The Spectacle Man Part 14

CHAPTER THIRTEENTH.

ONE SUNDAY AFTERNOON.

In Frances' very own book there was a story of a boy who had a beautiful voice, and who with a great many other boys sang in the choir of Christ Church. The story was somewhat sad, for the boy, who loved dearly to sing, lost his sweet voice one day and never found it again; but the memory of the music as it floated up to the Gothic arches, and of the sunlight from the great stained window falling a shaft of crimson and gold across the chancel at vesper service, remained with him, and out of it grew the story.

And the story became very real indeed to Frances when one Sunday afternoon her father took her to the very church where the boy used to sing. It was such a pleasure to her that after this she and her mother often went together, and Frances pretended that one of the choir boys, who happened to have dark eyes and a high clear voice, was little Jack, and there were certain hymns she loved to hear because he used to sing them.

It was the Sunday after Christmas, and Emma had just come up to know if she might go to church with Frances, when Gladys walked in, gorgeously arrayed in velvet and silk. Though rather over-dressed she looked very pretty, but as soon as she spoke it became evident that she was not in a very good humor.

"I don't like Sunday," she a.s.serted, with the air of wis.h.i.+ng to shock somebody.

Emma exclaimed, "Oh, Gladys!" and looked at Mrs. Morrison to see the effect of this remark upon her; but apparently it hadn't any, for the lady went on turning the leaves of the book she held, half smiling.

"I do; why don't you like it, Gladys?" asked Frances.

"You can't do anything you want to do, and everybody is cross or taking a nap. Mamma has a headache, and she said I shouldn't come over here, but I just told her I was coming. I knew she wouldn't care if I didn't bother her."

"Your mother is pretty funny, Gladys," Frances observed.

"Suppose you go with us to service this afternoon and hear the Christmas music; we can stop and ask your mother on the way," Mrs. Morrison suggested.

"Do come, Gladys, it is lovely to hear the choir boys, and perhaps they will sing 'O little town of Bethlehem,'" said Frances, adding, with a nod to Emma, who knew the story, "That is one of them."

Gladys did not decline the invitation, but she did not seem enthusiastic, and presently announced, "Emma says you ought to like to go to church better than to the circus, or anywhere, to any entertainment, but I don't."

"Oh!" exclaimed Frances, with a long-drawn breath, "I suppose you ought to, but-- Mother, ought you to like church better than tableaux? Don't you remember those beautiful ones we saw in North Carolina?"

Emma again looked at Mrs. Morrison, confident in the strength of her position. "Oughtn't you?" she urged.

"Let me ask you a question. Which would you rather do, stay at home to-morrow afternoon, or go to see 'The Mistletoe Bough'?"

"'The Mistletoe Bough!'" cried three voices.

"Does that mean that you care more for tableaux than you do for your homes?"

"No, mother, of course not, only--" Frances hesitated.

"No, of course you do not, but for the time the tableaux are more amusing. It seems to me we must make a distinction between caring for things and finding them entertaining. You may care a great deal for church and yet not find it as amusing as some other places."

"I never thought of it in that way," said Mark, who had come in while they were talking.

"We ought not to care too much for amus.e.m.e.nt, but try to learn to take pleasure in other things," continued Mrs. Morrison. "We do not love persons or things because we ought to, but because they seem to us lovely; and yet when we think for how long people have gone on building churches--plain little chapels, grand cathedrals--and have wors.h.i.+pped G.o.d in them, and found help and blessing, surely we ought not to be willing to say, 'I don't like church,' but should try to find out its beautiful meaning for ourselves."

"I am afraid I am a good deal like Gladys; I have found it rather a bore," said Mark.

"You remember our Christmas picture of the Wise Men," Mrs. Morrison went on. "They had learning and wealth and distinction, and yet they took that long, weary journey for what?"

"The star," said Gladys.

"To find Jesus," said Frances.

"Yes, with all their riches and learning they felt the need of something else, and the star was sent to guide them. And to-day each one of us has some heavenly vision which he must obey and follow as the Wise Men followed the star."

