Chapter 41. The Protestant Confessional

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_ Chapter XLI. The Protestant Confessional

Ida's sleep was almost as deep and quiet, and when her mother stole in to look at her from time to time the following morning, her face was as colorless, as if she had taken the drug which Van Berg's heel had ground into the earth; but Mrs. Mayhew observed with satisfaction that her respiration was as regular and natural as that of a little child. Wronged nature will, to a certain extent, forgive the young and restore to them the priceless treasures of health and strength they throw away. Ida had been a sad spendthrift of both lately, but now that the evil spell was broken, the poor worn body and mind sank into a long and merciful oblivion, during which a new life began to flow back from the, as yet, unexhausted fountain of youth.

She awoke late in the morning, and it was some moments before she could recall all that had happened. Then, as she remembered her dreadful purpose, there came a strong rush of grateful feeling that she HAD awakened--that life and its opportunities were still hers.

For a moment she portrayed to herself what she had supposed would have happened that day--she imagined herself lying white and still--the people coming and going on tiptoe and speaking in hushed tones, as if death were but a troubled and easily broken sleep; while they looked at her with faces in which curiosity and horror were equally blended; she saw her father staring at her in utter despair, and her mother trying, in a pitifully helpless way, to think how appearances might still be kept up and a little shred of respectability retained. She saw the artist looking at her with stern, white face, and heard him mutter: "What were you to me that you should commit this awful deed and lay it at my door, thus blighting a life full of the richest promise with your horrible shadow?"

"Thank God, thank God!" she cried passionately. "It's all like a dreadful dream and never happened."

"Why, Ida, what IS the matter?" said Mrs. Mayhew, coming in hastily.

"I had a bad dream," said Ida, with something like a low sob.

"Ida, I want you to see the doctor, to-day. You haven't acted like yourself for over two weeks."

"Mother, what time is it?"

"Ten o'clock and after."

"Please draw the curtain. I want to see the sunlight."

"The sun is very hot to-day."

"Is it?" Then under her breath she murmured: "Thank God, so it is."

She arose and began making her toilet slowly, for the languor of her long sleep and excessive fatigue was on her still. But thought was very busy. The subject uppermost in her mind was the promised visit to old Mr. Eltinge, and she resolved to go at once, if it were a possible thing. Mrs. Mayhew having again referred to her purpose of sending for a physician, Ida turned to her and said, decisively:

"Mother, do you not realize that I am not a child? What is the use of sending for a doctor when I will not see him? I ask--I insist that you and Mr. Stanton interfere with me no longer."

"My goodness, Ida, shall not I, your own mother, take any care of you?"

"It is too late in the day now to commence taking care of me. You have permitted me to grow up so wanting in mental and moral culture that you naturally suspect me of the vilest action. Henceforth I take care of myself, and act for myself;" and she abruptly left the room and went to Mr. Burleigh's office, requesting that the light phaeton and a safe horse, such as she could drive, should be sent around to he door at once.

"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 passed at once into the dining room. After a hasty breakfast she returned to her room by a side passage, 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 passed 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-fashioned 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 assisted 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 reassuring 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 passion 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, passionate 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 passion 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 god, there are no Pharisees in this garden. God 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 God 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 God, 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 multitudes 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 God 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."

The old gentleman removed his hat and reverently bowed his head. "O God," he murmured, "thou hast been merciful to me all my days; I thank thee for this crowning mercy."

"But will God be merciful to ME?" cried Ida, in a tone of sharp agony.

The old man came to he side, and placing his hands on her head spoke with almost the authority and solemnity of one of God's ancient prophets.

"Yes, my child, yes, he will be merciful unto you--he will forgive you. But in your deep need you require more than the assurance of a poor sinful mortal like yourself. Listen to God's own word: 'Thus saith the high and lofty One that inhabiteth eternity, whose name is Holy: I dwell in the high and holy place, with him also that is of a contrite and humble spirit, to revive the spirit of the humble, and to revive the heart of the contrite ones.'

"'Like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear him.'

"'If we confess our sins he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins; and the blood of Jesus Christ, his Son, cleanseth us from all sin.' God answers your question himself, my child."

"Oh, may He bless you for your kindness to me! It has saved me from despair and death," sobbed Ida, burying her face in her hands, and giving way to the natural expression of feeling that ever relieves a heart that has long been overburdened.

