At one side of the wide vestibule, a door led into a long hall. In one of the many rooms opening from it Miss Kendall was holding her meeting. The door was heavy and swung slowly. Just before Elizabeth opened it sufficiently3 to gain a view of the hall, she heard her own name spoken in Miss Kendall's decisive tones.
"Pardon me, Miss Withrow, but you are mistaken. The Miss Gordon you have reference to is a student or milliner or something; we certainly haven't asked her to join us. I know because I met her over on Seaton Crescent when I was calling on those tiresome4 boarders. Mrs. Jarvis's Miss Gordon is quite another person, I don't know her personally, but they say Mr. Huntley is quite enamored and——"
Elizabeth shrank back closing the door softly. Here was a predicament indeed! The approaching swish of silken skirts sounded along the hall, and she ran noiselessly up the carpeted stairway looking for some place of concealment5. The door leading into the auditorium6 confronted her, and shaking with silent laughter she pushed it open and slipped noiselessly within. A soft hushed movement like one breathing in sleep filled the great space. She paused, startled—the church was crowded.
Away up in the dim pulpit at the other end a man was speaking. Elizabeth dropped breathlessly and embarrassed into the pew nearest the door. She had no idea what this gathering8 was for or who the speaker was. Mrs. Jarvis attended the regular Sunday morning services in St. Stephen's, whenever a headache did not prevent, and Elizabeth accompanied her. But beyond this the girl had not the slightest connection with any of the activities of this religious body of which she was a member. Otherwise she might have known that this was a great gathering of students, many of whom were young volunteers for the army of the King that was fighting sin far away in the stronghold of heathenism. She would have heard, too, that the man up there in the pulpit, with every eye set unwaveringly upon him, was one who had stirred the very pulses of her native land by his call to the laymen9 of the church to a wider vision of their duty to the world. But poor Elizabeth knew very little more about this great movement than if she had been one of the heathen in whose behalf it was being made.
And perhaps because she had been so long shut away from the great things of life, for which her heart vainly cried, her very soul went out to the words of the speaker. He was nearing the end of his address, and was making his appeal to those young people to invest their lives in this great work for God and humanity.
Looking back upon that scene afterwards, it almost seemed miraculous10 to Elizabeth, that the first words of his message she heard were from that prophetic poem that had always moved her to tears in her childhood days when her father read them at family worship.
"The wilderness11 and the solitary12 place shall be glad for them, the desert shall rejoice and blossom as the rose. It shall blossom abundantly and rejoice, even with joy and singing." This was the promise to those who responded to their Master's call. The wildernesses13 of the earth, the sad and solitary places, were to be made glad and beautiful at their coming.
And then Elizabeth grasped the purpose of the gathering. She read it as much in the sea of eager upturned faces as in the speaker's words. She knew, too, that he was not speaking to her. She had no part nor lot in this great onward14 march of the world. She belonged to those who were clogging15 the wheels of progress. A feeling of intense envy seized her, all her old yearning16 for love and service came over her with twofold strength, and with it the bitter remembrance that she had wasted her life in worse than idleness.
The low, deep, appealing voice went on, and she bowed her head in humiliation17. But surely he was speaking to her now. "Do you want to find Jesus Christ?" he was asking. "Have you lost your hold on Him? Then go out where the drunkard and the orphan18 and the outcast throng19 in their sin and misery20—you will find Him there!"
For a brief space Elizabeth heard no further word. That message was especially for her. For she had lost her hold upon Him, and with Him, she realized it for the first time, she had lost the joy and power of life. She had been very near Him many times—when her father read of His love and sacrifice, or Mother MacAllister showed her the beauty of His service. The Vision Beautiful had been hers, and she had refused to go out at the call of the hungry, and so it had not stayed.
