st. andrew's church was losing its respectability. it was one of the oldest in the province, and the town in which it was situated had for some years prided itself in being a "society" town. the select few who had for so long been undisturbed by the "common" people were having to endure the presence, in near-by pews, of some who had no entrance into the best social circles—and the shocking part of it was that the new minister, who was reported to have come from one of the best families in montreal, rather gloried in this condition of affairs.
two families had already withdrawn from the membership of st. andrew's—two of the wealthiest and gayest—and that within six months of the minister's induction. the withdrawal of the farsees and shunums happened on this wise. a few sabbath evenings previous to the "interview" that mrs. farsee had had with the minister, a young woman of unsavory reputation had dared to enter st. andrew's. perhaps the minister was not aware of what he did, but there was no denying the fact that he shook hands with the said young woman, and hoped she would "always feel welcome at st. andrew's." after seeing, with her own eyes, a second and a third visit, and a second and a third welcome, mrs. farsee, with the moral backing of mrs. shunum, had her now much-talked-of interview with the rev. thomas fearnon.
"mr. fearnon," she commenced in an agitated tone, "there is a matter that so greatly affects our church that, although it is rather a delicate subject, i felt i must be frank enough to speak with you about it. do you know—but of course you don't know—the character of the young woman who has been sitting in mrs. greatheart's seat for the past three sunday evenings, and to whom you have given three distinct welcomes to st. andrew's?"
"yes," was the reply, "i think i know something of her character and past, and it is very sad."
"but, mr. fearnon," exclaimed mrs. farsee, "you surely cannot sanction her attendance at our church! what will people say?"
"mrs. farsee," was the quiet rejoinder, "i wonder what my master would say if i did not sanction the presence of any for whom he died. for whom are our services, if not for the sinful?"
"yes, but, mr. fearnon, that kind of person should go to some other place—for instance, there's the salvation army."
"thank god there is the salvation army, but so long as thomas fearnon is pastor of this church, yonder doors shall never be too narrow to admit the sin-burdened." thomas fearnon's voice thrilled with emotion as he uttered these words.
"well, i suppose it's no use saying anything more," said mrs. farsee with an injured air, "but it's hard to hear people sneer at one's church, and twice lately i've heard people—and prominent society people too—say that our church was getting to be a 'house of refuge,' and i tell you that kind of thing goes hard with people who have taken the pride we have in st. andrew's church."
"to me," said mr. fearnon, "that report is encouraging, and i covet that intended sneer as a permanent tribute to any church of which i may be pastor—a house of refuge is what i want st. andrew's to be. surely the young woman you have named needs a place of refuge?"
"then i understand you will still allow her to attend our church, despite the wishes of two of the most loyal and best-giving families you have, mr. fearnon?" mrs. farsee placed an unmistakable emphasis on "best giving."
"your understanding is quite correct, mrs. farsee, and if ever st. andrew's church closes its doors on any man or woman, in like circumstances to the one you refer to, i care not how sinworn and wretched, it closes them at the same time on thomas fearnon—we go out together."
"if that is your decision," replied mrs. farsee haughtily, "please remove the names of mr. and mrs. m. t. farsee and miss lucy farsee from the membership roll, and i am also authorized by mrs. shunum to tell you that all the shunums withdraw from the church for the same reason."
thomas fearnon retired that night sad at heart—not that the loss of these two families from the membership roll gave him much concern, for to tell the truth he was more concerned to know how they ever came to be put on the roll, but he was concerned to find that kind of spirit among the membership of the congregation to which he had come with such high hopes, fresh from college. so far as losing members was concerned, he reminded himself that, in god's arithmetic, subtraction often produced an increase. perhaps of his congregation the words of scripture were true, "the people are yet too many." nevertheless, the offended families needed his saviour and the ministry of the church as much as, perhaps more, than the poor creature whose very presence they thought defiled their heretofore select congregation.
the following sabbath morning the text was luke xix. 10, "for the son of man is come to seek and to save that which was lost." those who had attended mrs. farsee's "afternoon bridge" on the preceding thursday knew that the sermon was the outgrowth of the "interview." none of them used their favourite adjective "lovely" of thomas fearnon's sermon that morning; the mission of the master and the consequent mission of his church was presented with a clearness and an earnestness that made not a few decidedly uncomfortable.
"i charge you, my fellow workers," he pleaded, "never to degenerate into dilettante church parlour triflers, but strike out for god in hard work to recover the lost. there are those whose life's roses are turned to ashes, those who have almost forgotten how to smile, those from whose hearts all music has fled. what an incomparable joy to tell them of, and seek to lead them to, the one who with divine delicacy said, 'neither do i condemn thee; go, and sin no more.' that welcoming saviour would speak through us to those whom too often we, professedly his followers, would cast out. if every individual in this world treated the fallen as you do, my friend, would it be easy or hard for that one to get into the kingdom of god? where shall the wanderers be welcome if not in the father's house? where shall those whom he created and for whom he died find friendship and help, if not in that company of worshippers who cry 'our father'?"
to not a few the message of that morning seemed intensely personal. in that inner judgment hall, where the prisoner and the judge are one, some verdicts were arrived at, and the verdicts were "guilty."
