The Tryst (Annotated) (Grace Livingston Hill Book) (20 page)

A long time he knelt under the old tree. It seemed to be nearer to God than anywhere else, and his thoughts were lees trammeled there to think clearly. In the chill of the evening he came back, drawing the collar of his coat up high around his neck and shivering, for the air was raw with a tang of winter and the meadows looked bleak and frosty. He was keenly conscious of the loss of his mother, yet full of peace, because he knew that wherever she was she knew and was satisfied, for he had found her Saviour and was to be henceforth what she had longed to have him be, a minister of Christ's Gospel. Where or how, did not matter. He was still not sure that this New York church was the place, for of course he read between the lines and knew that a vacant pulpit was always looking out for a man, and doubtless he was to be on trial. He was not New Yorker enough to realize that this church was one of the most prominent and influential in the whole great city, and that it was a most strange and unexpected circumstance that he, an unknown retiring young man from the country, but just returned to his own land after a long absence, should have been asked to preach there at all, even as a supply. If he had known, it would not have entered into 'his calculation now, for since his finding Christ worldly considerations had not intruded to trouble him. He had given his all, and nothing gave him even a ripple of regret. 

He accepted the letter merely as one of the leadings of his new Guide, and did not question how wide a field it was to which he was being led. 

When he reached the little cottage he sat down and wrote a brief acceptance of the invitation* Then he set about his simple preparations to leave the little home permanently, putting it in the keeping of a dear old lady friend of his mother's who would be quite comfortable there with her grandson and who otherwise would have had to remain as she had done for years in the home of an unloving niece and her still more unloving husband. John Treeves might have rented that house furnished at a good sum, or even sold it easily, for he had one or two offers, but it pleased him rather to give it to Mrs. Burnside rent free and feel that his mother’s home was going on and doing good as it had done often in her lifetime, when it had been a refuge for many a weary soul for a week or a day or a month in time of need. Also he liked the thought of going back now and then and finding everything just as it had been when his mother was living. 

So Mrs. Burnside brought her geraniums and her old wheezy sewing machine and her grandson with his cheap victrola, and they were established around the Treeves dining table and had their first supper the night before John Treeves left for New York. 

He spent that last evening, after supper, tramping out to the old trysting place, and standing among the stars talking with God. Down there in the village the cottage lights twinkled and went out one by one as the villagers retired, but the eternal stars shone on and showed him where was the dear little bungalow at the end of the street that he felt he was really leaving forever. At the other extreme end of the street was the church spire, and one blue star glanced down its side with a spike of light as if to pick it out from the trees the better. Over beyond was the schoolhouse, red brick and white, where he had gone for so many years, and beyond, the athletic field where he had distinguished himself in baseball every spring and football every fall, and where sometimes his mother had sat proudly on the side lines watching, never letting him know how fearful it all seemed to her, always glad and relieved and shiny eyed when the game was over, still and white and courageous that time when he got knocked cold for a minute. How all the little incidents flocked up now to stir his heart with sadness! 

He turned away to the quiet stars and began to talk with God aloud: 

“Oh, God, I had a wonderful mother! I thank you for her! May I be all and more than she wanted and prayed for. May I never be traitor again to the faith. Fm going out into that sick world --it hurts me to think of it -- the world that could have had a war like that! And I'm no better than the 

World – only-- I HAVE YOU! That is wonderful! That is EVERYTHING! And I know what I’ll meet there, unbelief, scoffing, cunning reasoning, scholarly argument, selfish, fascinating people, temptations of every subtle sort that ever tried a man. And I'm no strong man, I know that now, or I never would have wandered from my mother's teachings and her Bible and the God I used to love when I was a child. I must be weak and easily led or I should never have come to the pass I did to let my mother go across without knowing I had cast that all aside and was true 1 Oh, God, you have forgiven me, I know, but I can never forgive myself 1 May I be kept from falling. You can keep me from falling. I remember your own words: ‘And now unto Him who is able to keep me from falling, and to present me faultless’--I commit myself, my soul, my life! Give me wisdom that I may if possible win men from the false way of thinking, whatever bypath they have taken in that direction. Especially show me how to help men out of the new and modem blindness that has befallen the earth, which was my own undoing. Oh, my Saviour, show me how to make men see what I have seen!” 