And now a new vision—the tormenting21 picture of what she might have made of her life was being shown her through the magic of the speaker's words. "The King's Highway," he called his address. "And an highway shall be there, and a way, and it shall be called the way of holiness. The unclean shall not pass over it, the wayfaring22 men, though fools, shall not err23 therein." He pictured to their eager young eyes, what that Way would be for the world, when they prepared it for the coming of their King.
"Would they make this way of holiness accessible to someone?" he asked. "To those wayfaring men who were sure to err unless guided thereto."
He ended with the Prophet's words, and the choir24, away up in their brightly lighted gallery arose and burst forth25 into the glorious words that closed the vision.
"Then shall the redeemed26 of the Lord come to Zion with songs and everlasting27 joy upon their heads. They shall receive joy and gladness, and sorrow and sighing shall flee away."
Elizabeth could bear no more. She arose, the tears blinding her, and slipped quietly out. She had seen Jean looking over the gallery railing with serious eyes, and Stuart standing28 by a pillar with a group of fellow-students, his face pale and tense. She dared not risk meeting them or anyone else she knew. She hurried down the stairs and out along the street struggling for her self-control. Half consciously her footsteps turned in the direction of that little street where she had seen the girl that looked like Eppie. The tumult29 of self-accusation within drove her to immediate30 action. She would go down there at once and see that girl, and help and comfort her, and perhaps—even though she had wandered so far away, she might prove the speaker's words true—she might find the Vision return. Choking back her sobs31 she hurried along. The memory of the sad sight, that pitiful ill-clad girl striving to comfort the still more pitiful old man driving her forward as if with a whip.
The twilight33 had fallen and the dingy34 street looked even more gloomy. She was terrified by the glimpses of rough-looking men and slatternly women, by the loud voices and the sounds of violence that issued from many of the houses. But her fear did not once make her think of turning back. Her soul now recognized the fact that there were things more to be dreaded35 in the life of uselessness from which she was fleeing.
She turned down the dark alley36 from which she had seen the girl emerge, stumbling over heaps of garbage. Even in her terror she had a faint sense of grim enjoyment37 at the thought of how horrified38 Mr. Huntley would be could he know. She almost hated him for his solicitous39 care of her when she compared it with his indifference40 to these ragged41 shrill-voiced women about her. She paused at length before one of the low hovels and timidly knocked. At the same moment the door suddenly opened and a young man came lounging heavily out. By the light from the doorway42 Elizabeth caught a glimpse of a heavy brutal43 face, as he slouched past her. She started back, about to run, but stopped. Just beyond him in the doorway stood the girl she sought. The pale light of a flickering44 gas jet above her head revealed her face. There was no mistaking her now. Elizabeth forgot her fears and went forward with a joyful45 little run.
"Eppie!" she cried, "oh, Eppie! Do you know me?"
The girl stood staring.
"Is it?—Is it you—Lizzie?" she whispered.
"Yes—it's Lizzie. May I come in, Eppie?"
The girl shrank back as though afraid, but there was a pleading look in her hungry eyes, a gleam of something like hope that drew Elizabeth in. She stepped down into the chilly46 little room. The flickering gas jet shed a pale circle of light around the wretched place. At one glance every detail of the sordid47 surroundings seemed to be stamped upon Elizabeth's brain; the low bed in the corner under the sloping roof, where the old man lay, covered by a ragged quilt, the rusty48 fireless stove, with the water falling drip, drip upon it from the melting snow on the sagging49 roof, the old cupboard with its cracked dishes and its smell of moldy50 bread. And yet she looked only at her lost school-mate, at the hungry, frightened eyes and the white thin face. She saw, too, how the girl shrank from her, fearful and yet hopeful, and a great flood of pity surged over her. She took both the thin rough hands in her delicately gloved ones and tried to smile.
"Oh, Eppie!" she cried, "where have you been this long, long time, my dear?"
The effect of her words alarmed her. Eppie clutched her hands and burst into a storm of sobs. Frightened and dismayed, and at a loss what to do, Elizabeth blindly did the very best thing. She put her arms about the shaking little figure and held it close. She drew her down to an old box that stood by the damp wall, and the two old school-mates, so widely separated by fate, clung to each other and sobbed51.
