Chapter XV “Oh, Monica, Don’t!”
“My text you will find in the First Book of Chronicles, the twenty-ninth chapter and the fifth verse. ‘Who then is willing to consecrate his service this day unto the Lord’?”
The young preacher, for he had been barely two years in orders, read the verse once, and yet again, feelingly, and as if he would impress every word of it upon his hearers, and then he closed his Bible, and began his sermon.
It was not a very long one; indeed there were a few who wished it had been half as long again. It was not by any means a brilliant peroration, but yet there were points about it which made it the most remarkable sermon to which many of his hearers had ever listened. And that last word gives the key to the whole thing; they had to listen! Whether they liked it or not (and many, very many, did not at all appreciate the home-truths which they heard), some unseen and uncontrollable impulse forced them to listen, even against their will. The earnest, ringing tones of the young preacher, his dark eyes, which seemed to penetrate their very motives and thoughts, stirred the apathetic indifference of that nominally Christian congregation; and they realised, some of them for the first time, that the service of God was a very real and tangible thing, and that they had, so far, had no part or lot in the matter.
Leslie Herschel dwelt first upon the Master, then upon the service itself, and finally upon those who were called to serve, and when and how that service should be rendered.
“My friends,” he said, in conclusion, “I claim your service, whole-hearted, faithful, loyal service, to-day, for my Master. He will force none, coerce no one into rendering unloving obedience, but He pleads with you to-day to come with willing hearts and offer Him your best. And what does He promise in return? Peace, joy, hope, satisfaction in this life, and eternal life in the world to come. I ask you, are you content to do without Him? Is this world, pleasant and attractive though it be, so satisfying that you need nothing more than the gaiety, the success, the honour, aye, and the gold which it offers to some, but by no means all of its devotees? But supposing you are satisfied now (and I very much doubt if there exists a single individual who is absolutely satisfied), will you be satisfied, think you, when you come to stand, all unprepared, in the presence of your Judge? Will this world stand you in good stead then?” And the preacher leaned over the pulpit, while with searching glance his eyes seemed to scan every one of the disturbed faces before him. “The Bible tells me that ‘this world passeth away.’ What will it advantage you, then, whether you have moved in a select circle, or not? Whether you have acquired fame and distinction, or not? Whether you have been known among men as almost a millionaire, or not? Oh! my friends, I beseech you, with all earnestness, that you will this day choose the Lord Christ for your Master.
“It is an old, but true, saying, that ‘To-morrow never comes’; we are only sure of to-day, therefore ‘Choose ye this day whom ye will serve,’ and say: ‘Behold, Thy servants are ready to do whatsoever my Lord the King shall appoint.’
“I do not, I dare not, promise you a path of ease and luxury, but I can say, for I have proved it, that the life which has Christ as its Alpha and Omega is the only truly happy one, the only life worth living. And that word ‘whatsoever,’ if you really mean what you say, may entail the giving up of many a cherished plan, many a life-long project. It may mean going to China or Africa as a medical missionary for one; to face the misery and horrors of life among the denizens of the East End for another; to live a Christlike life in a worldly and uncongenial atmosphere for a third.
“But in it all, and through it all, Christ’s never-failing arm will guide and uphold you, and His voice will be heard, saying: ‘Behold, I come quickly, and My reward is with Me, to give every man according as his work shall be.’ ‘Who, then, is willing to consecrate his service this day unto the Lord?’ May God in His mercy grant that from many a heart in this church this morning the cry may go up to Him, ‘O Lord... I am willing.’”
The strains of the organ, on which the opening bars of that beautiful consecration hymn:
Take my life, and let it be
Consecrated, Lord, to Thee,
were being exquisitely played by the organist, accentuated rather than disturbed the hush of solemnity which had fallen upon the congregation, as the young preacher concluded his earnest appeal for personal dedication; and there were undoubtedly several that morning who, realising the claim which Christ had upon them, willingly surrendered all to Him.
The Beauchamp and Drury parties met in the quaint old churchyard, and the two elder ladies walked slowly on, while the young people waited about for Mr. Drury.
“A wonderful sermon, was it not?” said Mrs. Drury.
