CHAPTER XII.

"ARISE AND BUILD."

THE next day after the conversation related in the last chapter, Bob's scheme was again talked over, and after a consultation with Mr. Laurence, who cordially approved, an informal meeting of the principal church-goers was called, and the plan laid before them. There were various opinions about the matter. Mr. Stuart thought it would be an odd thing to turn an old office into a church. He had never heard of such a thing being done, but he saw no special objection, and if they wanted the building, they could have it rent free.

"So far, so good," said Mr. Bell; "but it will need some fixing up, besides pulpit, seats, and so on."

"Oh, you must do that yourselves. I cannot give you the house gratis, and repair it into the bargain."

"Of course not," returned Mr. Bell; "nobody calculated you would. That's got to be done among the rest of us; Bostwick and I have been down to look at it, and made a rough calculation about what will be wanted, and we make out that a hundred and twenty dollars would fix it first-rate. Now, then, how is it going to be done?"

"That's the rub, I guess you'll find," said Mr. Crampton, the painter. "Money ain't very plenty around here just now."

"Them that can't give money can give work," replied Mr. Bell, "and them that can't give work, can give good-will. Here's Brother Bostwick, now, says he'll do all the mason work that's wanted, and that's something. I will give the carpenter's work, and what of that sort needs to be done, and I reckon you, Crampton, can do the painting and set the glass without breaking yourself, can't you?"

"WELL, I can, and more than that, if I've a mind."

"Let's have that first, any way. Carpenter's work, mason work, and painting—we are getting on well. We shall want about fourteen or fifteen hundred feet of good lumber—perhaps more."

"I'll give you a thousand feet, and let my team draw it," said Hildreth, who was one of the wealthiest men in the place, "and after that, if you want more, I'll see about it. I'm no great things of a church-goer myself, but my wife is, and I'd do as much, if it was only to oblige Miss Champlin, who I take to be the principal getter-up of the business, and who is one of the finest young women I know. She has had a hard row to hoe since she came home, I expect."

"You might say so, if you knew," replied Mr. Bell; "but they get along wonderful well, considering. Well, I don't see but we've got all we want, except a little ready money, and that we must come at some way or other. I think, friends, we should be justified in making a beginning as it is, and them that thinks so, please signify it."

The vote was unanimous, and they were just going to disperse, when Mr. Crampton said—

"Here's Downing coming; let's see what he'll say."

Mr. Downing entered accordingly, and after going lightly over the proposed plan, Mr. Crampton asked him what he would contribute.

"Not a red cent!" replied Mr. Downing, with emphasis, and with a frown which made his gloomy countenance still more repulsive. "I'll never give the first penny as long as young Laurence stays here. He isn't the kind of minister for my money. I'd as soon have Charley Strong himself."

"Charley Strong! Pray what has he to do with Mr. Laurence?" asked Mr. Bell.

"Just this," answered Mr. Downing. "No longer ago than last Wednesday, I saw Mr. Laurence and Charley Strong walking arm-in-arm all the way from Stuart's store up to the school-house, talking as fast as you please. More than that, I know well enough that the last time Laurence was over here, Charley Strong rode home with him, and he has stayed there, or about there ever since, to my certain knowledge. Now you can do as you please; but a minister who don't know how to choose his company any better than that, is not the man for my money, no matter whose son he is."

"Hem!" said Mr. Bostwick. "Did you ever happen to hear in all your life of a certain person who went to dine with a man not over and above respectable, and who kept company not over and above respectable, and what some folks said about it?"

"I don't know what you mean, Mr. Bostwick," returned Mr. Downing; "but if the man pretended to be a minister, and the company was no better than the one we were speaking of, I think folks had a right to talk."

"Of course they had, and I'll tell you what they said. They said, 'He received publicans and sinners, and eateth with them.' Mayhap you can remember now what kind of an answer they got."

Two or three of the men laughed, and Mr. Downing looked rather taken aback, while Mr. Bostwick continued: "Now some folks think that men who wear the kind of coat Richard Laurence does, should be as much like their Master as they can. Charley Strong is a hard case, and no wonder, considering how he has been brought up; but he has got a soul to be saved as well as the best of us, and the Lord that bought him paid as much for him as He did for you and me, Mr. Downing—just as much. And if He was to walk through the towns of this county, as He did through them towns of old, He'd be as likely to talk to such poor fellows as Charley, or even Joe Fisher, as He would to you and me. I'm not an educated man myself, but I was brought up by pious parents, and thank the Lord I've known Him this many a year, and my experience of Him is that He is just as ready to save the worst sinner as He is the smartest feeling Pharisee."

"Amen!" said Mr. Bell, emphatically.

