Back Aa

Ester Ried Yet Speaking

<h2> CHAPTER XXX. — “IT IS NO MADE-UP AFFAIR” </h2> It was Monday evening, and there was company at Mr. Roberts' home; not the usual Monday evening gathering, but quite a large party of well-dressed men and women, many of them young, yet some were middle-aged. The pretty room opposite the conservatory was thrown open, and aglow with lights and flowers; and groups were continually passing in and out, admiring the paintings and the flowers, and the type-writers of different patterns, and the books and magazines, of which there were many. But interest was not confined to this room. The parlors were thrown open and the music-room beyond; even the cosy little library was public property for this one evening. The company was large, and their tastes were varied; so no pains had been spared to give them variety. You are acquainted with quite a number of the guests; yet I am by no means sure that you would recognize them all. Even in so short a period of time as three years, great changes may be elicited! For instance, do you know the young man in unnoticeable, and therefore appropriate, evening dress, who is doing duty at the piano, watching with practiced eye the course of the player, and turning the leaf with skilful hand at just the right moment? It is a somewhat embarrassing position; but his manner leads you to suppose that he has been accustomed to it all his life, and that he reads music well. In the latter belief you are correct; but as to being accustomed to it—three years ago Nimble Dick could have told you a different story! You can't believe that it is he? I do not wonder. The change is certainly a great one; but he does not feel it. To tell you the truth, he almost forgets, when he becomes absorbed in his work, that this sort of society was not always open to him. Three years means a long time to the young; and Richard Bolton has so long been accustomed to the freedom of Mrs. Roberts' parlors, and to the sort of people whom one finds there, that none of the refinements of polite life are strange to him; and as to turning music, has he not done it for his hostess numberless times? If your eyes are now opened, it is possible that you may be trying to spy out other young men. The rooms are full of them, elegantly-dressed, fashionable young men; but a few are noticeable by the air which they have of being in a sense responsible for the comfort of the others. They are on the alert; they are taking care that no young guest shall appear for a moment to be forgotten or neglected. They appear to be entirely familiar with the house and all its appointments. They can be appealed to for a glass of water or an ice, or to know what special scene this landscape hanging over the mantel represents, or whose bust this is in the niche at the left, or in what portion of the library a certain book will be found, or from what part of the foreign world that strangely-shaped shell came, and they are all equally at home. In short, it is like having a dozen or twenty young hosts to look after your comfort and pleasure. In point of fact, there are seventeen of them. The original seven has thus increased. Two months ago there were twenty, but one has secured an appointment as telegraph operator in a distant city, and as Stephen Crowley occupies a similar position in one of the offices in this city, some very interesting conversations are held, and many important items connected with the “Monday Evenings” and the South End School and the “Library Association,” etc., are transmitted when the lines are not otherwise employed. Young Haskell, too, has gone with one of the partners from the store where he was first employed, to set up a branch store in a not distant town; and his old Sabbath-school teacher has already received letters from him, saying that they have started a branch Sunday-school in the south part of the town, and that he has picked seven little wretches out of the streets, from eight to twelve years of age, and gone to work. “And, dear Mrs. Roberts, I wish you would pray for me, that I may be able to bring every one of them to Christ.” So the letter ran; and that tells volumes to the initiated about young Haskell. But although the changes among these young men have been great almost to bewilderment, only one of the number has been promoted to a dazzling height. The others are without exception earning good, honest livings for themselves; securing good, substantial educations through the evening classes which have grown out of that first effort; bidding fair to become leading and honored citizens when they actually take their places as men. But Mark Calkins, faithful, plodding, good-hearted, patient Mark, has surpassed them all! The truth is “that eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither hath entered into the heart,” what sort of magnificence surrounds him now. He has gone to court. The chief Ruler of the realm has sent for Mark to be always in his immediate presence in the palace; and with what joy he went I cannot tell you. Nor how often they speak of him, and try to let their hearts conceive of the glory which surrounds him, and dwell on the day when they will be called, one after another, to share the same glory; for this is the ambition of more than half of them. Now, in that sentence is unveiled the most curious part of my curious story; and that it is curious, I frankly admit. It is no made-up affair. I am not responsible for the strangeness of it. You are to remember that “truth is stranger than fiction,” and then to understand that I am telling you the truth. It is, then, a fact, that these young men have each received conditional appointments to serve in the palace, high in power and splendor and dignity. The conditions are that they are to be willing to be guided in all things by the will of their King, whom they each admit to be wise above all wisdom, and to be kind above all their conceptions of kindness. It is true that nine of the number have accepted their appointments, donned their uniform, assumed their positions as He has directed, and are waiting for the summons to appear in person at court. It is also true that the others are still in a state of indecision; they do not know whether to accept the appointment or not. It is true that they feel themselves honored; that they believe this to be the only path of honorable and safe promotion. It is true that they have full faith in those who will tell with joy, that, having enlisted, they find the service even in this ante-room sweet, and the rewards great. It is true that they severally visited Mark, just as the door was opening to admit him to the palace, and heard him speak of the glimpses of its glory, and heard that his last words before he went away were, “Oh, mine eyes see the King in his beauty!” and that his voice was jubilant as that of a conqueror, and his face radiant as with a reflection of unseen glory; and yet they hesitate, and dally with the call, and mean, some time, to have such an inheritance deeded to