MY first vacation after leaving Rockdale was spent with Mr. Wyman. Four years since I had left him, poor and ignorant. Now, I certainly was not any richer. Still I had advanced in knowledge of books and in mental discipline; and although my longing after an education was not in the least abated, I had learned there is nothing really desirable in comparison with the fear of God and true holiness. I did not care now to choose in what part of his vineyard I should work. I only wished to labor for him; and to do this effectually, I must not falter in my purpose of an education.
With this intent I went into the hay-field with as much ardor as before into the school-room. Money, Mr. Stovill said, was desirable to go through college with, and I knew the worth of it.
“I see that you have not forgotten how to work,” said Mr. Wyman, coming into the meadow one sunny afternoon.
“Not forgetting, but still more accustomed to it, Mr. Wyman. I have been hard at it ever since I was here.”
“There is a difference between head work and hand work,” said the farmer with a quiet smile.
“I have been doing both,” I replied; “turning book leaves has not bleached my hands.”
“While I have to confess to the doing of only one. The young folks of this day have much better advantages than were common when I was a boy. We had no such schools then as Rockdale.”
“I think you do yourself injustice, Mr. Wyman, when you say that you have only been working with your hands. Had it not been for you, I could not have gone to Rockdale when I did, if ever. In word and deed, your labor has budded, blossomed, and brought forth fruit. We sometimes study quite as effectually out of books as in them.”
“True; but if I could live my life over again, I should think more of a book education. Those that know the most have the means of doing the most good.”
“There is one comforting truth,” said I, turning the hay vigorously: “God directs all our steps. He appoints our place; he gives us our work. I used to think there was in labor a great choice, and although I was willing to do any thing because I felt it to be right, still there was also a consciousness that, could I choose, such would not be my employment. I remember the morning I came here for the first time; I rebelled not a little against it. Still it was a means, a stepping-stone to the desired good.”
“And is it not the same now?”
“No; I am willing to be directed. I like to be led by Him, and feel safe in following. Then I feared continually lest I should make a mistake, and through weakness or ignorance fail to use the means to the greatest advantage. Now I try to exercise human wisdom and a prudent forethought, and still rest contented, whatever the result. The Lord knows all, and he knows whether this or that shall prosper. To do right, and to do my best, is all that he requires of me; events are with him, and success is given wheresoever he pleases.”
Saturday evening at length came. We had worked hard through the week, but the hay was not all in. Nine o’clock, and there still remained several loads. A consultation was called.
“It looks like rain,” said Mr. Wyman. “But you are all tired, and the oxen have done enough for one day; perhaps we had better let it rest. It will not rain to-night; and if it does to-morrow, it wont take long to put in three loads.”
“But to-morrow will be Sunday, Mr. Wyman.”
“I know; but it would not be right to let the hay spoil.”
“I do not understand that; the command is positive: ‘Six days shalt thou labor, and do all thy work: but the seventh day is the Sabbath of the Lord thy God: in it thou shalt not do any work, thou, nor thy son, nor thy daughter, thy man-servant, nor thy maid-servant, nor thy cattle, nor thy stranger that is within thy gates.’ Nothing can be more explicit.”
“It is also equally incumbent upon us not to waste our substance,” said Mr Wyman. “If you read the New Testament rightly, you will find that it is lawful to do works of mercy and necessity.”
“True; but would the getting in hay be counted such a work, when God expressly bids us keep his Sabbath even in harvest time?”
“Yes, if the hay was to be spoiled by the neglect, it ought to be got in.”
There was no more said. It was late, and the men dispersed. I went directly to my room, not a little disconcerted about what I might be called upon to do. Mr. Wyman was an old man, and had been very kind to me; it was not for me to speak to him as an equal. He felt it to be right; I felt it to be a direct act of disobedience. We must each act according to our conscience; and with this thought I went to sleep.
The next morning the sun peeped through a dull, hazy atmosphere, looked, and was gone, showing occasional glimpses of his face till nearly church time, when the clouds began to gather and roll themselves into inky blackness, and rain seemed inevitable.
“Put the oxen to the cart,” said Mr. Wyman; “that hay will be ruined.”
“But, pa, it is Sunday,” said Mrs. Wyman.
“Well, what if it is? You are ready to go to church, and the wagon is at the door; go on, I shall stop for the hay. It is just as much a duty to save our property as to do any thing else. We are told to be diligent in business;” and the farmer exchanged his Sunday coat for his work-day one, and went out.
“Marston,” he said as he passed through the back porch, “you load faster than any of the others. If we hurry, we can get it in and then go to church.”
“I cannot do that kind of work on the Sabbath, Mr. Wyman. I regard it as an open violation of His law.”
“If you cannot work for me to-day, you certainly cannot to-morrow.”
