've lived years, I know it ain't no use. I tell you I can't feel as you feel, any more than you can squeeze water out of them old andirons. A-a-h!"

Haldane was silent, feeling that the old man's spiritual condition was too knotty a problem for him to solve.

After a few moments Mr. Growther added, in a voice that he meant to be very solemn and impressive:

"But I want you to enjoy your religious feelin's all the same. I will listen to all the Scripter readin' and prayin' you're willin' to do, without makin' any disturbance. Indeed, I think I will enjoy my wittles more, now that an honest grace can be said over 'em. An' when you read the Bible, you needn't read the cussin' parts, if yer don't want to. I'll read 'em to myself hereafter. I'll give you all the leeway that an old curmudgeon like myself kin; and I expect to take a sight o' comfort in seein' you goin' on your way rejoicin'."

And he did seem to take as much interest in the young man's progress and new spiritual experiences as if he alone were the one interested. His efforts to control his irritability and profanity were both odd and pathetic, and Haldane would sometimes hear him swearing softly to himself, with strange contortions of his wrinkled face, when in former times he would have vented his spite in the harshest tones.

Haldane wrote fully to Mrs. Arnot of his visit to his native city and its happy results, and enlarged upon his changed feelings as the proof that he was a changed man.

Her reply was prompt and was filled with the warmest congratulations and expressions of the sincerest sympathy. It also contained these words:

"I fear that you are dwelling too largely upon your feelings and experiences, and are giving to them a value they do not possess. Not that I would undervalue them—they are gracious tokens of God's favor; but they are not the grounds of your salvation and acceptance with God."

Haldane did not believe that they were—he had been too well taught for that—but he regarded them as the evidences that he was accepted, that he was a Christian; and he expected them to continue, and to bear him forward, and through and over the peculiar trials of his lot, as on a strong and shining tide.

Mrs. Arnot also stated that she was just on the eve of leaving home for a time, and that on her return she would see him and explain more fully her meaning.

In conclusion, she wrote: "I think you did what was right and best in returning to Hillaton. At any rate, you have reached that age when you must obey your own conscience, and can no longer place the responsibility of your action upon others. But, remember, that you owe to your mother the most delicate forbearance and consideration. You should write to her regularly, and seek to prove that you are guided by principle rather than impulse. Your mother has much reason to feel as she does, and nothing can excuse you from the sacred duties you owe to her."

Haldane did write as Mrs. Arnot suggested. In a few days he received the following letter from his mother:

"We shall sail for Europe as soon as we can get ready for the journey. Our lawyer is making all the necessary arrangements for us. I will leave funds with him, and whenever you are ready in good faith to accept my offer, leave Hillaton, and live so that this scandal can die out, you can obtain from him the means of living decently and quietly. As it is, I live in daily terror lest you again do something which will bring our name into the Hillaton papers; and, of course, everything is copied by the press of this city. Will the time ever come when you will consider your mother's and sisters' feelings?"

For a time all went as well as could be expected in the trying circumstances of Haldane's life. His prayers for strength and patience were at first earnest, and their answers seemed assured—so assured, indeed, that in times of haste and weariness prayer eventually came to be hurried or neglected. Before he was aware of it, feeling began to ebb away. He at last became troubled, and then alarmed, and made great effort to regain his old, happy emotions and experiences; but, like an outgoing tide, they ebbed steadily away.

His face indicated his disquiet and anxiety, for he felt like one who was clinging to a rope that was slowly parting, strand by strand.

Keen-eyed Mr. Growther watched him closely, and was satisfied that something was amiss. He was much concerned, and took not a little of the blame upon himself.

"How can a man be a Christian, or anything else that's decent, when he keeps such cussed company as I be?" he muttered. "I s'pose I kinder pisen and wither up his good feelin's like a sulphuric acid fact'ry."

One evening he exclaimed to Haldane, "I say, young man, you had better pull out o' here."

"What do you mean?"

"I'll give you a receipt in full and a good character, and then you look for a healthier boardin'-place."

"Ah, I see! You wish to be rid of me?"

"No, you don't see, nuther. I wish you to be rid of me."

"Of course, if you wish me to go, I'll go at once," said Haldane, in a despondent tone.

"And go off at half-cock into the bargain? I ain't one of the kind, you know, that talks around Robin Hood's barn. I go straight in at the front door and out at the back. It's my rough way of coming to the p'int at once. I kin see that you're runnin' behind in speret'al matters, and I believe that my cussedness is part to blame. You don't feel good as you used to. It would never do to git down at the heel in these matters, 'cause the poorest timber in the market is yer old backsliders. I'd rather be what I am than be a backslider. The right way is to take these things in time, before you git agoin' down hill too fast. It isn't that I want to git rid of you at all. I've kinder got used to you, and like to have you 'round 'mazingly; but I don't s'pose it's possible for you to feel right and live with me, and so you had better cut stick in time, for you must keep a-feelin' good and pi'us-like, my boy, or it's all up with you."

"Then you don't want me to go for the sake of your own comfort?"

"Not a bit of it. I only want you to git inter a place that isn't so morally pisened as this, where I do so much cussin'; for I will and must cuss as long as there's an atom left of me as big as a head of a pin. A-a-h!"

"Then I prefer to take my chances with you to going anywhere else."

"Think twice."

"I have thought more than twice."

"Then yer blood be on yer own head," said Mr. Growther with tragic solemnity, as if he were about to take Haldane's life. "My skirts is clear after this warnin'."

"Indeed they are. You haven't done me a bit of harm."

"Where does the trouble come from then? Who is a-harmin' you?"

"Well, Mr. Growther," said Haldane, wearily, "I hardly know what is the matter. I am losing zest and courage unaccountably. My old, happy and hopeful feelings are about all gone, and in their place all sorts of evil thoughts seem to be swarming into my mind. I have tried to keep all this to myself, but I have become so wretched that I must speak. Mrs. Arnot is away, or she might help me, as she ever does. I wish that I felt differently; I pray that I may, but in spite of all I seem drifting back to my old miserable self. Every day I fear that I shall have trouble at the mill. When I felt so strong and happy I did not mind what they said. One day I was asked by a workman, who is quite a decent fellow, how I stood it all? and I replied that I stood it as any well-meaning Christian man could. My implied assertion that I was a Christian was taken up as a great joke, and now they call me the 'pi'us jail-bird.' As long as I felt at heart that I was a Christian, I did not care; but now their words gall me to the quick. I do not know what to think. It seems to me that if any one ever met with a change I did. I'm sure I wish to feel now as I did then; but I grow worse every day. I am losing self-control and growing irritable. This evening, as I passed liquor saloons on my way home, my old appetite for drink seemed as strong as ever. What does it all mean?"