"That's well said, Bostwick," said Mr. Stuart, "and I think you have the right of it. Who knows what might be done for such kind of people, if Christians would only take them up and befriend them, and try to help them along. I have not seen Charley so steady since he was ten years old as he has been for the last two weeks, and if he was anywhere but at home, he might do well enough yet; but what can you expect when his father gets his living by selling the very poison that is destroying his only son?"

"If my memory serves me, you once sold liquor yourself, Mr. Stuart," said Mr. Downing, with a sneer.

"God forgive me, I did," replied Stuart earnestness; "and I would cut off my right hand to be able to repair the mischief I have done. But that's neither here nor there. Come, Downing, I know when you come to reflect, you won't think the worse of Laurence for trying to do something for poor Charley."

"Why perhaps not, if that's the view you take of it, though I can't say I think it looks very well. But after all, Laurence is a regular dandy in his dress and ways. Just look at his fine black coat and white cravat, and his hair curls like a girl's. To be sure it always did curl when he was a little boy."

"That is indeed a misfortune," said Mr. Stuart, gravely; "but then isn't a curly-haired minister better than none at all?"

Downing smiled in spite of himself.

"Come, I see you are going to help the matter along after all. How much are you going to give us?"

"There's a dollar for you," replied Mr. Downing, "and that's all you get from me, I can tell you."

"That will do for a beginning; and now, as we seem to have finished our business, I move that this committee do adjourn. When do you calculate to begin, Mr. Bell?"

"Right off," answered Mr. Bell. "I am going to set my boys to pulling down the partitions, and mending the fences to-day. I've given them their time to work for the church, and they are so pleased, you'd think they were going to preach in it themselves."

"It has been a first-rate thing for the children, that's a fact," remarked Mr. Hildreth; and with these words the meeting adjourned.

There was great rejoicing among the "women folks," when it was understood how matters had gone, and it was agreed that they would do their share towards fitting up the church decently. The very children were anxious to help, and more than one little boy and girl vowed secretly to devote the hoarded contents of his or her savings bank to the same purpose.

The work was commenced at once, as Mr. Bell had said. The green about the door was nicely fenced, and cleared of all encumbrances, dusty partitions were torn down and carried away, piles of new boards and stacks of bricks made their appearance, and Mr. Laurence never passed that way without rejoicing over his work, and praying for an increased blessing upon the flock, over which he trusted the Holy Ghost had made him overseer.

Mr. Bostwick gave it as his opinion that the house might be ready for occupation in about three weeks; that is, about the commencement of Lent, which fell very late this year. Mr. Laurence was very desirous that this should be the case, as his heart was set upon a series of Lenten services, which could not well be holden in the school-house.

Charley Strong, the young man whose companionship had been so strongly objected to by Mr. Downing, was the only son of the tavern-keeper with whom my readers have become acquainted in the early part of this story. He was a tan, handsome young man, very well educated, and, when sober, very well bred. He had grown up, as Mr. Stuart said, under the very worst influences possible. His father had begun by indulging him in every thing, right or wrong, to which he took a fancy, and laughing at those who warned him of the danger of this course. His mother—a good and pious woman—died when he was about five years old—of a broken heart it was said. Charley was brought up in the barroom, and saw, smelt, and tasted liquor from morning till night. What wonder if he acquired a taste for it? What wonder if the taste became a raging passion, which deprived him of reason, and threatened to destroy him, body and soul? At seventeen, Charley was sent to college, from which he returned in disgrace, and before he had been at home a week, he ruined a valuable horse belonging to his father, by over-driving him in a fit of intoxication. From that time, their quarrels were constant: the father seemed to lose all affection for his son, and though he allowed him to take his meals and sleep at home, he showed him no other kindness, and never spoke to him without abusing him for an idle, drunken, ungrateful vagabond.

Now and then, when unable to beg or borrow the means of satisfying his raging appetite, Charley would do a little work, and several times he had been known to keep sober and industrious for a week at a time; but with the temptation ever before him, how could he be expected to withstand it? These fits of abstinence were sure to be followed by fits of drunkenness long and violent, and every one worse than the other. He had lately had one or two attacks of delirium tremens; he grew pale and thin, and was troubled with a distressing cough, and every one said that he would not last much longer. And is it not a fearful thing to say in such a case? Is it not fearful to think of a young man, of fine talents and good disposition, capable of almost any amount of good, going down to a drunkard's death bed—a drunkard's grave—a drunkard's eternity?

Richard Laurence had known Charley well at one time. They had been boys at school together, though Richard was several years the oldest, and there had been a degree of intimacy between them, until the time that Richard finally decided to consecrate his talents to the service of the Church, and went to the city of New York to pursue his studies for the ministry. Even when the most degraded, Charley had retained some sense of shame at his abasement. He kept himself as much as possible out of the sight of his former friend, and, unless he was too much intoxicated to recognize any one, he would go two miles out of his way to avoid meeting him. Richard had tried in vain to bring about an encounter—Charley kept determinedly out of his way.

