The Calling of Dan Matthews Part 11

"But" he urged, eagerly, "the church is a sacred inst.i.tution. It is not to be compared to the inst.i.tutions of men. Its very purpose is so holy, so different from other organizations."

"Which of the hundreds of different sects with their different creeds do you mean by the church?" she asked quickly. "Or do you mean all? And if all are equally sacred, with the same holy purpose, why are they at such variance with each other and why is there such useless compet.i.tion between them? How are these inst.i.tutions--organized and controlled, as they are, by men, different from other inst.i.tutions, organized and controlled by the same men? Surely you are aware that there are thousands of inst.i.tutions and organizations in the world with aims as distinctly Christian as the professed object of the church. Why are these not as holy and sacred?"

"But the church is of divine origin."

"So is this tree; so is the material in that old building; so are those farms yonder. To me it is only the spirit of G.o.d in a thing that can make it holy or sacred. Surely there is as much of G.o.d manifest in a field of grain as in any of these churches; why, then, is not a corn field a holy inst.i.tution and why not the farmer who tends the field, a minister of G.o.d?"

"You would condemn then everyone in the church?" he asked bitterly. "I cannot think that--I know--" he paused.

"Condemn?" she answered questioningly, "I condemn?" Those deep gray eyes were turned full upon him, and he saw her face grow tender and sad, while the sweet voice trembled with emotion. "Who spoke of condemnation? Is that just the question? Are you not unfair? In my--" she spoke the words solemnly, "my ministry, I have stood at the bedside of too many heroes and heroines not to know that the church is filled with the truest and bravest. And that--Oh! don't you see--that is the awful pity of it all.

That those true, brave, n.o.ble lives should be the--the cloud that hides the sun? As for the ministry, one in my profession could scarcely help knowing the grand lives that are hidden in this useless cla.s.s set apart by the church to push its interests. The ministers are useless only because they are not free. They cannot help themselves. They are slaves, not servants. Their first duty is, not service to the soul-sick world that so much needs their ministry, but obedience to the whims of this hideous monster that they have created and now must obey or--" she paused.

"Or what?" he said.

She continued as if she had not heard: "They are valued for their fidelity to other men's standards, never for the worth of their own lives. They are hired to give always the opinions of others, and they are denied the only thing that can make any life of worth--freedom of self-expression. The surest road to failure for them is to hold or express opinions of their own. They are held, not as necessities, but as a luxury, like heaven itself, for which if men have the means to spare, they pay. They can have no real fellows.h.i.+p with the servants of the race, for they are set apart by the church not to a ministry but from it. Their very personal influence is less than the influence of other good men because the world accepts it as professional. It is the way they earn their living."

"But do you think that the ministers themselves wish to be so set apart?"

asked Dan. "I--I am sure they must all crave that fellows.h.i.+p with the workers."

"I think that is true," she answered. "I am sure it is of the many grand, good men in the ministry whom I have known."

"Oh," he said quickly, "then there are good men in the ministry?"

"Yes," she retorted, "just as there are gold and precious stones ornamenting heathen G.o.ds and pagan temples, and their goodness is as useless. For whether they wish it or not the facts remain that their masters set them apart and that they are separated, and I notice that most of them accept gracefully the special privileges, and wear the t.i.tle and all the marks of their calling that emphasize the distinction between them and their fellow men."

"Yet you wear a distinguis.h.i.+ng dress," he said. "I knew your calling the first time I saw you."

She laughed merrily.

"Well what amuses you?" he demanded, smiling himself at her merriment.

"Oh, it's so funny to see such a big man so helpless. Really couldn't you find an argument of more weight? Besides you didn't know my profession the first time you saw me. I only wear these clothes when I am at work, just as a mechanic wears his overalls--and they are just as necessary, as you know. The first time you--you b.u.mped into me, I dressed like other people and I had paid full fare, too. Nurses don't get clergy credentials from the railroad."

With this she sprang to her feet. "Look how long the shadows are! I must go right back to my patient this minute."

As she spoke she was all at once painfully conscious again that this man was a stranger. What must he think of her? How could she explain that it was not her habit to talk thus freely to men whom she did not know? She wished that he would tell her his name at least.

Slowly--silently they walked together across the weed-grown yard. As they pa.s.sed through the gap in the tumble-down fence, Dan turned to look back. It seemed to him ages since he had entered the yard.

"What's the matter, have you lost something?" she asked.

"No--that is--I--perhaps I have. But never mind, it is of no great importance, and anyway I could not find it. I think I will say good-bye now," he added. "I'm not going to town just yet."

Again she wondered at his face, it was so troubled.

He watched her down the street until her blue dress, with its white tr.i.m.m.i.n.g became a blur in the shadows. Then he struck out once more for the open country.

CHAPTER XI.

REFLECTIONS

"And gradually, out of the material of his school experience, he built again the old bulwark, behind which he could laugh at his confusion of the hour before."

Since that first chance meeting at the depot when he had looked into the nurse's eyes and heard her voice only for a moment, Dan had not been able to put the young woman wholly out of his mind. The incident on the street when she had gone to Denny, and the scene that followed in Denny's home had strengthened the first impression, while the meeting at the old Academy yard had stirred depths in his nature never touched before. The very things she had said to him were so evidently born out of a nature great in its pa.s.sion for truth and in its capacity for feeling that, even though her words were biting and stung, he could not but rejoice in the beauty and strength of the spirit they revealed.