"Oh, Lizzie! oh, Lizzie," the girl kept repeating her friend's name over and over. "You always promised you'd come and see me, and I thought you'd forgot me—you being such a grand lady. I thought you'd forgot me!"
"Eppie," whispered Elizabeth, "don't! oh, don't! I wanted to find you—long ago—but I didn't know where you were. Hush7, dear, don't cry so, you will make yourself ill. See, you will waken your grandfather."
She stopped at this, choking back her sobs. "It's because I'm so glad you came, Lizzie, and you such a fine lady," she whispered. "I hadn't nobody left." She sat up and wiped away her tears on her ragged apron52.
"I seen you at that boarding-house where Charles Stuart was," she continued, "but you looked so grand I wouldn't let on to you I was there. I thought you wouldn't want me. And I wouldn't let him tell even Jean. But the woman wouldn't keep me, I was no good, and I was ashamed to tell Charles Stuart I'd gone, he was so awful good, and so me and grandaddy moved in here and I didn't let on, and I got washing; but the lady didn't pay me, and oh, Lizzie, grandaddy's sick and I—couldn't help it."
"Couldn't help what?" asked Elizabeth, puzzled over the incoherent recital53. "Tell me all about it, Eppie."
"Tell me, dear," she patted her as though she had been a hurt child.
So Eppie began at the day they came to Toronto and told their whole sad history. They had lived with her father for a time. He had written them to come, for he had a little grocery store and was doing well. He had been kind and good at first, and they had been happy. But he had began to drink again—drink had always been his trouble, and at last everything had to be sold and he went away West, leaving her and her grandfather alone. Then commenced a sorrowful story—the story of incompetence54 struggling with greed and want. They would have starved she declared only for Charles Stuart. It was he was the good kind lad. He had met her on the street one day last autumn and for a long while he had done everything to help them. He had found a place where grandaddy could board, and got work for her again and again. But she had always failed. "I tried, Lizzie," she said, sitting before her friend with hanging head, twisting the corner of her ragged apron pitifully, "but I'd never been learned how to do things, and I guess I was awful slow. When the ladies scolded I would just be forgetting everything, and then they would send me away. And when Charles Stuart got me a place at Mrs. Dalley's and I lost it, too, I was that ashamed I couldn't tell him. So we moved down here to this house, for I'd saved a little money, and grandaddy was pleased because he said it was a home of our own again, and he didn't seem to mind the water coming in on the bed. But the rent's awful dear, and the man that owns it he said he'd send me to jail if I didn't pay him next time. I hadn't any money last time, because the lady I worked for wouldn't pay me. Oh, Lizzie, don't you think rich people ought to pay folks that work for them?"
"Who didn't pay you?" asked Elizabeth, her eyes burning.
"Miss Kendall. She's a grand lady and works in the church and Charles Stuart asked her to let me work for her. But she'd always tell me to come back some other day when I went and asked her for money, and next week they're going to turn us out. Oh, Lizzie, do you mind yon Mr. Huntley that put grandaddy and me off our farm? He owns this house and now he's putting us out again! Grandaddy says God is good and kind and that He'll never forsake55 us. But I don't think He cares about us, or He wouldn't let all these awful things happen to us." She had been growing more and more excited as the recital continued. Her cheeks burned and she plucked nervously56 at her apron. Now a desperate look came into her eyes, her voice rose shrilly57 and Elizabeth gazed at her in terror.