For a few moments Mr. Eltinge said nothing, but gently stroked the bowed head as he might caress a daughter of his own. At last he asked, with a voice that was broken from sympathy with her emotion,

"How about my Master, whose kind providence has brought all this about?"

Ida gradually became more quiet, and as soon as she could trust herself to speak she lifter her head and answered:

"Mr. Eltinge, I think I can learn to love God as you portray him to me. But in my imperfection and wickedness I have not dared to think of him till I came here."

"Now, isn't that just like the devil's work!" exclaimed Mr. Eltinge. "It was our imperfection and wickedness that brought Christ to our rescue, and yet you have been made to believe that your chief claim upon our Divine Friend is a hopeless barrier against you!"

"Mr. Eltinge," said Ida, slowly, as if she were trying to be sure that each word expressed her thought, "it was that word, FRIEND, as you used it last night, that caught my ear and revived my hopes. I now believe that if you had spoken only of duty or truth, or even of God in the ordinary way, I should now be"--she buried her face in her hands and shuddered--"I should not be in this sunny garden with the memory that your hands have rested on my hands in blessing. If I am to live, I shall need, above all things, a friend, and a very patient and helpful one, or else my burden will be heavier than I can carry. I have told you about my parents, and you thus know what I must look forward to in my own home. But such is my weakness and folly, I have a far worse trouble than that. You may smile at it and think that time will bring speedy relief. Perhaps it will--I hope so. I feel that I know so little about myself and everything else that I can never be sure of anything again. Mr. Eltinge, I have been so unfortunate as to give my whole heart's love to a man who despises me. At first he seemed somewhat attracted, but he soon discovered how imperfect and ignorant I was, and coldly withdrew. He is now paying his addresses, I believe, to another lady, and I must admit that she is a lovely girl, and every way worthy of him. I think she will return his regard, if she does not already. But whether she does or not cannot matter, for he is so far my superior in every respect that he would never think of me again. In order to hide my foolish, hopeless passion, I received attentions from another man that I detested, and who has since proved himself an utter villain, but it so happened that my name became so closely associated with this low fellow, that when my heart was breaking for another reason, all thought that it was because I was infatuated with a man I loathed. Even Mr. Van Berg thought so, and I intended to compel him to respect me, or at least to think better of me, even if I had to die to carry out my purpose. I was desperate and blind with disappointment and despair. To a strong man, I suppose, these things do not count so greatly, but I'm inclined to think what with us poor women our heart-life is everything. I fairly shiver at the thought of the future. How can I carry this heavy burden, year after year? Oh, how can I bear it? How can I bear it?" and her eyes became full of desperate trouble again, at the prospect before her.

"Well, my dear," said Mr. Eltinge in broken tones, "my heart goes out to you in sympathy as if you were my own daughter, but old James Eltinge can do but little towards curing your deep troubles."

"I do not hope to be cured," said Ida, despondently, "but I would be very glad if I could think my life would not be a burden to myself and others."

Mr. Eltinge pondered a few moments, and then brightened up, as if a pleasant thought had struck him.

"What do you think of this pear-tree against which I'm leaning?" he asked. "You remember I said it owed me a good turn, and perhaps I can get my best fruit from it to-day."

"I think it is a pretty tree," said Ida, wonderingly; "and now I notice that there are some fine pears on it."

"Yes, and they are about ripe. Let us see if we can't reverse the old story with which the Bible commences. The man shall tempt the woman this time, and this shall be a tree of the knowledge of good, not of evil. Poor child, you know enough about that already;" and the old gentleman climbed up on his chair, and with his cane loosened a large yellow pear with a crimson blush on its sunny side.

"Take my hat and catch it," he had said to Ida; and she did so.

"Now, I've made you an accomplice already, and so you may as well eat the pear while I tell you a bit of history concerning this tree. It may help me to suggest some very encouraging truths."

But Ida held her pear and looked wistfully at the speaker. Her heart was still too sore to enter into the half-playful manner by which he sought to give a less gloomy cast to her thoughts.

"Some years ago," said Mr. Eltinge, resuming his seat, "we had a night of darkness and violent storm like that through which you, poor child, have just passed. The garden fence was blown down, and some stray cattle got in and made sad havoc. This pear-tree was a little thing then, and when I came out in the morning it was in a bad plight, I can tell you. The wind had snapped off the top, and it lay withering on the ground. Worse than this, one of the cattle had stepped on it, bruising it severely, and half breaking it off near the root. I don't know which of the young men you have named this unruly beast typifies--both of 'em, I'm inclined to think."