Frances shook her head. "I never had a vision," she said.

"Yes, I think you have sometimes felt what a beautiful thing it would be to be good. Perhaps when you have listened to the Christmas story you have determined to let the Christ-Child into your heart. If you have, it is your vision; and if you obey it, it will grow stronger and clearer.

In the midst of all our work and play, the vision often grows dim, but going to G.o.d's house and thinking of Him and what He wants us to do, helps to keep it bright."

"I wish we had a real star to follow; it would be easier," said Gladys.'

"We'd probably forget to watch it," said Mark. "I know how it is at school. A fellow makes up his mind to grind away and do his very best, and then before he knows it, the edge of his resolution wears off, and he finds himself skinning along, taking it easy."

Mrs. Morrison smiled. "Yes, that is the way with most of us: we forget so easily. And now let's go to church and try to think what the Christmas star means for us."

The Spectacle Man who happened to be at the shop window when the little party started out, smiled to himself at sight of Mark walking beside Mrs. Morrison. "That is just what my boy needs," he said. "It isn't much influence an old uncle can have."

The church was fragrant and beautiful in its Christmas dress, the light came softly through the stained windows, and above the festoons and wreaths of cedar shone the brilliant star. The children sat very still, with earnest faces, till the service began, then, to Frances' delight, the processional was "O little town of Bethlehem."

With their heads together over the book, she and Gladys sang too. At the last stanza Frances, who knew the words, gazed straight at the star, forgetful of everything but the music:--

"We hear the Christmas Angels The great glad tidings tell; Oh, come to us, abide with us, Our Lord Emmanuel."

But at the Amen something drew her eyes to the other side of the aisle where, stately and handsome, stood Mrs. Marvin, watching her. She longed to call her mother's attention to this lady of whom she had thought and talked so much, but as Gladys sat between it was not possible.

All through the short service she kept stealing glances across the aisle, but Mrs. Marvin did not turn again. The sight of the bright child face had stirred the memory of an earnest little chorister who used sometimes to smile at her over his book as he pa.s.sed, and she did not want to remember those old days; she wished she had not come.

Gladys, who did not often go to church, was interested and touched by the simple service. She slipped her hand into Mrs. Morrison's when it was over and whispered, "I am glad I came, and I mean to be good."

Perhaps her ideas of goodness were somewhat vague, and certainly there was much in her surroundings to cloud the vision, but who can tell what fruit an earnest wish may bear.

Frances hoped Mrs. Marvin would speak to her, but the crowd separated them, and though she kept a careful watch she did not see her again.

As they walked home in the twilight Mark, who was still beside Mrs.

Morrison, said, "I'm afraid I don't care enough for church and that sort of thing, and though I know of course there must be a great deal in it for some people, I never thought of trying to find out what it was, as you said. It seemed to me it was something that came of itself, if it came at all." He spoke with real earnestness.

"Yet it doesn't seem quite logical to take care of our minds and bodies and never think of our souls, does it?" his companion asked. "I remember my own schooldays well enough to know how difficult it is not to be entirely absorbed in what are called secular things. But after all, it is the motive of a life that makes it fine; and if, in all you do, you follow the best you know, are faithful and true and kind, that is religion. The caring for church and things called sacred will come in time; you can't be grown up spiritually all at once, any more than you can physically."

"You make it seem reasonable and almost easy," Mark said; "but I thought one had to understand a lot of things. You see my mother died when I was a little chap, and there was only Aunt Emily. Uncle George is very kind, but you can't believe he knows how a boy feels; people forget."

"Perhaps they remember more than impatient young persons give them credit for," answered Mrs. Morrison, smiling. "There is one thing, Mark: whatever you do, be in earnest."

In the city streets the electric lights had come out one by one, and overhead the stars were s.h.i.+ning. They walked the last block in silence, and when they separated at the door, Mark said, "Thank you, Mrs.

Morrison."

"What was he thanking you for?" Frances asked.