The usual trite criticisms of the church Dan had heard, and had already learned to think somewhat lightly of the kind of people who commonly make them. But this young woman--so wholesome, so good to look at in her sweet seriousness, so strong in her womanliness and withal so useful in what she called her ministry--this woman was--well, she was different.

Her words were all the more potent, coming as they did after the disquieting thoughts and the feeling of dissatisfaction that had driven him from his study that afternoon. The young minister could not at first rid himself of the hateful suggestion that there might be much truth in the things she had said. After all under the fine words, the plat.i.tudes and the professions, the fact remained he _was_ earning his daily bread by being obedient to those who hired him. He had already begun to feel that his work was not so much to give what he could to meet the people's need as to do what he could to supply the wants of Memorial Church, and that his very chance to serve depended upon his satisfying these self-const.i.tuted judges. He saw too, that these same judges, his masters, felt the dignity of their position heavily upon them, and would not be in the least backward about rendering their decision. They would let him know what things pleased them and what things were not to their liking.

Their opinions and commandments would not always be in definite words, perhaps, but they would be none the less clearly and forcibly given for all that.

He had spoken truly when he had told Miss Farwell, as they parted, that he had lost something. And now, as he walked the country road, he sought earnestly to regain it; to find again his certainty of mind; to steady his shaken confidence in the work to which he had given his life.

Dan's character was too strong, his conviction too powerful, his purpose too genuine, for him to be easily turned from any determined line of thought or action. Certainly it would require more than the words of a stranger to swing him far from his course, even though he felt that there might be a degree of truth in them. And so, as he walked, his mind began shaping answers to the nurse's criticism and gradually, out of the material of his school experience, he built again the old bulwark, behind which he could laugh at his confusion of the hour before.

But withal Dan's admiration of the young woman's mind and character was not lessened. More, he felt that she had in some way given him a deeper view into her life and thoughts than was due a mere stranger. He was conscious, too, of a sense of shame that he had, in a way, accepted her confidence under false pretense. He had let her believe he was not what he was. But, he argued with himself, he had not intentionally deceived her and he smiled at last to think how she would enjoy the situation with him when she learned the truth.

How different she was from any of the women he had known in the church!

They mostly accepted their religious views as they would take the doctor's prescription--without question.

And how like she was to his mother!

Then came the inevitable thought--what a triumph it would be if he could win such a character to the church. What an opportunity! Could he do it?

He must.

With that the minister began putting his thoughts in shape for a sermon on the ministry. Determined to make it the effort of his life, he planned how he would announce it next Sunday for the following week, and how, with Dr. Harry's a.s.sistance, he would perhaps secure her attendance at the service.

Meanwhile Hope Farwell pa.s.sing quickly along the village street on her way home from the old Academy yard, was beset by many varied and conflicting emotions. Recalling her conversation with the man who was to her so nearly a total stranger, she felt that she had been too earnest, too frank. It troubled her to think how she had laid bare her deepest feelings. She could not understand how she had so far forgotten her habitual reserve. There was a something in that young man, so tall and strong, and withal so clean looking, that had called from her, in spite of herself, this exposition of her innermost life and thoughts. She ought not to have yielded so easily to the subtle demand that he--unconsciously no doubt--had made.

It was as though she had flung wide open the door to that sacred, inner chamber at which only the most intimate of her friends were privileged to knock. He had come into the field of her life in the most commonplace manner--through the natural incident of their meeting. He should have stopped there, or should have been halted by her. The hour should have been spent in conversation on such trivial and commonplace topics as usually occupy strangers upon such occasions, and they should have parted strangers still. She felt that after this exhibition of herself, as she termed it in her mind, she at least was no stranger to him. And she was angry with herself, and ashamed, when she reflected how deeply into her life he had entered; angry with him too, in a way, that he had gained this admittance with apparently no effort.

She reflected too, that while she had so freely opened the door to him, and had admitted him with a confidence wholly inexcusable, he had in no way returned that confidence. She searched her memory for some word--some expression of his, that would even hint at what he thought, or believed, or was, within himself; something that would justify her in feeling that she knew him even a little. But there was nothing. It was as though this stranger, whom she had admitted into the privacy of the inner chamber, had worn mask and gown. No self-betraying expression had escaped him. He had not even told her his name. While she had laid out for his inspection the strongest pa.s.sions of her life; had felt herself urged to show him all, and had kept nothing hidden. He had looked and had gone away making no comment.

"Of course," she thought, "he is a gentleman, and he is cultured and refined, and a good man too." Of this she was sure, but that was nothing.

One does not talk as she had talked to a man just because he is not a ruffian or a boor. She wanted to know him as she had made herself known to him. She could not say why.

The nurse's work in Corinth was nearly finished; she would probably never meet this man again. She started at the thought. Would she ever meet him again? What did it matter? And yet--she would not confess it even to herself, but it did, somehow, seem to matter. Of one thing she was sure--he was well worth knowing. She had felt that there was a depth, a richness, a genuineness to him, and it was this feeling, this certainty of him, that had led her to such openness. Yes--she was sure there were treasures there--deep within, for those whom he chose to admit. She wished--(why should she not confess it after all)--she wished that she might be admitted.

Hope Farwell was alone in the world with no near living relatives. She had only her friends; and friends to her meant more than to those who have others dearer to them by ties of blood.

That evening when Dr. Harry was leaving the house after his visit to his patient, the nurse went with him to the door, as usual, for any word of instruction he might wish to give her privately.

"Well, Miss Hope," he said, "you've done it."

"What have I done?" she asked, startled.