It chanced one Wednesday evening that he was passing near the school-house, now lighted up for evening service, just as his former friend was alighting from his horse at the door. In his haste to escape, he stumbled over a stick of wood, which had been left in the way, and fell; and before he could recover himself entirely, Richard had seized his hand, and was expressing his delight at the meeting, in a voice, the cordiality and sincerity of which did not admit of a doubt.

"Come, Charley," said Richard, after a few minutes conversation, "you have never yet heard me preach. Come in and listen, if it is only for the sake of old times at school."

Charley laughed and hesitated, and was finally persuaded to enter. There was no little nudging and whispering among those already assembled as he took his seat; and some persons looked a little uneasy, but it was soon perceived that he was entirely sober.

The lecture was upon the parable of the prodigal son, and was almost as direct and simple in its character as a lecture could be. Every one in the room felt that he or she was directly addressed by the preacher, and a very evident solemnity and seriousness was diffused throughout the congregation. Charley felt himself so much embarrassed by his new situation that he could think of nothing else for a while, but his attention was gradually directed from himself and fastened on the preacher.

"How well he writes!" he thought. "If he had been preaching before the most fashionable and literary congregation in New York, he could not have taken more pains with his discourse."

But his attention was soon directed from the manner to the matter of the lecture. He had never been able in all his degradation to destroy either his conscience or his affections; and now that he was perfectly sober, every word of the beautiful parable of the prodigal son came home to his heart. He felt himself to be the very prodigal of the story. Had he not wasted his substance, destroyed his health, lost his reputation, and was he not now feeding on husks, lower than the swine, hopeless in this world, and hopeless in the next? He knew all this before, and why should he come here to be told of it? He almost made up his mind to rise and leave the house, when the preacher went on to another branch of his subject.

"And he arose and came to his father, and while he was yet a great way off, his father saw him, and had compassion on him, and ran and fell on his neck, and kissed him."

These words fell with strange force on the ear of the besotted drunkard; they seemed to bring with them, I know not what, of light and consolation. He began to feel almost as if his case were not hopeless; as if "he" might at some time arise and go to his Father, and be met with words of love and forgiveness.

But when the preacher went on to enlarge on the love of God towards penitent sinners, and His yearning over them even when a great way off; when he spoke of the price paid for all; of the wonderful sacrifice for sin; of the fountain opened for all uncleanness; of the grace ready and waiting for the chief of sinners, Charley no longer cared or thought where he was, or who saw him. He bowed his head on his trembling hands, and tears—genuine tears of repentance—streamed from his eyes: he wept almost aloud.

He was not the only one who did so; more than one hard hand dashed away the gathering drops; and more than one prayer went up, and was heard in heaven, for the prodigal son. Richard saw and rejoiced with trembling over the impression he had made, and, when he sat down at the end of the discourse, he too bowed his head, and prayed with heart and soul for the friend of his childhood.

The congregation rose from their knees, and began to go out, but Charley did not rise; and when all had departed but Mr. Bell, who lingered about the door to take the key, Richard took a seat beside him. He was rather at a loss how to begin the conversation that he desired, but Charley saved him the trouble.

"Richard Laurence," he said, raising his head, and looking his friend full in the face, "do you really in your heart believe that there is any salvation—any hope for such a miserable lost wretch as I am? As you love your own soul, tell me nothing but the truth."

"As truly as I believe there is a God, Charley," answered the young minister with equal solemnity, "so truly do I believe that He is ready and waiting to receive and pardon you the moment you make up your mind to arise and go to Him. His love knows no difference, and He is just as ready to accept you now as if you had never strayed from Him. He is speaking to you by His Spirit, and calling you to come. It may be the turning-point of your life, Charley; will you refuse His love?"

"I am as ignorant as a heathen, Richard. What must I do?"

"'Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved;' you have nothing else to do. Put your trust in Him who died to save you, and say with the man of old, 'Lord, I believe; help thou mine unbelief.'"

"But such a wretch as I am! I was drunk yesterday, and I shall be drunk to-morrow. No, there is no hope."

"Do you wish to be drunk to-morrow, Charley?"

"No, God knows I don't! I would never touch a drop again, if I could help it; but how can I? The moment I go home, there it is before me. I cannot go to my bed without seeing and smelling the accursed poison, and though I would rather die than drink again, I know I shall not be able to help it."

"Then don't go home," said Richard. "Go over to Spring Bank with me, and stay a while, and you will be out of the way of temptation. There is no one at home but the housekeeper—your old friend, Mrs. Millar, you know. There you will be safe, and we can talk further together. Come, if it is only for the sake of our old friendship."

