According to the Pattern (25 page)

Gently and sadly Claude told her also of that dreadful
day when heaven and hell seemed contending for his
soul, and as he came to the place where he had to tell of his own intention to take his life, she clutched his hand
tight and bit her lips and pressed her eyelids close over
her eyes until the tears were crushed beneath the lashes.

Then there were the new experiences to tell, of the
day when God had spoken to each of them, and for
given, and promised to help. They looked back into the
past and saw how all might have been different if they
had but followed the pattern sooner.

Claude had not told Miriam yet of his business
troubles. He judged, and rightly, that she ought not to
have more to bear just yet than what she must know to
set her heart at rest. So he let her go on thinking that he was having a long vacation for her sake, and she mur
mured once how good they were not to worry him to
come home all the time he was there.

It was the day that she said this that he began once
more to feel the old depression stealing over him, and as he wheeled her back to the cottage he did not talk much
nor answer with the light-heartedness that had been his
of late. Miriam felt the shadow of his mood and grew sad
herself.

But that evening Mr. Lyman came down from the city with his son, and after dinner, when Miriam was resting on the couch and Celia singing soft melodies to the accompaniment of her guitar, the three men went out to the piazza together, and walked and talked.

The murmur of the waves mingled with their voices,
and Claude’s thoughts were sad and troubled. How
could he bear to tell Miriam the added trouble? Which
while in comparison to the other trouble was nothing,
was yet one which had an immediate bearing on their
lives.

Mr. Lyman asked a number of keen questions, which Claude answered, his thoughts only half on the conver
sation, and of which he did not see the drift until
suddenly he aroused to the fact that a most flattering proposition had been made to him.

He straightened up, every sense on the alert at once.
His keen business instinct told him that this was a rare offer even to a man older and more experienced than himself.

They talked along and in the midst of their conversa
tion the moon rose full and grandly over the waters,
touching every ripple and furrow with a glory as of
myriads of jewels. Claude wondered as he looked if it were typical of the waves of sorrow that had gone over him and Miriam, and that were to be by and by glorified into joy.

It was all settled before the chill of the early spring
evening had driven them inside the house once more,
and Claude went over to Miriam’s couch with a lighter
step than had been his for years.

“Sweetheart, I’ve something beautiful to tell you to
morrow,” he whispered in her ear, before the others
came in, and immediately Miriam’s sadness was turned into joy again.

And the next day was Easter. The sea seemed to have
put on an added blueness for the day and the sky
matched it in clearness.

Doctor Carter had come down to the shore the night
before, with his wife and baby and his brother. Perhaps
it
was this fact that made Celia’s eyes shine brighter than usually as she waited demurely by the window for her
father to be ready for church, and saw from the hotel
door across the way the doctor and his brother emerg
ing. She had hoped for this but had not dared to think much about it.

That afternoon when all the world passed by on the
boardwalk to show its garments gay, as the great world
of fashion had decreed—contemptible in its vanity be-
side the rolling majesty of the sea, that has worn its silken
robes and lace of foam for ages on ages, and never needs a new—Miriam and Claude sat in a sunny nook once more and talked.

He had told her all the plans and they had looked
beyond the crowds that surged by them to the billows of God’s everlasting sea, and recognized something in their majesty that called them. Then hand in hand under the great traveling robe that was thrown over Miriam’s lap they registered their vow to follow Jesus Christ in all their future life.

There were tints of rose and gold beginning to glow
in the green of the sea, and the nook was growing chilly
since the sun had left it. The boardwalk was almost
deserted, for fashion had gone to the evening meal. Up the sand, walking slowly, came Celia and George Carter, walking as if every step were too precious to be hurried through, and they were talking as those who hold sweet converse one with another.

Miriam watched them for a
few
minutes and then sighed.

“Oh,” said she wearily, “will they have to make the
mistakes and go through the sorrow that we did,
Claude?” And there was a quiver in her voice that
touched his heart with an exquisite reproach.

“No, dear,” he answered gently, “for they have begun ‘according to the pattern.”

True love is but a humble, low-born thing,

And hath its food served up in earthen ware;

It is a thing to walk with, hand in hand,

Through the everydayness of this work-day world,

Baring its tender feet to every roughness,

Yet letting not one heart-beat go astray.

—James Russell Lowell

THEY did not stay in the house that had been the scene of so much sorrow and conflict. It soon had another occupant and the landlord raised the rent five dollars a
month on account of Miriam’s bay window, and the
new occupants moved through the street under the halo of its distinction.

It was quite possible to secure a house in one of the semi- suburbs of the city with some ground about it, not too far away from the office which was to be Claude’s headquarters.

Miriam rejoiced in the change and the children
shouted for joy.

“There’s woses, an’ vi’lets, an’ dandylines, an’
butcherflies, an’ butchercups, an’ birdies,’ explained
small Celia to her nurse.

And the other children clapped their hands over a “
real live weeping willow tree” on the lawn.

“And there is a stable at the back of the lot,” said
Claude, his face as bright as his children’s; “sometime we’ll have a horse and take drives every day.”

At this there was a chorus of glee from the children,
and so bright a smile on Miriam’s face that Claude was thoughtful for some time after.

