Chapter 26

Onward sped the busy days, until at last there came an evening which made it exactly three years since Edward had first set foot in Albany. They had been years of wonderful progress to him. He had gone on steadily with his evening studies; he had been an eager pupil, and Ray had been a faithful teacher.

This evening he sat in the library waiting for Ray, but he had a very troubled face. Once more he took Kitty’s long letter out of his pocket. Kitty wrote long letters once in two weeks, but it was a rare thing to have a postscript added by his mother. He turned to this and read it again; it was a very kind one. They were doing well now, so she wrote. Her health was very good, now that she slept quietly at night; and just here Edward knew there had come in a heavy sigh, because there was no constant coughing to disturb her rest. She had steady work, and could support Kitty and herself nicely without his help; he must keep what he earned for himself after this. “Kitty says you want to go to school,” so the letter ran; “if you do, save up your money for that. Your poor father had a notion that you would make a scholar; I think it would please him if you did.”

Surely he could not wish for a kinder, more thoughtful letter than this; coming from his mother, too! she must have changed much, as well as himself. But this very letter had greatly unsettled his quiet life; the old longing to give himself up to study, to prepare for the ministry, had broken loose, and well-nigh overwhelmed him with its power. He wanted it, oh, so much! It had grown strong, instead of weak, during these three years. But what to do, and how to do it? That was the question. Certainly he was not prepared to answer it. If he stayed where he was, led his busy life all day in the store, how was he ever to go through with the necessary course of study, which it was high time he commenced in earnest? If he left them, these dear friends, who had taken him into their home and hearts, and made him feel like one of them, how was he to live while he studied? How, indeed, could he study at all? The truth was, Edward, calling to mind Mr. Holbrook’s lecture that last evening in the home prayer meeting, and his resolution taken then, thought that the stone was ahead of him no longer, but that he had walked close up to it, and could not take another step because of it, and very large and impossible to move did it look to his shortsighted eyes.

Just as he was growing hopelessly moody, Ray came in, and settled himself among the cushions, rather wearily.

“Ray,” said Edward anxiously, “you are not well enough for lessons tonight.”

“No,” answered Ray, smiling, however, as he spoke; “I think I am not, because I want to talk instead. I am full of a scheme which needs your help; for once we’ll let the lessons go. It is an age since I have heard anything concerning your plans; you have not given up your desire for the ministry, I hope?”

“No, Ray; I shall never give that up.”

“I thought not; it would not be like you. That being the case, isn’t it time to do something definite?”

“Time, certainly,” Edward answered gloomily; “but what’s to do?”

“That brings me to the unfolding of my scheme. Edward, do you know that it was my lifelong desire to reach the point towards which you are looking?”

“No,” said Edward, with pitying interest; “I never thought of it.”

“Well,” and Ray smiled sadly, “it is so; and I hope you may never know how hard it is to have to give up such a wish. I cannot say that I did actually give it up entirely until very lately. I gave up all study three years ago, and came home to regain strength! You know how well I have succeeded in that.” And Ray pressed his thin, wasting hand across his damp forehead. “It is all over now, utterly.” The hand did duty now for a moment, shading his eyes from the light. Presently he spoke more cheerily. “All over for myself, but not for you; so, Edward, what I want to say tonight, in brief, is this: You have talents, perseverance, and health; I have money—the four combined cannot fail to speed you in your work. What say you?”

“I—I don’t understand you,” Edward spoke, in complete bewilderment.

“Let me speak more plainly. I want you to go now, immediately, to some good preparatory school, thence to college, thence to the seminary, and the means wherewith to do these three important things shall be at your disposal. Isn’t that plain?”

“Why,” said Edward, “I don’t know what to say; I am too much astonished, and—and thankful.”

“Then you will do it?”

“Only—Ray?”

“Well?”

“Isn’t there a right kind of pride, about being helped in these things?”

“There is a great deal of wrong kind of pride. Let me show you”; and he sat up and spoke eagerly. “It is right and honorable for people to help themselves in this world, but very vain and foolish to refuse help which would greatly aid the cause that they profess to have at heart. You see how it is: God has given me money; I am ready and waiting to give it back to Him. I would gladly give myself to Him in the ministry; I have longed and prayed for this; but He has seen fit not to answer as I wished. I have no strength to give; you have, and are ready to give it. Do you think God would be less pleased with the offering if we united it, thus giving me a chance to do something?”

“No,” said Edward, speaking very slowly; “only, I had hoped to accomplish my plans without help from any one but God.”

Ray leaned back again among the cushions, and spoke wearily, “That is, you prefer to be a great many years longer in preparation than you need be, and have about half as much strength finally as you would have, had you not overworked, rather than give me a chance to do what I could, since I cannot do what I would.”

“But, Ray, there are plenty of people to help, even if you do no more for me. The world is full of poor young men, struggling to get an education.”

“Yes, that is so; and I suppose you would enjoy helping some young man out in Oregon, of whom you had never heard, quite as well as you would me.”

Edward came quickly to the sofa where Ray was lying, and laid his hand tenderly over the closed eyes.

“Ray, there is nothing in the world I would not do for you.”

“Will you let me help you into the ministry, as rapidly as money can help?”

“I will be glad to; it is a great, noble offer, and I thank you from my heart. You mustn’t think that I don’t; only I thought—perhaps—”

“I know,” said Ray, for Edward had stopped doubtfully; “I understand just how you feel; but I do think the feeling, in this case at least, is wrong; and, my dear brother, you will be glad when you know how thankful you have made me.”

“Yes; and after all you will not be doing any more for me—you can’t—than you have done. I think money is very little, compared with that. Ray,” and Edward sank down among the cushions in front of him, “I do believe you are more to me than any other human being ever will be.”

Ray smiled, quite as if he did not think so, but would not unsay it for anything.

“It is all right,” he said gently, after a little silence. “I think you will do so much more than I ever could have done. God bless you, my dear brother!”

After that Edward went up to his room, got out his little red Bible, his precious lamp, and, opening at the history of the rock-bound grave, read on until he came to the verse, “And when they looked, they saw that the stone was rolled away.” Around this he made heavy marks with his pencil, thinking, meantime, that the angel of the Lord was still at work on earth.

“Bob,” said Edward, stopping before Bob’s counter, two days after this matter was settled, “I am going to start for home in the morning.”

“Are you, though?” Bob answered eagerly, stopping his work to take the sentence in fully. “My! I wish I was going along, just to see what folks would say.”

“About you, do you mean?” said Edward, laughing, and thinking wonderingly, as well as joyfully, of the change which there had been in Bob Turner.

Bob had a counter, too, and was no longer an errand-boy; there had very rarely been known such a rapid promotion in that store; but the truth was, Mr. Minturn had early learned that Bob Turner was destined to be—not a minister, nor a lawyer, not even a scholar, but a thorough, energetic, successful merchant. He had no sooner made this discovery than he determined to give the boy a chance.

So Bob had earned a name and a place in the store, and was a general favourite with the other clerks, and was beginning to have customers who sought him out, and liked to make purchases of him. More than all, Bob was an earnest Christian; his loving tenderness for, and almost worship of, Ray Minturn, kept him from being much led into temptation, and his influence over the younger clerks was growing to be for good. He was destined to be more popular than Edward had been; for Edward had risen too rapidly, and was too much at home with the entire Minturn family, not to be looked upon with some degree of envy.

“Well, Tip,”—Bob had never learned not to say Tip, and probably never would, but Edward had long since forgotten to care—“tell every one at home that I’m well and happy, and never want to see one of them again. I don’t believe I have a friend there: anyhow, I know I don’t deserve to have.”