"if every individual in this world treated the fallen as you do, would it be easy or hard for that one to get into the kingdom of god?"
thomas fearnon had asked that question with an intensity of feeling that revealed itself in the whispered words, and that produced a profound silence throughout the sanctuary. and it was not in vain that he had put his best into prayer and preparation for that morning's message. at least one in the congregation asked to be forgiven for passing by, like priest and levite, needy ones to whom there should and could have been a ministry of mercy.
jessie buchanan saw the "vision splendid" that morning, and no longer could she be satisfied with her life of elegant ease. from that very hour her life and all the trappings of life were promised fully to her rightful lord—no longer would she hope to have him as saviour but reject him as lord.
* * * * *
a peaceful sabbath day's services had closed, and in the quiet of her beautiful and cosy little "den" jessie buchanan sat talking to a friend before the flickering embers in the fireplace. three months had passed away since thomas fearnon's sermon on luke xix. 10: three months of sometimes perplexing but always joyous service to jessie buchanan. already several lives had been gladdened and helped by the radiating influence of her consecrated life.
the buchanan home on the hillcrest had gladly opened its doors during these three months to some who had never expected to cross its threshold. and so to-night, for the third time, the young woman who had unknowingly caused the departure of two families from st. andrew's church, sat in the fire-light with her new-found friend.
wisely and unostentatiously jessie buchanan had made her acquaintance, and their meetings had been invariably away from the public eye. but into the broken life was coming the conquering power of an unselfish love. to-night, as the flames diminished, the young woman unfolded a little of her life.
"please don't hate me for it—i had to tell some one. oh! if only some one like you had helped me when i first went to the city; but it was my own fault. still, if you do wrong, there seem so many more to help you to keep on in the same way than there are to help you back."
for some minutes she talked on, and then jessie buchanan moved her chair a little closer and laid a hand sympathetically upon the girl's shoulder.
"you think my name is flossie, don't you, miss buchanan?" the girl asked slowly. "well, it isn't. nobody here knows either of my right names, but i'm going to tell you: my right name is nellie gillard; and miss buchanan, i want to be good again, and maybe get back home soon—only, i am afraid, for i haven't even written for nearly a year." tears were wiped away as the memory of the old home was revived in the light of new desires.
* * * * *
another week was nearing its close, and jessie buchanan was as usual making her plans for a hospitable sunday. glancing down the driveway, she was surprised to see nellie gillard approaching the house. this was the first daylight visit nellie had made, and saturday morning was so unusual a time that jessie buchanan was at the door before the bell-handle could be pulled. a cordial greeting and nellie was accompanied to the now familiar den. as the door closed the visitor at once made known the purpose of her visit. "miss buchanan, i'd like to go home, but i cannot—i dare not go alone."
"oh! i'm so glad you have decided. how soon do you wish to go, dear?" jessie buchanan's voice and face revealed her joy and thankfulness.
"i'd like to go right away" was the reply.
within a few hours nellie and her new-found friend were on their way to the railway station.
the "local" was nearly three hours late when almost at midnight it pulled into a little flag station in north-western ontario. it was over two miles to the gillards' home, and jessie buchanan suggested the desirability of getting the station agent to assist them in procuring a vehicle and driver.
the night was clear and bright, and nellie urged that if it was not too tiring for her companion she would much rather walk. "i know every step of the way, and—and—well you are the only one i want with me just now."
in the moonlight of that early october night two young women might have been seen walking along the fifth concession.
at a turn of the road nellie pointed to a little building: "there is the schoolhouse i attended." when a church spire stood out clear against the sky, there was a sob in the voice, "i used to teach in that sunday school and sing in the choir."
the gate of the old homestead was reached at last. the wanderer's hand clung for a moment to the top rail and the head rested on her forearm.
"i wonder—i wonder if father will let me in; i don't deserve it, but i believe he will." and she was not mistaken.
at the side of the old roughcast dwelling, two bedroom windows had been raised a few inches. beneath these the only daughter of the home called out in a trembling voice, "father." there was no response. could anything have happened? a second time on the silent night the voice anxiously uttered the same word. immediately thereafter they heard a movement and a man's head appeared at the window. "father! it's nell: i want to be your nell again. will you let me come home?"
"let you come home? you bet i will, nell—you bet i will." the last words were re-uttered after the head had disappeared.
the only other words they heard were, "ma! ma!" uttered in a voice trembling with joy.
no pen can adequately describe that home-coming. jessie buchanan was forgotten for the moment, but as she saw the daughter's head resting first on father's and then on mother's shoulder, and heard the old man say again and again, "my nell: oh! my nell," her cup of joy was full.
it was not what one could call a praying home, but on that early sabbath morning four people knelt in the little sitting-room, and jessie buchanan's first audible prayer was offered in thanksgiving for the home-coming of the wanderer. and to-day, in the little church in the grove, one of the regular worshippers is nellie gillard.
the end