The night went on and the stars kept vigil with him beside the old tree, where he communed with his God and received, as it were, his commission to go forth and preach, a kind of anointing of the spirit without which no man has a right to go into the ministry, no matter how much he has studied, nor how long he has been in preparing. 

He had not felt the cold, nor known that it was late as he walked up and down, and occasionally knelt. Once more the Word was his attendant, bringing verse after verse out of the storehouse of his memory where his faithful mother has helped to put them long years before against a time like this, to make him wise unto salvation. And as he watched the stars and the verses began to come, it was as if an open book were spread before him and he read: 

“The heavens declare the glory of God, and the firmament showeth His handiwork. Day unto day uttereth speech, and night unto night showeth knowledge.” What was that his mother had read him long ago when he was only half comprehending -- something about God having taught the signs of the zodiac to Adam, or was it Abraham? He could not remember. And that there was sufficient evidence to make it certain that the signs of the zodiac were known in those long ago days, and that to those who rightly read them they foretold many things that were written in the Bible and made plain much that was sealed otherwise. Ah! He wished he could remember it all. If his mother had read it somewhere others must know. He must look it up. His believing heart no longer saw it a matter for amusement, but rather one for deep thought and research. Ah! What a wonderful thing if God had written His wishes in the heavens in letters of stars to be read by those who cared to learn!

The morning star had made its appearance as he came down the mountain at last, and found his way in the deep darkness just before the dawn more by the sense of feeling than by sight. Mrs. Burnside lifted her head anxiously from the pillow and listened as he let himself into the house and wondered what and where and how, and then sank back to puzzle over it again. “If there was any train up from, the city at this hour,” she said to herself, “I’d have thought he had been to the theatre. But he must have been over to Clarion to see some girl and had to foot it home. I do hope he isn't got started wrong over in that horrid France, his mother loved him so!” Then she sank back to thankful sleep again. It was enough that he had given her this wonderful haven of refuge. He must be a good boy after all. She summoned courage in the morning before he left to tell him she hoped he'd remember that his mother wanted him to be a good man, and he smiled reassuringly, and stooped and kissed her wrinkled old forehead. 

“Thank you for caring,” he said; “I'll remember.” And then he walked down the street to the station on his way into the ministry. It was not as he had thought he would go long years ago, nor as his mother and he had pictured he would start away to his first preaching, but he felt that somewhere up with God she knew, and he was content. 

Marjorie Horliss-Cole had come home. Mountain air was too dull for her. Besides, she had received word that “Al” had a good opportunity of making pig money by going to the Philippines for six months to superintend the putting up of a large sugar refinery, with brilliant prospects ahead for a fine business career if he made good and he wanted to consult with her -before leaving. She came home, spent a blissful, tearful day with him by means of a hired car and dinner at a country inn while she was supposedly doing some shopping for her Aunt Sylvia, and then bade him good-bye. The horizon seemed now to be dull indeed since he had gone and further intrigues seemed not worth while although her friend who had instituted many house parties in the past offered a number of substitutes as consolation. But Marjorie's thoughts were on the high seas and scanning foreign shores. The other youths who passed for her favor seemed flat and uninteresting, and she preferred to mope, and read novels. Not even the near approach of Christmas stirred an answering smile. Her mother was becoming worried and heaping gifts upon her child, and Marjorie was bright enough to make hay while the sun shone, and maintained her attitude of lassitude. So it was Marjorie who arose languidly from a deep chair in the luxurious library, and flinging aside her book, came forward to meet the young minister as he entered, escorted by the magnificent butler. 