"I will go, Richard. God bless you for your kindness. Oh! If I should be saved after all—saved, body and soul! I tell you, Dick, there have been times within this year that I have seen the pit of hell opening under me, and felt that one step would take me into it, and yet I couldn't help myself. But it seems lighter now. I feel as if all were not lost yet."

As they went out of the door, Mr. Bell came forward and shook the young man cordially by the hand.

"God bless you, Charley," said he; "we shall see you a man yet, by the grace of God. I've got a brother that was once further down the hill than you are, and he is now as fair a standing man as any in the State of Michigan, and with as fine a family about him as you'd wish to see. We shall all think of you, my boy, and pray for you. My wife always said you'd come round sooner or later, if a mother's prayers were of any account. Drop in and see us, and you'll find her ready to welcome you for your ma's sake."

Charley was not seen in Brooksville again before Sunday, when he rode over to church with Mr. Laurence. He was very pale, and several persons noticed how his hands trembled, but he was perfectly sober, and though very serious, there was an expression of happiness about his face which had not been seen there for many a day.

"T wouldn't go over to the tavern, Charley," said Mr. Stuart to him when church was out. "Come home and get your dinner with us."

"By your leave, Mr. Stuart," interrupted Mr. Bell, "he don't do any such thing. My woman has set her heart upon his coming to our house to-day, and I shan't dare to go home without him. I'm dreadful afraid of my wife, you know."

Mr. Stuart smiled and yielded, only saying, "If there is any way I can serve you, Charley, let me know."

Mr. Laurence took his friend home with him again in the evening, and he was not seen again in Brooksville for some time. No one knew what he was about unless it were Mr. Bell; and if he was questioned, he only said he guessed Charley was able to take care of himself, and if he wasn't, he had friends to help him. His father seemed perfectly indifferent about the matter, and indeed said openly that he considered it a good riddance, wherever he was. He thought Laurence would find his match with him, if Charley got into his tantrums, as he always did if he was sober for a few days. It wouldn't be strange if Charley should cut his throat for him.

But Charley was in safe hands. He knew, better than any one else, his own weakness and danger. Once escaped from the horrible pit, he was resolved to make any sacrifice rather than return to it; and it was at his own desire that two or three days after his last appearance at Brooksville, Richard Laurence accompanied him to an Insane Asylum, where he was placed as a boarder, and where he was rooted to stay till all danger was over, employing himself when he was able to work at all, with the study of medicine, which he had once before commenced. Here, then, he remained, and the good people of Brooksville, after having wondered for a while what had become of him, finally forgot him, and talked of something else.

Meanwhile the work went rapidly on at the church, as it now began to be called. The windows were all mended, the walls whitened, and a new floor laid. The chancel was inclosed with a neat but plain railing, and furnished with a pulpit, reading-desk, and communion table; and the rest of the space was being filled up with comfortable benches and hassocks, or haddocks, as Mr. Hildreth preferred to call them, which, like all the rest of the woodwork, were painted white. A learned ecclesiologist would have found much to object to in the form and arrangement of all these things, but the good people of Brooksville were perfectly content with them, and took great satisfaction in the neatness and convenience of their little sanctuary.

Mr. Laurence made his contribution in the shape of half a dozen very pretty lamps to light up the church for evening service. Mr. Willson gave two large Prayer-Books and a Psalm-Book for the desk, and a Bible for the pulpit. Some ladies of Raeburn presented a pretty carpet for the chancel (rag carpet was considered good enough for the aisles), and to crown all, the old doctor, who had met the first application of the committee with nothing but inarticulate growls, put into Mr. Laurence's hands one day a large basket, containing a plain but handsome silver Communion Service, saying as he did so, that he hoped to see it used before many weeks were over.

The women on their part were not idle. Already they had purchased and made up a decent gown and surplice, and they were now employed upon the cushions for the altar and the pulpit. Susan Champlin was persuaded to collect the subscriptions. She had nothing in particular to keep her at home now, and day after day she might be seen round the village, or mounted on Mrs. Stuart's pony (for she was an excellent horse-woman), riding off to sound the hearts and purses of all the farmers' wives in the neighborhood. She was a very successful collector, and the fresh air and diversion were of great service to her: her sadness abated; the color returned to her pale cheek, and the light to her eyes; she was once more heard singing about the house and over her work, and the anxiety of her friends for her gradually passed away.

All things were now in readiness, and on the Sunday before Lent, Mr. Laurence announced that there would be service in the new church on Ash Wednesday morning and evening, and that on Thursday morning, at nine o'clock, a meeting would be held in the same place, for the purpose of regularly organizing a Parish.