“Ye—es; but rather too dictatorial in style for such a young preacher.” Mrs. Beauchamp’s tones expressed dissatisfaction.
“Did you think it dictatorial?” enquired the vicar’s wife pleasantly; “it did not strike me in that way. I thought it was a grand opportunity, splendidly seized. With such a varied congregation, coming as we do from all parts of England, no one but God can foresee the results that may accrue, with His blessing, from the faithful message this morning.”
“Perhaps so,” was Mrs. Beauchamp’s somewhat absent reply; and she turned back as if to wait for the girls.
Amethyst and Elsa were close at hand, and quickly joined them, but Monica and Olive were some distance behind, walking slowly, and apparently deep in conversation. Mrs. Drury, who had not been unobservant of the effect of the sermon upon Monica, as she sat listening, listlessly at first, and then was roused into paying startled attention to the (to her) unusual discourse, tactfully drew her own child and Elsa into conversation, as they walked on. For she was sure, from the expressions on the faces of the girls behind, that they were discussing what they had been hearing.
As a matter of fact, after a few commonplaces with Marcus and Roger, the girls left them, and slowly following the others, had been silent companions for a few moments.
Then Olive, shaking off the unwelcome feelings which had taken possession of her, said gaily: “A penny for your thoughts, Monica!”
“You can have them without the penny,” was her friend’s rather sad reply, as she slipped her arm into Olive’s. “I’m half inclined to do what he said, Ollie.”
Olive raised a startled face to Monica’s, and read quite a new expression upon it, in which there was a certain amount of determination. “What do you mean?” she queried; but in her own heart she knew full well what Monica meant.
“Why, to say I am willing,” said Monica, with some confusion, for she felt diffident about expressing what she meant even to her greatest friend.
“Oh, Monica, don’t! We’ll never have any more good times together,” said Olive, and it must have been her bad angel who prompted her words; “if you do you’ll have to leave me behind, for I’m not going to give in.”
“I wish I could live like he said,” and Monica’s face looked wistful. “Sometimes I——”
“Well?”
“Sometimes I long to be able to write and tell dad that it is all settled. He would be so glad.”
“Well, I don’t see much in it,” said Olive obstinately. Her better feelings were aroused by Monica’s words, but she deliberately crushed them down.
“Oh, yes, there is; there’s everything in it! You’ve only to look at that young clergyman, and your mother, and even Elsa, to see what a difference there is. Oh, Olive, if I had your mother to help me I would, really, say to God what we sang just now,
Take myself, and I will be
Ever, only, all for Thee”—
and Monica’s young face glowed with feeling.
“No, you wouldn’t,” was Olive’s moody reply, “any more than I do. Of course, I mean to be a Christian some day, but not while I’m only a girl; I want some pleasure first.”
“Oh, Olive, Olive, you little know the dark cloud that even now is beginning to gather over your head!”
With a sigh, Monica turned away, and, with one consent, they hurried after the others, and no more was said. But the elder girl’s heart had been roused and awakened, and never again would she drift into her former state of indifference.
The two young fellows, waiting about in the churchyard for Mr. Drury, at length received a message to the effect that he would be detained still longer, and they had better not wait for him. So they, too, strolled down to the Shore Road, where they knew they would eventually come across their friends.
“I’m almost sorry I’m not in your shoes, old man,” said Marcus, as he adapted his long, swinging strides to his friend’s shorter steps.
“It’s a very good thing that you are a little undecided about it,” was Roger’s somewhat enigmatical reply. “But tell me what you mean?”
“Why, I felt this morning as if I would give anything to go in for medicine, with a view to going abroad; but I know father has set his heart on my taking orders.”
“If I remember rightly, the preacher distinctly observed that the service was not to be one of picking and choosing but a case of ‘whatsoever.’”
Something unusual about the tone in which Roger made this remark, and a total absence of his usual cynicism, made his friend glance curiously at him, and he realised that a change, undefinable at present, but nevertheless unmistakable, had taken place in Roger Franklyn.
“I say, old chap, I wish with all my heart you would be a ‘Whatsoever Christian,’” he said impulsively.