“I beg your pardon. Miss Marjorie, I wasn’t aware you were in here,” he said anxiously. “It was Mr. Horliss-Cole's orders, Miss, that Mr. Treeves should be brought in here when he came.” 

“It’s all right, Bryan, Mr. Treeves is a friend of mine,” she said brightly, and he withdrew, warmed by her smile. In fact, she was the light of his old eyes, he having been in the employ of the family since her babyhood. 

For a moment John Treeves was puzzled to know where he had met the pretty little girl with the big eyes and restless expression, so far were his thoughts from the few minutes he had spent in her company. But Marjorie Horliss-Cole lost no time in putting him at his ease, and connecting the links without a break between their last conversation and the present. She was pastmaster at all that sort of thing. It was what she had been sent to school for, and it was about all the upbringing she had ever had. 

And so for a time he sat and let her prattle, or answered her questions about the war and his experience indifferently enough, glad just to be in the company of a woman and feel in touch with home again. Presently he began to ask her questions about the church. 

“It’s on the avenue, of course,” she answered indifferently, and it’s quite stunning. The windows cost millions of dollars and it's been all remodeled. It's an awfully popular place to get married, it's so well-suited for the decorations, you know. But churches are such dull places. I scarcely ever go since I've grown up. Of course we had to in school, unless we could get up a headache or something. But I'm going to-morrow; it will be such fun to see some one in the pulpit that I know. I often wonder why any young man takes it up though. It must be awfully poky. Of course it's tremendously distinguished and all that if one goes in for something to do and doesn't just care for society, but it's so confining; and if you want to go off to Florida or anywhere with a house-party it must be such a bore to get somebody to take your place. Of course we have three assistant pastors now and always one of them can be substituted at the last minute. Oh, yes, I believe they are in charge of missions or something of the sort, but then anybody can take a mission if one of them is needed to preach. And it really isn't so bad. I believe our minister only preaches once a day, although I’m not sure; I haven’t been in a long time. Would you like to go down and look at the church? It isn't far and the car is always ready.”

Treeves said he would, but couldn't they walk? Marjorie, with a dash of interest, declared it would be “perfectly dandy,” and ran up to get her hat and coat. Together they walked down the avenue to the old stately church distinguished through the years for its line of brilliant pastors and its wealthy congregation. 

They stepped within the padded doors and were shut in to the soft, rich gloom. High over the arching vault above the altar glowed great golden letters above a priceless window of rich glass like crusted jewels, "THE LORD IS IN" HIS HOLY TEMPLE. LET ALL THE EARTH KEEP SILENCE BEFORE HIM." 

Treeves had lifted his hat and bowed his head, a glow of comfort coming into his heart. Here was his Guide. It was all right. He could be at home and give the message. Oh, the wonder that he should be allowed! But Marjorie chattered on. 

“Religion isn't quite such a bore as it used to be. People are broader, don't you think? I have some friends who don't believe in anything and they are perfectly lovely and have the best times. But it doesn't seem quite decent not to go to church once in a while. It's sort of a nice thing for sick and old people, I suppose. But it's so dreadfully dreary. If I had my way I would start a new church like the old temples we used to study about in school where they had girls in pretty Greek costumes dancing, and wreaths and big silver platters of fruit for offerings, and young men in togas pitching quoits. People would come to church then and it would be something interesting. For my part I don't see if there is a God why he wouldn't want things a little pleasant and interesting. Times have changed anyway and people won't stand for serious things. The war did away with a lot of tiresome things. Why, in some churches people brought their knitting! I really wouldn't mind going to church if there was something worth while to do. Come now, confess; isn't it a horrible bore to you?” 

John Treeves looked down at the pretty young heathen before him and perceived that here was his first congregation, and what should he say? He understood that the Lord meant him to give a message: 

“Why, no,” he said with a winning smile. “If it was I wouldn't have any business preaching. Ifs life, it's great! It's the only thing worth while!” and a light came into his face that almost startled the girl as she watched him, and wholly puzzled her.