A Face Illumined Part 48

"Miss Ida, you've not been well. Do you think you had better go out in the heat of the day?" asked Mr. Burleigh, kindly.

She looked at him a moment, and then said, a little impulsively, "Mr. Burleigh, I thank you for speaking to me in that way. Yes, I wish to go, and think I shall be better for it."

As she entered the large hall, Van Berg, who had been on the watch, rose to greet her, but she merely bowed politely and distantly, and pa.s.sed at once into the dining room. After a hasty breakfast she returned to her room by a side pa.s.sage, and prepared for her expedition, paying no heed to her mother's expostulations.

Van Berg was on the piazza when she came down, but she pa.s.sed him swiftly, giving him no time to speak to her, and springing into the phaeton, drove away. His anxiety was so deep that he took pains to note the road she took, and then waited impatiently for her return.

After driving several miles, and making a few inquiries by the way, Ida found herself approaching an old-fas.h.i.+oned house secluded among the hills.

It was on a shady side road, into which but few eddies from the turbulent current of worldly life found their way.

The gate stood hospitably open, and she drove in under the shade of an enormous silver poplar, whose leaves fluttered in the breathless summer air, as if each one possessed a separate life of its own.

As she drew near to the house she saw old Mr. Eltinge coming from his garden to greet her.

"I had about given you up," he said, "and so you are doubly welcome.

Old people are like children, and don't bear disappointments very well."

"Did you really want to see me very much?" Ida asked, as he a.s.sisted her to alight.

"Yes, my child," he replied, gravely, holding her hand in a strong, warm grasp. "I felt, from your manner last evening, you were sincere. You come on an errand that is most pleasing to my Master, and I welcome you in his name as well as my own."

"Perhaps if you knew all you would not welcome me," she said in a low tone, turning away.

"Only for one cause could I withdraw my welcome," he said, still more gravely.

"What is that?" she asked in a lower tone, not daring to look at him.

"If you are not sincere," he replied, looking at her keenly.

Giving him her hand again, and looking up into his face, she said, earnestly:

"Mr. Eltinge, I am sincere. I could not be otherwise with you after your words last night. I come to you in great trouble, with a burdened heart and conscience, and I shall tell you everything, and then you must advise me, for I have no other friend to whom I can go."

"Oh, yes, you have, my child," said the old man, cheerily. "The One they called the 'Friend of sinners' is here to-day to welcome you, and is more ready to receive and advise you than I am. I'm not going to do anything for you but lead you to him who said, 'Come unto me, all ye that are heavy laden;' and, 'Whosoever cometh I will in nowise cast out.'"

"How much you make those words mean, as you speak them," faltered Ida. "You almost lead me to feel that not far away there is some one, good and tender-hearted, who will take me by the hand with rea.s.suring kindness, as you have."

"And you are right. Why, bless you, my child, religion doesn't do us much good until we learn to know our Lord as 'good and tender-hearted,'

and so near, too, that we can speak to him, whenever we wish, as the disciples did in old times. So don't be one bit discouraged; see, I'll fasten your horse right here in the shade, and by and by I'll have him fed, for you must spend the day with us, and not go back until the cool of the evening. It hasn't seemed hospitable that you should have stood so long here under the trees; and I didn't mean that you should, but things never turn out as we expect."

"It is often well they don't," thought Ida, as she looked around the quiet and quaintly beautiful spot, to which a kind Providence had brought her. It seemed as if her burden already were beginning to grow lighter.

"Now come in, my child, and tell me all your trouble."

"Please, Mr. Eltinge, may I not go back with you into the garden?"

"Yes, why not? We can talk there just as well;" and he led her to a rustic seat in a shady walk, while from a tool-house near he brought out for himself a chair that had lost its back.

"I'll lean against this pear-tree," he said. "It's young and strong, and owes me a good turn. Now, my child, tell me what you think best, and then I'll tell you of One whose word and touch cures every trouble."