"Did you see that man that was here when you came?" Elizabeth nodded, a new terror clutching her heart. Until now she had not realized that there might be far fiercer beasts of prey58 than even the wolves of poverty following Eppie's footsteps. "He's a bad man, Lizzie, but he's been kind to me. He gave me money yesterday or grandaddy would a' starved. Bad people are better to you than good people. He gave me money if I'd promise to go and keep house for him. And I'm going—to-morrow—and I'll get bad too—everybody round here's bad and I don't care any more——"
She burst into violent sobbing59 again, and Elizabeth could only hold her tight and say over and over in helpless woe60, "Oh, Eppie, my poor Eppie." For of the two girls clinging together in the damp little hovel, perhaps the more fortunate one was experiencing a greater depth of despair. A very chaos61 of darkness had descended62 upon Elizabeth's soul. She was taking her first glimpse of that world of misery and shame into which Eppie was being so ruthlessly driven, and her whole soul recoiled63. To her excited imagination the girl in her arms was the sacrifice offered for her own comfort. It seemed as though the price of the boxes of roses and candy that were lavished64 upon her, had been wrung65 from those poor helpless hands now clutching her so desperately66. And Mrs. Jarvis too; Elizabeth arraigned67 her before the ruthless tribunal of her awakened68 conscience. Why had she let all this happen, when she could have prevented it with a word?
Suddenly Eppie stopped sobbing and raised her head listening. Elizabeth looked at her and followed her eyes to the bed. The old man had made a slight movement, and uttered a strange, choking cough. His granddaughter ran to him with incoherent murmurs69 of endearment70. Elizabeth following tenderly, the girl turned down the ragged coverlid, and laid her hand on his wrinkled forehead. There was the stamp of death on his peaceful old face.
"What's the matter?" whispered Elizabeth.
Eppie turned upon her wild eyes of terror. "I don't know. There's something wrong with him. Oh, what'll I do? What'll I do?"
"I'll get a doctor," cried Elizabeth, darting71 towards the door. Her heavy fur stole slipped from her shoulders, but she took no notice of it. She fled out into the night and went stumbling once more over the garbage heaps of the dark alley.
Mr. MacAllister had come in late for his supper that evening, and Mrs. Dalley's latest dining-room maid had served him with an air of cold reproach that almost gave that kind-hearted young man an attack of indigestion. He hurried away from the uncomfortable atmosphere, and found that his room-mate had gone out. He did not go to his books at once, but sat in their one easy-chair, his hands deep in his pockets, staring at his boots. John always declared the Pretender drew his inspiration therefrom, for after any prolonged study of those goodly-sized appendages72 he always arose and accomplished73 something startling. This time his meditation74 was longer than usual; his mind was on the lecture of that afternoon. Finally he arose and drew from the table a writing-pad. He wrote a long letter, and as he sealed it his dark eyes shone. For he knew that away up in a little northern valley, a woman with a sweet wistful face, who had waited for the message that letter contained, many long anxious years, was still waiting for it, and its coming would fill her heart with joy and thankfulness.
He had just finished when he heard his chum come thundering up the stairs. He looked up with laughing expectation. He knew by the manner of John's ascent75 that there was something grand and glorious doing.
"What's up now? You came up that stairs like an automobilly-goat. Is the house on fire?"
John leaped across the room, threw his cap upon the floor, and had poured out his good news before he got his overcoat off.
"Isn't that the dandiest luck?" he finished up. "I've just been down at Huntley's office. He telephoned just before supper. And I'm to have all expenses paid beside, and nothing but Dagoes and Chinamen to dope." He had taken off his boots by this time and was rummaging76 in the bedroom for his slippers77, never pausing a moment in his talk.
"Huntley's a gentleman all right, isn't he? Of course, it's all 'cause he's so sweet on Lizzie; but I'm mighty78 thankful his sweetness came in my direction. A chap like you, with one of the best farms in Ontario at his back, can't have any idea what it's like to go to college on wind. Say, won't it seem funny to have little Lizzie married to that chap. She wouldn't confess to-day, but I could see there was something up."
He paused at last, for it was being borne in upon his joy-blended senses that his chum, who had always heretofore rejoiced when he rejoiced, was making no response.
John emerged from his room bearing the captured slippers.
"You're not sick, are you, old man?" he asked.
