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THE MASTER OF BERYL HEIGHTS
By Odessa Strickland Payne, Author of the “Mission Girl", “Esther FerralVs Experiment", Etc.
HE glowing, tender autumn glided
away, and the gloom of winter—
broken occasionally by brief, crisp
days of sunshine —marched steadily
on. There seemed to be a farewell
grace in everything Schiller did—
a lingering loveliness, as it were, in
all his thoughts and words. Lynne
found out the extent of his chari-
T
ties, because he wished her to carry out his be
nevolent schemes, and they were manifold, dur
ing his absence. In order that she should be
unhampered, he arranged with his banker
that her checks should be honored as his own.
His benevolence did not depend upon his im
pulses and sympathies, as do most men’s, but
he gave away a certain amount regularly and
systematically. He consecrated his fortune by
offering one-tenth of his income back annually
to the great Giver of all.
The last Sabbath of Schiller’s stay in his na
tive land was one of quiet beauty, full of the
delicate breath and blossoming gladness of the
early spring time. All the family attended
church in the morning, and in the afternoon
the carriage waited for John, his mother and
ward, to convey them for the last time to the
Factory Chapel Sunday-school. Mrs. Gordon,
pale and quiet, walked down the steps with her
son, wdiile Lynne followed slowly with the
shadow of conflict still on her face. They were
all seated when Dr. Gordon, who had been read
ing a religious review on the lower terrace,
got up and approached the carriage.
“Is there room for one more?”
“Certainly, brother, get in.”
As he took his seat by his mother, Lynne
lowered the carriage window and leaned out to
avoid his questioning-eyes. She felt like she
had rather have sat opposite the Council of
Twelve.
‘ ‘ Paul, if you were only going with Schiller, ’ ’
his mother said with a sigh, “1 should feel bet
ter satisfied, I know. Are you sure that his
traveling companion, Dr. Graham, is as capa
ble as he should be? I hope there are no under
currents that you failed to sound in his na
ture.”
None —I know him. I have turned every
leaf of his soul, and there are none blotted ex
cept those which chronicled his first and last
cigar, and the eating of one rare watermelon
in his youth which grew on land to which some
one else held the fee simple title.”
His mother’s pale face brightened ever so
faintly as she asked:
“Do you analyze always with such minute
minuteness ? ’ ’
“Invariably, where the character is worth
analyzing at all.”
Lynne turned her face round for an instant,
and the flash in the blue-brown eyes—as well
as the disdainful curve of the mouth —did not
escape his notice. He wondered if she was
vexed with him for not having yielded to the
general depression, or if his random shot had
told upon her patience.
Dr. Gordon saw the large crowd of men who
were grouped about the chapel door, and he
knew, before he bared his stately head and fol
lowed the others within —that the whole factory
world, both small and great, had assembled to
do honor to his brother’s departure.
The services opened as usual. Prayer was
offered by the cripple, and the songs sung as if
nothing of more than ordinary moment had
been anticipated. Afterwards the teaching be
gan. Mrs. Gordon took charge of the infant
class, in the back of the church —Lynne of the
girls, in one corner, and John of the men and
boys in the opposite pews. There were some
intermediate classes taught by volunteer gen
tlemen from the town church, but it was evi
dent that the Beryl Heights household bore
The Golden Age for July 27,1911.
the burden of the work. The young M. D. had
not yet fraternized with the school, and now as
he sat at the end of a pew in the middle aisle,
he entertained himself by watching the man
agement of the different teachers. His mother
seemed as if she was doing her part as sweet
ly and patiently as a saint; but Lynne, who
stood pale and graceful in the rich light from
one of the end windows, was holding her class
spell bound —for the intensity of their interest
was not to 'be disguised. Some of them leaned
forward, others sat open mouthed, while those
who might have been considered more lady
like, looked at her with an unchanging fixed
ness which could but have disconcerted one less
deeply in earnest, only for the time she had
forgotten herself and that which was harder,
perhaps, her grief. When she had finished with
the lesson she sat down, looking languid and
pathetic to the last degree, for a full half hour
remained motionless, apparently neither seeing
nor hearing anything around her. When Schil
ler concluded there was perfect silence, as all
the others were already through with their
classes. He knew what was expected and walk
ed inside the altar. Resting on his crutch, with
one hand lying lightly on the railing, he said:
‘ ‘My friends, it is hardly necessary for me to
tell you this is a sad hour for me. That it
could not be otherwise, all of you will under
stand who know that tomorrow I am to go
away from my native land —perhaps forever.
Some of you who have known me from my
boyhood, since 1 used to limp by my father's
side down to the old factory, who have guess
ed at the pain and suffering that have been the
heritage of my manhood, will be in sympathy
with the object for which I am to undertake the
voyage. That I hope to be benefited by the
skill of a far-off physician, I do not disguise;
but that I anticipate a positive recovery I can
not affirm.”