It was a lovely spring day. The air had in it that subtle fragrance that lures all who breathe to come and revel in the sunshine. There were hints of blossoms to come on
every twig and bough, and the grass seemed leaping up
to meet the light.

Miriam was looking wistfully out across her pretty
lawn, noticing all the beauty and breathing in the sweet
ness. She was thinking of the days like these when she
and Claude had wandered over the hillside and hunted
for the first wild flowers. She was weak enough yet to long for those days back again. As she looked, a carriage drew up in front of the gate and her husband sprang out and came up the walk.

He had come to take her for a drive he said, the air
would do her good, and she must hurry and get ready,
for they must make the most of their first “afternoon
off,” as he called it.

She paused by the hat rack and reached for her hat and
coat and then with sudden impulse she went on upstairs and slipped into another gown. She must not lose all her worldly wisdom just because she had greater motives to work by now, and a different pattern.

It did not take long to make herself pretty and her husband stood admiring her as she came down the hall fifteen minutes later, his face as bright and eager as a
boy’s. There would be always something half-boyish
about Claude that was very winning, so thought his wife.

“We will go to the park,” he said as he headed the
horse toward the river drive, “it is just the day for the park.”

It was one of those days when fashion has ordered “all
out on parade.” And they were there, the jingling silver-
mounted ones, and the quieter rubber-tired ones, look
ing weary and bored in their spring array. It was a part
of their day’s doings, this drive, and many of them had
the look as if they were taking medicine.

Miriam had not been here since the day that her heart
had been pierced. Now as they swept into the wide
smooth drive and became one of the double procession
that curved about the river’s edge and up among the
hills, she smiled to think how happy she was, and how
her heart was bubbling over as light as had been her little
child’s, almost a year ago when she had brought her here to play.

Claude grew joyful. He felt the sweet air like new
wine mounting first to his heart, then to his head. He
was proud of his wife, sitting in her quiet beauty beside him. He was pleased over his business prospects, and withal there was a great, deep peace in his soul. He felt
that this world of nature into which they were driving
was his Father’s world and he was glad to be in it.

On they drove, past the little canoes on the river; past the old pebble-dash hotels that advocated catfish and waffles for light refreshment, on their signs; past the old covered bridge, and the little rustic abiding-place of the
park guards; past the spring and the grotto, into the
winding drive all arched with brown branches and ten
der green feathery tips beginning to peep through; on till they had out-distanced most of their driving companions
and were rolling along on the hard road alone, except
for an occasional one who had gone farther than the rest
and was turning early home again. They could look
down now on the brook as it rippled along over the glistening stones below, and the little rustic bridge that
crossed it, where a boy stood earnestly fishing—past
them all. And now they were approaching the curve
where she and Celia had climbed the bank and looked down on the world below.

Claude had been speaking, talking of the beauty of the drive and the sunlight glinting through the boughs down into the water. Then he had looked at her, but her heart had been going back over the year to the moment when she had stood up there on the bank and looked down here—where she was now, safe and happy with Claude.

But the words he was now speaking to her, were
sweet and tender, and showed perfectly how he understood her feelings, full of a nobler, deeper love than any
they had expressed before. She could not forget her
thoughts and look up into his eyes which were compelling hers. And then he bent and kissed her.

It was a long, clinging kiss, and the look he gave her after it was one of tender meaning.

All softly just then there swept around the curve
another driver. Her horses were finely blooded, her
equipage the latest, and her silken robes were rich and
fair to see. Beside her sat a man who looked at her
adoringly, as she held her horses with a graceful skill, but
she was not talking to him, nor did she once glance
toward him, and it was not on her horses that she kept
her gaze so earnestly nor yet upon the landscape, though it was passing good to see.

Miriam, her face flooded with the glory of her love
and the joy of perfect harmony, looked up to see this
woman, her enemy, with the eyes of hate gazing upon
her.

She did not stir, nor cry out, as she might have done
at another time, nor did her fair face flush the slightest
perceptible rose color. Her steady eyes all clear with
dews of heaven looked full upon her enemy, and knew
her fight was won.

They passed as in the flash of sunlight that lit the pool below and Claude had not looked up nor recognized his
friend and enemy of old. Miriam, her joy rushing over
her anew as the tumult of her heart subsided, hid her glad
face upon her husband’s shoulder and wept tears of joy.

So they drove out from the arching branches into the late spring sunlight of the upper road that led home, and
Miriam smiled to think the last shadow of her sorrow
had been swept from her path, for her enemy had been met and was conquered.

When they reached home and the evening meal was over, Claude brought a Bible out and called the children round their mother.

“Miriam,” he said, and his voice was constrained with
feeling, “if we are going to follow the new pattern,
hadn’t we better begin right? I don’t want the children
to make the mistake we did.”

And Miriam, her cup of comfort running over, as
sented with joyful eyes.

The little ones with wondering, reverent faces, knelt beside their mother while their father prayed his first faltering prayer in the presence of others.

Down upon her knees was Miriam, her heart filled full
of praise, and upon her life a peace that passeth understanding. This was the new way and it was good—to
follow the pattern, Christ Jesus, and evermore “believe
on him to life everlasting.”

Oh, the little birds sang east, and the little birds sang west,

And I smiled to think God’s greatness flowed around
our incompleteness—

Round our restlessness, his rest.