"Sick? No! What makes you ask such a fool question?"
For the Pretender had sprung up and was dragging on his boots. He was finding it impossible to pretend any longer.
John watched him anxiously, all uncomprehending.
"Better let me take your temperature, Mac. Diphtheria's fairly booming in your year. Packard has it now."
"Nonsense! I'm all right. You meds. are always on the trail of death and disease."
"I thought you said you were going to plug to-night."
"You haven't a pain or an ache anywhere, have you?"
The patient might have answered truthfully that he was conscious only of one great ache through his whole being, but instead he answered shortly: "Pain? Your granny! No, of course not!"
The door slammed soundingly behind him, and John sat gazing at it until the house shook with another tremendous bang, this time from the street door.
"Well, I'll be——" said the young man, and then paused, feeling how utterly83 hopeless it was to find a word expressive84 of his feelings. In all the years of their life-long comradeship he had never known Charles Stuart to behave in such a manner. "He's gone batty!" he said at last to the closed door, and then slowly and meditatively85 he returned to his books. "He's fixing for dip. all right," he added; "I'll have Bags in to overhaul86 him when he comes back." Then, with the satisfaction of a medical student who has correctly diagnosed and prescribed for a case, he settled himself comfortably in the easy-chair and went to work.
Meanwhile the supposed victim of incipient87 diphtheria was striding down the street as though pursued by that and every other fell disease. A worse malady88 had seized him, and he was calling himself a fool that he had been so blind to its symptoms. Life without the sunshine of Elizabeth's presence was a problem he had never faced. That he and she belonged to each other since the beginning of time had always been his deep-rooted conviction. And now he had lost her, and had realized it for the first time on the very day when he had found the true glorious meaning of life. His senses were numbed89 by the irony90 of his fate. He was conscious only of the fact that he had received a blow, and that he must move swiftly and more swiftly. He was whirling round a corner when he heard his name called sharply. He stopped short in mingled91 joy and fear. Someone was crossing the street towards him with headlong speed. It was she herself!—Elizabeth—coming to him with outstretched hands. He went swiftly to meet her.
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1
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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auditorium
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| n.观众席，听众席；会堂，礼堂 | |
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hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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laymen
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| 门外汉，外行人( layman的名词复数 )； 普通教徒（有别于神职人员） | |
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miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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wildernesses
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| 荒野( wilderness的名词复数 )； 沙漠； （政治家）在野； 不再当政（或掌权） | |
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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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clogging
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| 堵塞，闭合 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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tormenting
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| 使痛苦的，使苦恼的 | |
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wayfaring
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| adj.旅行的n.徒步旅行 | |
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err
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| vi.犯错误，出差错 | |
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choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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redeemed
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| adj. 可赎回的，可救赎的 动词redeem的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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solicitous
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| adj.热切的，挂念的 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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sagging
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| 下垂[沉，陷]，松垂，垂度 | |
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moldy
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| adj.发霉的 | |
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51
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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incompetence
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| n.不胜任，不称职 | |
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forsake
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| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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shrilly
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| 尖声的； 光亮的，耀眼的 | |
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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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lavished
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| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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arraigned
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| v.告发( arraign的过去式和过去分词 )；控告；传讯；指责 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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endearment
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| n.表示亲爱的行为 | |
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darting
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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appendages
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| n.附属物( appendage的名词复数 )；依附的人；附属器官；附属肢体（如臂、腿、尾等） | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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rummaging
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| 翻找，搜寻( rummage的现在分词 )； 海关检查 | |
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slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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lamely
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| 一瘸一拐地，不完全地 | |
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lamer
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| 瘸的( lame的比较级 )； 站不住脚的； 差劲的； 蹩脚的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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meditatively
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| adv.冥想地 | |
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overhaul
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| v./n.大修，仔细检查 | |
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incipient
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| adj.起初的，发端的，初期的 | |
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malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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89
numbed
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| v.使麻木，使麻痹( numb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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