Here Ida shook her head in protest against Van Berg being classed with Sibley, and at the same time could not forbear the glimmer of a smile at the old man's homely imagery.

"Well, according to my creed," continued Mr. Eltinge, "'while there's life there's hope,' so I lifted up the poor, prostrate little tree, and tied it to a stout stake. Then I got grafting wax and covered the bruises and broken places, and finally tied all up as carefully as I used to my boys' fingers when the cut them, sixty odd years ago. And now mark, my child; I had done all that I could do. I couldn't make the wounds heal or even a new twig start; and yet here is a stately young tree beginning to bear delicious fruit. Nature took my sorry-looking little case in hand, and slowly at first, but by and by with increased vigor and rapidity, she developed what you see. I have an affection for this tree, and like to lean against it, and sometimes I half fancy it likes to have me."

"I should think it ought to," said Ida, heartily, with tears in her eyes, but a smile on her lips.

"Well, now, my child, to go on with my parable, what nature was to this pear-tree, nature's God must be to you. We cannot find in nature nor in the happiest human love that which can satisfy our deep spiritual need; but we can find all in him who came from heaven in our behalf. Jesus Christ is the patient, helpful Friend you need. He brings more than joy--even the peace and rest that follow full trust in One pledged to take care of us and make everything turn out for the best. He says of those who come to him, 'I give unto them eternal life, and they shall never perish.' If you will take this life from him it will never be a burden to you, and it will always be a blessing to others."

"I fear I don't quite understand you, Mr. Eltinge. What is this 'eternal life'--this new, added life which you say Christ offers, and which I'm sure I'd be very glad to take if I knew how?"

"Let Jesus answer you himself, my child. He said plainly: 'This is life eternal, that they might know thee the only true God, and Jesus Christ, whom thou has sent.' Perhaps I can make our Lord's words clearer from your own experience, if you will permit me to refer to your feelings toward the man who, whether worthy or not has won your love. Suppose he is all you imagine, and that he lavished on you the best treasures of his heart; would not life at his side seem life in very truth, and life elsewhere but mere existence?"

"Yes," said Ida, with bowed head and pale cheeks. "I begin to understand you now. It seems to me that I could welcome sorrow, poverty, and even death, at his side, and call life rich and full. But as it is--oh, Mr. Eltinge, teach me your faith, lest I give way to despair again!"

"Poor child! poor child! Don't my white hairs teach you that I am on the threshold of the home in which 'God shall wipe away all tears'?"

"I envy you," cried Ida, almost passionately. "Think how far I am from that home!"

"Well, you are not far from the Divine Friend who leads to that home, and when you come to KNOW him and his love your life will begin to grow richer and sweeter and fuller to all eternity. This is eternal life. It's know the God who loves us and whom we have learned to love. It's not living on and on forever in a beautiful heaven, any more than the earthly life you crave is living on and on in a pleasant home such as the man of your heart might provide. The true life is the presence of the loved one himself, and all that he is to us and all that he can do for us; and if a mortal and finite creature seems to you so able to impart life, how infinitely more blessed will the life eventually be which comes from a God of boundless power and boundless love!"

"Alas, Mr. Eltinge, God seems too boundless."

"Did God seem too boundless to the little children whom he took in his arms and blessed?"

"Oh that I had been one of them!" said Ida, with a sudden rush of tears.

"Come, my dear young friend, do not expect too much of yourself to-day. You cannot take in all this truth at once, any more than this young pear tree could take all the dew and sunshine, cold and heat (for autumn frosts are needed as well as spring showers) that nature had in store for it, but its life was assured from the moment it was able to receive nature's restoring influences. So with greater certainty a happy, useful life is assured to you as soon as you receive Jesus Christ as your Saviour, Teacher, and Life-giver. 'As many as received him, to them gave he power to become the sons of God,' and I assure you the Great King will look after his children right royally. But you don't know him very well yet, and so cannot have the life which flows from his fulness of life. Suppose you come here mornings, and we'll read together the story of Jesus, just as it is told in the New Testament, and I don't believe it will be long before you will say to me that my Friend is yours also. Now, come up to the house and I'll introduce you to my sister. You think me a saint; but I'll show you what a human appetite I have."