But poor Ida had sudden and strong misgivings. As she saw the old gentleman surrounded by his flowers and fruits, as she glanced hesitatingly into his serene, quiet face, from which the fire and pa.s.sion of youth had long since faded, she thought. "So Adam might have looked had he never sinned but grown old in his beautiful garden. This aged man, who lives nearer heaven than earth, can't understand my wicked, pa.s.sionate heart. My story will only shock and pain him, and it's a shame to pollute this place with such a story."

"You spoke as if you were alone and friendless in the world," said Mr. Eltinge, trying to help her make a beginning. "Are you an orphan?"

"No," said Ida, with rising color, and averting her face. "My parents are both living."

"And yet you cannot go to them? Poor child! That is the worst kind of orphanage."

"Oh, Mr. Eltinge, this place seems like the garden of Eden, and I am bringing into it a heart full of trouble and wickedness."

"Well, my child," replied the old gentleman, with a smile. "I've brought here a heart full of trouble and wickedness many a time, so you need not fear hurting the garden."

"But I fear I shall pain and shock you."

"I hope you will. I'm going to feel with and for you. What's the good of my sitting here like a post?"

"Well," said Ida, desperately, "I promised to tell you everything, and I will. If there is any chance for me I'll then know it, for you will not deceive me. Somehow, what I am and what I have to say seemed in such sad contrast with you and your garden that I became afraid. You asked about my parents. My father is a very unhappy man. He seems to have lost hope and courage. I now begin to see that I have been chiefly to blame for this. I do nothing for his comfort. Indeed, I have been so occupied with myself and my own pleasure that I have given him little thought. He does not spend much of his time at home, and when I saw him he was always tired, sad, and moody. He seemed to possess nothing that could minister to my pride and pleasure save money, and I took that freely, with scarcely even thanks in return.

"I don't like to speak against my mother, but truth compels me to add that she acts much in the same way. I don't think she loves papa. Perhaps our treatment is the chief reason why life, seemingly, has become to him a burden. When he's not busy in he office he drinks, and drinks, and I fear it is only to forget his trouble.

Once or twice this summer he has looked like a man, and appeared capable of throwing off this destroying habit, and then by my wretched folly I made him do worse than ever," and she burst into a remorseful pa.s.sion of tears.

"That's right, my child," said Mr. Eltinge, taking off his spectacles that he might wipe his sympathetic eyes; "you were very much to blame. Thank G.o.d, there are no Pharisees in this garden.

G.o.d bless you; go on."

"This that I've told you about my father ought to be my chief trouble, but it isn't," faltered Ida. "I fear you won't understand me very well now, and you certainly will never be able to understand how I could be tempted to do something at the very thought of which I now shudder."

"No matter; my Master can understand it all if I can't. He's listening, too, remember."

"It frightens me to think so," said Ida, in an awed, trembling tone.

"That's because you don't know him. If you were severely wounded, would you be frightened to know that a good physician was right at hand to heal you?"

"But isn't G.o.d too infinite and far away to listen to listen to the story of my weakness and folly? I dare not think of him. My difficulty is just this--he IS G.o.d, and what am I?"

"One of his little children, my dear. Yes, he is infinite, but not far away. In the worst of my weakness and folly he listened patiently, and helped me out of my trouble. How are you going to get over this fact? He has listened to and helped mult.i.tudes of others in every kind of trouble and wrong. How are you going to get over these facts?"

Ida slowly wiped her eyes. Her face grew very pale, and she looked at Mr. Eltinge steadily and earnestly, as if to gather from his expression and manner, as well as words, the precise effect of her confession.

"Mr. Eltinge," she said, "at this time yesterday I did not expect to be alive to-day. I expected to be dead, and by my own hand.

Will G.o.d forgive such wickedness?"

"Dead!" exclaimed the old gentleman, starting up.

"Yes," said Ida, growing still paler and trembling with apprehension, but still looking fixedly at Mr. Eltinge as if she would learn from his face whether she could hope or must despair because of her intended crime.

"And what changed your awful purpose, my child?" he said, very gravely.

"Your words at the prayer-meeting last night."