I did not stop to question; there was but one course for me. My head bowed over my hands. To lose Mr. Wyman’s friendship was more than I could bear.
“What is that to thee? follow thou me,” floated through my brain and comforted me. Presently a light hand was on my shoulder, and a kind voice said,
“Marston, will you drive us to church? I do not think it will rain at all.”
“If you desire it, Mrs. Wyman.”
We started, Mrs. Wyman with Emma and Alice. As we passed the meadow, Mr. Wyman was busily pitching on the hay, Anderson and Gregory each having a cart. The oxen stood with their great patient eyes rolling about, as if not quite sure of the right of breaking in upon their day of rest. Nothing was said, however.
We reached the church door just in time to escape a few quiet drops; but these were soon gone; the clouds unrolled and dispersed their dark folds, and before noon all was bright again.
“Oh, father, you should have heard the sermon this morning,” said Alice Wyman, a sweet, blooming girl, tripping into the parlor as though nothing had happened. The farmer sat in his straight-backed chair, the hay was all in, and he was reading the Bible.
“What was the text, child?” he at length said.
“‘Trust in the Lord, and do good; so shalt thou dwell in the land, and verily thou shalt be fed.’ Mr. Gordon spoke so beautifully of the implicit trust we are privileged to have, it seemed to me I never felt so forcibly before how far short we come of realizing all that might be ours, the contentment that would fill our hearts, would we put aside self and lean more perfectly upon Him.”
“But there is something for us to do,” said her father. “We are not to sit still; we are to act, and that diligently.”
“Yes,” answered Mrs. Wyman, “Mr. Gordon said there was something for us to do. The first act was obedience; the second was love and trust.”
By this time dinner was on the table. The farmer was evidently in no talkative mood, and few words were spoken.
In the afternoon I walked with Alice to the Sabbath-school, and returned comforted. Perhaps Mr. Wyman would turn me off; it was more than probable he would. I had displeased him. Still, having done what I thought to be right, I would trust it all to God.
The next morning as we finished breakfast, and before we arose from the table, Mr. Wyman said,
“I owe you for two weeks’ work, Marston: I am sorry for what happened yesterday; still I must have the direction of what shall be done on my own farm. I shall fill your place with some one who will do what I ask of him.”
“Had it been any other than a plain, positive command, I should have gone with you, Mr. Wyman; but so positive is the decree with regard to the Sabbath, there could be no question with me concerning my duty.”
Mrs. Wyman and Alice followed me down the walk, and begged me not to cherish unkind feelings towards Mr. Wyman.
“No fear of that,” I answered. “He has always been my friend, and I shall not think unkindly of him for this. He is too good a man not to be sorry when he thinks of it with his accustomed coolness.”
I had nothing to do but to walk back to Claverton, and tell Jennie what had befallen me.
“I am sorry, Marston; but I should have been still sorrier had you acted otherwise;” and she pressed her red lips to mine. “An entire obedience is necessary. Do not be troubled; some good will come of it.”
We walked down to the little gate, where stood a messenger from Mr. Willett.
“Mr. Willett would like to see Marston,” as Jennie took the message.
“He has not been well for several weeks, and has inquired for you continually,” she said, as she held the gate for me to pass.
Mr. Willett was pillowed up in his easy-chair, and seemed delighted to see me.
“I am glad that you are free,” he said at length. “I have been sick, and the doctor forbids all kinds of exertion. Every thing is going to ruin in the store. If you will just go in, I shall consider it a great favor, and will give you more than you can get doing any thing else.”
How soon the black cloud had showed a silver lining. I had felt so unwilling to leave Mr. Wyman, so sad and desponding, that I could not think of any thing else as I walked back to the village. With all my waywardness, God was not unmindful. Could I ever despond again? I felt at the time that it would be impossible.
“I told you something good would come of it,” said Jennie as I crossed the street and once more entered the parlor. “‘A right effort is never lost.’ This should teach us both to trust more perfectly.”
Mr. Willett recovered rapidly; and by the time vacation was over, I was appointed a regular teacher in the Rockdale academy.
“This will delay your college course, but it will be better for you in the end,” said Mr. Harlan. “You are still young enough to wait next year, and your salary will enable you to begin. Besides, if you choose to study while teaching, I will aid you all I can; and I have little doubt you can enter the Sophomore class instead of the Freshman.”
This was a step I had not thought of, and I quickly resolved not a moment should be lost; to teach and to study should be my work for another year.
Among the first of the new pupils that particularly interested me when I entered upon my duties was Ezra Metcalf. Stimulated by his little teacher, he had put forth very commendable effort; and through the interest of Mr. Gordon and one or two benevolent ladies of Terryville, Mr. Harlan had been induced to take him, the boy paying his board, as I had done, by labor.