"I hear a brook near by," said Ida; "may I not go to it and bathe my face?"

"Yes, do what you like best while here. Would you rather bathe in the brook than at the house?"

"Yes, indeed. Everything seems sacred here, and I can imagine the brook yonder to be a rill from the Jordan."

"Don't be superstitious and sentimental," said the old gentleman, shaking his head gravely. "The life of a Christian means honest, patient work, and Christ's blood alone can wash us till we are whiter than snow."

Ida's face grew earnest and noble as she stepped to the symbolic tree and placed her hand on one of its lower branches.

"Mr. Eltinge," she said gently and gravely, "as this broken, wounded tree received all the help nature gave it, so I, more bruised and broken, will try to receive all the help Christ will give me to bear my burden and live a life pleasing to him. I shall be very glad indeed to come here and learn to know him better under your most kind and faithful teaching, and as I learn, I will try to do my best; but oh, Mr. Eltinge, you can't realize how very weak and imperfect--how ignorant and full of faults I am!"

"Just so the poor little tree might have spoken if it had had a voice. Indeed I thought it WOULD die. But now look at the fruit over your head. You shall take some of it home, and every pear will be a sermon to you--a juicy one, too. If you will do as you say, my child, all will be well."

She bathed her tear-stained face in the brook, and came back looking fairer than any flower in the garden. Then they went up to the old-fashioned house.

"My dear, this is my sister, Miss Eltinge," he said, presenting a white-haired old lady, who still was evidently much younger than her brother. Then, turning suddenly around in comical dismay, he said, "Why, bless you, my child, I don't know your name! Well, well, no matter! I know YOU. There are people whose names I've known half my life, and yet I don't know them and don't trust 'em."

"My name is Ida Mayhew," said the young girl simply. "I heard Mr. Eltinge speak at the prayer-meeting last night in such a way that I wanted to see him and ask his help and advice, and he has been very, very kind to me. He can tell you all."

"Yes, if he chooses," said the old gentleman with a laugh. "Sister knows me too well in my character of father confessor to expect me to tell everything."

They made her at home as the simple and well-bred only can do.

After dinner Miss Eltinge tried to entertain her for a while, but at last said, with appreciative tact:

"My dear, I think you will best enjoy yourself if you are left to range the old house and place at will. After my brother has rested he will join you again."

Ida was glad to be alone. She had made a promise of far-reaching and vital import that morning. Life was taking on new aspects that were so unfamiliar that she was bewildered. She went back to the garden, and, taking Mr. Eltinge's seat, leaned against the emblematic pear-tree, which she curiously began to associate with herself, and for which she was already conscious of something like affection.

"Oh," she sighed, "if my life would only come to abound with deeds corresponding to the fruit that is bending these boughs above me, it could not be a burden, thought it might be very sad and lonely. I now begin to understand Jennie Burton--her constant effort in behalf of others. But HE will comfort her before long. Her dark days are nearly over. No matter how deep or great her troubles may have been, they must vanish in the sunshine of such a man's love. I wonder if he has spoken plainly yet--but what need of words? His eyes and manner have told her all a hundred times. I wish she could be my friend, I wish I could speak to her plainly, for she is so kind and wise; but I must shun her, or else she'll discover the secret that I'd hide from her even more carefully than from him, if such a thing were possible. I wonder if they ever met before they came here. I never saw one human being look at another as she sometimes looks at him. I believe that deep in her heart she fairly idolizes him, although her singular self-control enables her, as a general thing, to treat him with the ease and frankness of a friend. Well, she may love him more deeply than I do because possessing a deeper nature. I can but give all I have. But I think my love would be like the little brook over there. It's not very deep or obtrusive, but Mr. Eltinge says it has never failed. Well, well! these are not the thoughts for me, though how I can help them I cannot tell. I will try to win a little respect from him before we part, and then my life, like this pear-tree, must be full of good deeds for those who have the best right to receive them," and taking a small pen-knife from her pocket she mounted the chair, and carved within the two lower branches where they could not easily be discovered the words,

"Ida Mayhew." _

Read next: Chapter 42. The Corner-Stone Of Character

Read previous: Chapter 40. Van Berg's Conclusions

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