“With God’s help I mean to be,” was the unexpected reply, as Roger lifted his hat, and glanced upward, as if registering a vow.
“Thank God!” was Marcus’ low but fervent response, as he gripped his friend’s hand with such force as to make him wince.
“I knew you would be glad,” was the quiet reply, “and so will my dearest mother; she has been praying a long time for her eldest boy, and he has been very obstinate. But I shall need all your prayers, now, for already I foresee trouble and disappointment looming in the distance. The pater is expecting me to follow in his footsteps when I leave St. Adrian’s, but I—oh! Drury, I am sure those words were meant for me this morning. There was probably not another medical student in the church, and I felt called to offer myself to Him for foreign service, if He will accept me.”
“You need not doubt His acceptance, old fellow. When we give what God asks for, you may be very sure He takes it. How glad Herschel will be!”
“Who is Herschel?” ask Roger quickly.
“Why, this morning’s preacher. Did not you hear father talking about him last night? No? Oh, then I must tell you. He is staying down here with his mother and a sister, I believe, and father met him yesterday, some time. Leslie Herschel’s father (the late Dean of Balmore) and he were great friends, so he was awfully glad to come across him, and asked him, straight off, to preach this morning. He has had a curacy in some huge mining town, but he is going out to the Soudan this autumn.”
“It’s marvellous how God makes things fit in,” remarked young Franklyn, with rather an embarrassed laugh; it was such a new thing for him to be talking in that strain. “I suppose, humanly speaking, Mr. Drury might have preached a hundred sermons and they would never have touched me; but just this one, from an utter stranger, did. And if he had been here either last Sunday, or next, instead of to-day, I should not have heard it!”
“There is a little chorus we undergrads sing sometimes, before we begin our Open-Airs, in Cambridge,” said Marcus, “which runs thus—
‘I believe God answers prayer.
I am sure God answers prayer.
I have proved God answers prayer.
Glory to His name.’”
“He certainly answered prayer for me this morning, and I’ll trust Him for all the future.”
Thus, Roger Franklyn, medical student, was “transformed”; and, in the course of a few days, he returned to his work at St. Adrian’s, filled with a new purpose, governed by one desire, and one only, namely, to consecrate his service henceforth unto the Lord.
Mr. and Mrs. Drury’s hearts were filled with thanksgiving when they heard of his conversion, and a smile irradiated Leslie Herschel’s face when he was told of one result, at any rate, of his claim for service.
And Elsa: who can describe Elsa’s joy, when, late that Sunday evening as her brother bade her “good-night” at Rocklands gate, he bent down and whispered his news in her ear? He knew well enough which of his twin sisters would be the one to rejoice with him, for Elsa’s brave efforts to live a consistent Christian life in her own home had not been unobserved by her eldest brother.
“Oh, Roger, darling, how splendid!” and she clung tenderly to him. “How glad mamma will be when she hears; she has been praying for you so long. And I have, too,” she added shyly.
“Dear little sister,” he murmured, as he stooped and kissed her forehead. “Go on praying, Elsa, not only for me, but for Dick, and Olive, and the others.”
Monica was strangely subdued all that Sunday. Twice Mrs. Beauchamp enquired if she were not well, but she replied that nothing ailed her. Elsa, who felt sure that she had been, in some way, influenced by the sermon, tried to muster sufficient courage to speak to her about it; but no opportunity occurred. Olive seemed determined never to leave Monica’s side for a moment. So persistent was she, that even Monica grew cross once, and said pettishly, “Do be quiet for a bit, Olive, I want to read.” But if any one had taken the trouble to watch her movements, they would have seen that she rarely turned a page, although she appeared to be absorbed in her story.
In reality, Monica was thinking; good and evil were striving for the mastery within her, and she did not seem able to come to any decision. She longed to become a Christian, in her inmost heart, but something seemed to bar the way. At first, she could not think what the obstacle could be; but before she had lain down to rest that night, she knew that it was her friend, Olive, who was hindering her from taking the decisive step. Olive had said, “Oh, Monica, don’t!” and although she knew that she was acting worse than foolishly, Monica decided not to make the great choice just then!