He paused, and the silence gathered solem
nity before he spoke again.
“Last words are conceded an impressiveness
beyond all others, especially when they precede
partings or death, and as the last of these, as
well as the first, may not be far from me, 1 know
I need not ask you to be patient while I talk
of the children, whose faces have brightened
my life, whose memory will ever be in my heart.
They are yours in one sense, but they are as
dearly mine in another. Think you that with
half my fortune I could purchase such satis
faction as came to me last Sabbath afternoon,
when a little girl of four summers came to me
and frankly and innocently said: “I tried to
be good this week; 1 isn’t been cross; I’se
minded mother; I’se tended to little Jim what’s
sick, kind as I ever could. I wishes you ’ould
tell the Lord ’bout it, ’cause it was for Him
sake.” Ah, what can the most exemplary
Christian do more than give his strength to the
work that lies nearest for His sake? Another
memory and I have done. Months ago I found
a boy waiting for me in the sunshine on the
chapel steps. A handsome fellow, joyous and
merry as any boy need be. I stopped and
talked to him, asking him about the’ new way
upon which he had entered. ‘lt is jolly being
good, sir,’ he said with a boyish ignorance of
the proper word, though his heart had the prop
er feeling, as the tear in his eye attested. Two
weeks ago I saw the fair banner that floated
from the buoyant bark which held his life, furl
ed in the chilled waters of Jordan, and, holding
his hand, I asked him, ‘How is it with you, little
Tom?’ ‘All right, sir,’ he answered weakly,
but triumphantly. When such results follow
in the lives and deaths of your little ones, be
cause of Sabbath-school teaching, need I urge
upon you the importance of having them come
regularly? Surely no parent who hears me
would willingly deprive his child of a chance at
his immortal inheritance? When they cry for
bread, would you give them a stone? But I
commit the children to you, these whom I have
loved and prayed for, God only knows how
much; and 1 charge you to so deal by them and
others that when tlie last hour comes you may
find of easy utterance little Tom’s ‘All right,
sir,’ with no duty neglected nor sin unpardon
ed. ‘Finally, brethren, farewell. Be perfect,
be of good comfort, be of one mind, live in
peace, and the God of love and peace shall be
with you. ’ ’ ’
That night the family at Beryl Heights made
spasmodic efforts at cheerfulness, but failed,
though otherwise the evening was gotten over
with commendable fortitude. As a last resort,
and at Schiller’s request, Lynne went to the
organ where, with them all grouped around
her, she led them in singing sacred anthems
and Sabbath school songs. There was some
times a quiver in Lynne’s soprano, and now
and then a false note in Dr. Gordon’s bass, but
John’s glorious tenor triumphed over every
thing. He stood with one hand on Lynne’s
chair, with Paul and Floyd on the other side,
while his mother watched the group from her
rocking chair by the fire, sadly as lovingly. The
home concert closed at nine o’clock with the
doxology, in which the mother joined, and in
view of all the future might hold, it still was
sung with solemn gladness. Lynne left the
room. She could not trust herself to part with
him before the family. Following a blind im
pulse, she wandered into the study, and sank
down with an abandon that was very weary in
its wretchedness, into her old window seat,
which was flooded with moonlight. She had
not been there long when the familiar falter
of the steps she loved so well was heard, but
it was accompanied by another of firmer ring,
which filled her with disquietude. As the
brothers entered the room, she arose and dis
pationately explained:
“You must pardon me for not sharing in the
family leave-taking, Schiller, but I thought I
could best say good-bye to you here.”
She looked at Dr. Gordon as if she expected
him to go away, but he only walked to another
window, and stood there gazing out into the
silent loveliness of the spring night. Schiller
limped to her side, and taking her hand, said:
“My poor child, you look quite ill.”
“Yes, but I do not think of myself now. I
am only afraid that I shall forget all that I
want to say to you, because I feel conscious of
being in such a confused state.”
“Nothing you can say, or leave unsaid, can
change my regard for you.”
“I meant,” she said, “to let my future thank
you for all your unspeakable goodness to me.
You will believe me when I tell you that I have
tried earnestly not to be wholly unworthy of
it.”
‘A ou should not speak so. You mu»t km w
that you have been the one joy and blessing
of my life.”
She tried to smile.
“There, that will do for parting words. God
bless you, Schiller —good-bye.”
He stooped and kissed her on her forehead,
and, with one last look upward into his beauti
ful eyes, she turned from him; then she put
both hands to her head, and fell backward, un
conscious in his arms. He held her thus for a
moment, and his keen-eyed brother read in his
worn, grand face the secret so carefully guarded
—the one secret of his life. Schiller placed her
gently in his strong arms.
“Take her,” he said, “and let your love pro
tect her future, as mine has the past, until God’s
love shall set you both free.”
Paul felt as if he had heard a Hebrew bless
ing, and as he went up stairs with his strange
(Continued on page 15.)
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