them, but not now! Remember, I am not responsible for this. Were I writing fiction I should hesitate to set down such idiotic folly, expecting you to call it unnatural or absurdly overdrawn; but I do solemnly declare to you that this is fact. Account for the folly of their behavior as best you can. Well, Sallie and her father are left behind. But, mind you, they are not among the doubtful ones. They both as much expect to serve at court as they expect to live through all eternity. But while they wait they are busy. They have moved from the alley; the surroundings were not such as they liked. Did you notice that bit of a house landing modestly back from the road, at the further corner of those ample grounds that surround the South End Church? It is the sexton's house, and that church, and those Sunday-school rooms, and those grounds, and everything pertaining to them, are under his care. The father is the sexton, it is true, and attends the furnace and rings the bell; but it is Sallie's care that keeps seat and desk and window so beautifully free from dust or stain. Oh, they live busy lives, and happy ones. Sallie trusted not in vain in her father's promise that night, when he put his weak will into the pledge; but you are to understand that it was but a few days thereafter when he planted his weak and wavering feet on the Rock of Ages. Then did Satan angle for him in vain. So, on this Monday evening, there were but seventeen at the gathering. I hesitate over what to name the gathering. I would call it a party, but that in many respects it was so totally different from anything with which you are probably acquainted by that name. The young man who stands by the door of the conservatory, eagerly describing to Miss Henderson a rare and curious flower, which has been sent to Mrs. Roberts from California, is “black Dirk.” Really, I hope you are sufficiently astonished; for he looks so utterly unlike the scamp who used to be the special torment of the South End Mission that I should be disappointed if you were not impressed by it. “Mr. Colson” almost everybody calls him now. The name has long since lost its strangeness. He is in the employ of the great firm of Bostwick, Smythe, Roberts & Co., and although Mr. Roberts has never found it convenient to do so before, there were reasons why he thought it would be well to have a clerk within call; so Mr. Colson boards with what was the junior partner of the firm. He is so no more, by the way, for Mr. Ried has been received as a member, and is decidedly a junior partner. Probably Mr. Roberts could tell you, if he chose, why one so young, and without capital, had been elected to partnership; but, as a rule, he keeps his own counsel, only remarking that the young man developed remarkable business faculties which were patent to the whole firm. To his wife he said:— “I tell you, Flossy, I believe a consecrated life will be honored by the Lord, in whatever channel he gives it talents to develop. 'Whatsoever he doth shall prosper.' That young man is going to have a career in business. I shouldn't be surprised if the Master meant him to show the world how a Christian can use money to his glory.” It is early yet to prophesy what Mr. Colson will do. Doubtless he will be a merchant; certainly he will be a Christian; possibly he will be an orator, of whom the world will yet hear,—a temperance orator, for instance. I know you would like to hear him read a poem. He is not confined to Will Carleton's style now, though he still reads with power some of those inimitable delineations of life; but Gracie Dennis offers no more criticisms when he reads. In fact, I have heard her defer to him, when a question arose, as one who had probably studied the passage, and caught its best. I am willing to confess that my poor black Dirk was a bit of a genius. The thought I desire you to catch is that so many of those poor fellows, who of necessity live by their wits in the city slums, are diamonds which could be fitted to shine. You take a diamond and throw it down in the dirt and filth, and put your foot on it and grind it in, and leave it there, sinking and soiling, day after day, year after year, and when somebody comes along and picks it out, how much will it gleam for him at first? Yet the diamond is there. “Thou shalt be a royal diadem in the hand of thy God.” Mrs. Roberts had been at work hunting diamonds for His diadem. As Mr. Colson stood there chatting freely with Miss Henderson, there was nothing about the association that looked incongruous, neither did it occur to any. There was not a trace of embarrassment about this boy from the slums; he had forgotten the slums, and stood talking with one of the aristocrats of the city. How came she to talk with him, to allow herself to be entertained by him? Let me tell you: thereby hangs a tale. Some time before this evening—in fact, nearly two years before—Mrs. Roberts had come to a puzzle, and stood and looked at it doubtfully. Then she presented it to the others:— “They are growing easy in their manners with me, learning to be gentlemanly without embarrassment, and thoughtful over little things without being ashamed of it; but I am afraid that with other ladies they would be sadly frightened and awkward. When Mrs. Delaney came in this evening I could but notice how utterly silent Mr. Colton became; he had been talking well before. It seems as though there was a great gulf between them and social advancement. How can we bridge it?” Then young Ried ventured his thought:—“My sister Ester had a class in the Center Street Sabbath-school—nice little girls, who wore pretty dresses, and had their hair curled, and came from the best families. After she was taken sick, she told me one of her regrets was that she had not stayed well long enough to try a plan which she had. She meant to take a class of rough little boys in the mission-school, and she meant to ask the mothers of the little girls to let them come, once a month, and play with the little boys from the streets—she to play with them, and watch over them every moment; but to try to interest the girls in teaching the boys gentleness and good manners. I don't know how it would have worked. Ester was never well enough to undertake it; nor could she seem to enlist any one else in such service. It has grave objections, I suppose; but I have always thought that I should like to see something of the kind carefully tried.” Mrs. Roberts, before this little story was half-concluded, had turned those eager eyes of hers on the speaker—eyes that always had a peculiar light in them whenever her soul took in a new suggestion. “Thank you,” she said. “I see, oh! a great many things. I ought to have called in that dear sister Ester to help on this phase of the question before. It has always seemed to me as though we were doing her work.” <hr /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

1 of 2

2 of 2

Update Required To play the media you will need to either update your browser to a recent version or update your Flash plugin.