Barriers Burned Away · Chapter 25 (2/2)

Mr. Ludolph thought a moment, then said: “I think she would be the one of all others, for she must be very much of a lady, and I would not like to put my daughter in charge of a common, coarse woman. You may rest assured that I would reward her liberally.”

“She would not come for money, sir.”

“What then?”

Dennis flushed how more deeply than before. He had been speaking for his mother from his own point of view, and now he hardly knew what to say, for he was not good at evasion. But he told the truth, if not all the truth. “We feel very grateful to you for the means of support, and a chance in life when the world was very dark. You have since promoted me⁠—”

“Nonsense!” said Mr. Ludolph, somewhat touched, though; “you have earned every dollar you have received, and your coming has been of advantage to me also. But if your mother will meet this need, should it occur, neither of you will have cause to regret it;” and he passed on to his office, but soon after went away again and did not return that day.

To Dennis the hours dragged on like years, full of suspense and mental tumult. At times he would bow his head behind his counter, and pray in tearful fervor for the object of his constant thought. The day was rainy, and the store empty of customers, for which he was most thankful, as he would have made the poorest of salesmen. At last the hour for closing arrived, and he was left to himself. In the solitude of his own room he once more looked the situation fairly in the face. With his head bowed in his hands he reflected: “Last night I thought to tear this love from my heart, but tonight I find that this would be to tear out my heart itself. I cannot do it. It is my strongest conviction that I can no more stop loving her than I can stop living. Unconsciously this love has grown until now it is my master, and it is folly to make any more resolves, only to be as weak as water when I least expect it. What shall I do?”

Motionless, unconscious of the lapse of time, he remained hour after hour absorbed in painful thought. Circumstances, reason, the Bible, all seemed to frown upon his love; but, though it appeared to be hopeless, his whole nature revolted against the idea of its being wrong.

“It cannot be wrong to love, purely and unselfishly,” he muttered. “Such love as mine seems to carry its own conviction of right with it⁠—an inner consciousness that seems so strong and certain as to be beyond argument⁠—beyond everything; and yet if God’s Word is against it I must be wrong, and my heart is misleading me.”

Again in unbroken silence an hour passed away. Then the thought struck him: “It is not contrary to God’s action! He so loved the world⁠—unbelievers and all⁠—as to give His best and dearest! Can it be wrong to be Godlike?”

“It is not wise, it is not safe,” prudence whispered, “to give a worldly, unbelieving spirit the power to influence you that she will have who is first in your heart. What true congeniality can there be? What fellowship hath righteousness with unrighteousness? or what part hath he that believeth with an infidel? As the most intimate friend and companion in life, you should seek one who truly can be one with you in all things, and most assuredly so in this vital respect.”

“Ah,” thought Dennis, “that would have been very good advice to give awhile ago. If from the first I could have understood my feelings and danger, I might have steeled my heart against the influences that have brought me to this. But the mischief is done. The words that now, in spite of myself, continually run in my mind, are, ‘What God hath joined together let not man put asunder.’ It seems as if some resistless power had joined my soul to hers, and I find no strength within myself to break the bond. I am not usually irresolute; I think I have principle; and yet I feel that I should not dare make the most solemn vow against this love. I should be all the more weak because conscience does not condemn me. It seems to have a light that reason and knowledge know not of. And yet I wish I could be more sure. I wish I could say to myself, I may be loving hopelessly, but not sinfully. I would take the risk. Indeed I cannot help taking it. Oh, that I could find light, clear and unmistakable!”

He rose, turned up his light, and opened the Pauline precepts. These words struck his eyes, “Art thou bound unto a wife? Seek not to be loosed.” Then, above, the words, “How knowest thou, O man, whether thou shalt save thy wife, even though she be an unbeliever?”

“Am I not bound⁠—bound by that which is God’s link in the chain? It does not seem as if the legal contract could change or strengthen my feelings materially, and while honoring the inviolable rite of marriage, which is God’s law and society’s safety, I know that nothing can more surely bind me to her, so that the spirit, the vital part of the passage, applies to me. Then if through this love I could save her⁠—if by prayer and effort I could bring her feet into the paths of life⁠—I should feel repaid for all that I could possibly suffer. She may slight my human love with its human consummation, but God will not let a life of prayer and true love be wasted, and she may learn here, or know hereafter, that though the world laid many rich gifts at her feet I brought the best of all.”

He looked out, and saw that the early spring dawn was tingeing the horizon.

“A good omen,” he said aloud. “Perhaps the night of this trouble is past, and the dawn is coming. I am convinced that it is not wrong; and I am resolved to make the almost desperate attempt. A mysterious hope, coming from I know not where or what, seems to beckon and encourage me forward.”

Dennis was young.