“Stop a moment, doctor,” cried Dennis, “I want you to see my mother.”
“What is the matter with her? She been breaking the commandments, too?”
“Oh, no!” exclaimed Dennis. “She is not a bit of a heathen.”
“I am not so sure about that. I know many eminent saints in the church who will eat lobster salad for supper, and then send for the doctor and minister before morning. There is a precious twaddle about ‘mysterious Providence.’ Providence isn’t half so mysterious as people make out. The doctor is expected to look serious and sympathetic, and call their law-breaking and its penalty by some outlandish Latin name that no one can understand. I give ’em the square truth, and tell ’em they’ve been breaking the commandments.”
Dennis could not forbear smiling at the doctor’s rough handling of humbug, even in one of its most respectable guises. Then, remembering his mother, he added, gravely: “I am truly anxious about my mother, she has grown so feeble. I want, and yet dread, the truth.”
The bantering manner of the good old doctor changed at once, and he said, kindly, “I’ll come, my boy, within a few days, though I am nearly run off my feet.”
He went off, muttering, “Why don’t the people send for some of the youngsters that sit kicking up their heels in their offices all day?”
Dennis soon fell into the routine of work and rapidly grew stronger. But his face had acquired a gravity, a something in expression that only experience gives, which made him appear older by ten years. All trace of the boy had gone, and his countenance was now that of the man, and of one who had suffered.
As soon as he recovered sufficient strength to act with decision, he indignantly tried to banish Christine’s image from his memory. But he found this impossible. Though at times his eyes would flash, in view of her treatment, they would soon grow gentle and tender, and he found himself excusing and extenuating, by the most special pleadings, that which he had justly condemned.
One evening his mother startled him out of a long revery, in which he had almost vindicated Christine, by saying, “A very pleasant smile has been gradually dawning on your face, my son.”
“Mother,” replied he, hesitatingly, “perhaps I have judged Miss Ludolph harshly.”
“Your love, not your reason, has evidently been pleading for her.”
“Well, mother, I suppose you are right.”
“So I suppose the Divine love pleads for the weak and sinful,” said Mrs. Fleet, dreamily.
“That is a very pleasant thought, mother, for sometimes it seems that my love could make black white.”
“That the Divine love has done, but at infinite cost to itself.”
“Oh that my love at any cost to itself could lead her into the new life of the believer!” said Dennis, in a low, earnest tone.
“Your love is like the Divine in being unselfish, but remember the vital differences and take heed. God can change the nature of the imperfect creature that He loves. You cannot. His love is infinite in its strength and patience. You are human. The proud, selfish, unbelieving Miss Ludolph (pardon mother’s plain words) could not make you happy. To the degree that you were loyal to God, you would be unhappy, and I should surely dread such a union. The whole tone of your moral character would have to be greatly lowered to permit even peace.”
“But, mother,” said Dennis, almost impatiently, “in view of my unconquerable love, it is nearly the same as if I were married to her now.”
“No, my son, I think not. I know your pretty theory on this subject, but it seems more pretty than true. Marriage makes a vital difference. It is the closest union that we can voluntarily form on earth, and is the emblem of the spiritual oneness of the believer’s soul with Christ. We may be led through circumstances, as you have been, to love one with whom we should not form such a union. Indeed, in the true and mystic meaning of the rite, you could not marry Christine Ludolph. The Bible declares that man and wife shall be one. Unless she changes, unless you change (and that God forbid), this could not be. You would be divided, separated in the deepest essentials of your life here, and in every respect hereafter. Again, while God loves every sinful man and woman, He does not take them to His heart till they cry out to Him for strength to abandon the destroying evil He hates. There are no unchanged, unrenewed hearts in heaven.”
“Oh, mother, how inexorable is your logic!” said Dennis, breathing heavily.
“Truth in the end is ever more merciful than falsehood,” she answered, gently.
After a little, he said, with a heavy sigh, “Mother, you are right, and I am very weak and foolish.”
She looked at him with unutterable tenderness. She could not crush out all hope, and so whispered, as before: “Prayer is mighty, my child. It is not wrong for you to love. It is your duty, as well as privilege, to pray for her. Trust your Heavenly Father, do His will, and He will solve this question in the very best way.”
Dennis turned to his mother in sudden and passionate earnestness, and said: “Your prayers are mighty, mother, I truly believe. Oh, pray for her—for my sake as well as hers. Looking from the human side, I am hopeless. It is only God’s almighty power that can make us, as you say, truly one. I fear that now she is only a heartless, fashionable girl. Yet, if she is only this, I do not see how I came to love her as I do. But my trust now is in your prayers to God.”
“And in your own also: the great Father loves you, too, my son. If He chooses that the dross in her character should be burned away, and your two lives fused, there are in His providence just the fiery trials, just
