Earlier text: THE WAY OF ESCAPE.“That man will be the death of me yet,” said Paul Levering. He looked worried, but not angry. “What has he been doing to thee now?” asked the questioner, a friend, named Isaac Martin, a neighbor. “He’s always doing something, friend Martin. Scarcely a day passes that I don’t have complaint of him. Yesterday one of the boys came and told me he saw him throw a stone at my new Durham cow, and strike her on the head.” “That’s very bad, friend Levering. Does thee know why he did this? Was thy Durham trespassing on his grounds?” “No, she was only looking over the fence. He has a spite against me and mine, and does all he can to injure me. You know the fine Bartlett pear that stands in the corner of my lot adjoining his property?” “Two large limbs full of fruit hung over on his side. You would hardly believe it, but it is true; I was out there just now, and discovered that he had sawed off those two fine limbs that hung over on his side. They lay down upon the ground and his pigs were eating the fruit.” “Why is Dick so spiteful to thee, friend Levering? He doesn’t annoy me. What has thee done to him?” “Nothing of any consequence.” “Thee must have done something. Try and remember.” “I know what first put him out, I kicked an ugly old dog of his once. The beast, half starved at home, I suppose, was all the time prowling about here, and snatched up everything that came in his way. One day I came upon him suddenly, and gave him a tremendous kick that sent him howling through the gate. Unfortunately, as it turned out, the dog’s master happened to be passing along the road. The way he swore at me was dreadful. I never saw a more vindictive face. The next morning a splendid Newfoundland, that I had raised from a164 pup, met me shivering at the door, with his tail cut off. I don’t know when I have felt so bad. Poor fellow! his piteous looks haunt me now; I had no proof against Dick, but have never doubted as to his agency in the matter. In my grief and indignation I shot the dog and so put him out of sight.” “Thee was hasty in that, friend Levering,” said the Quaker. “Perhaps I was, though I have never regretted the act. I met Dick a few days afterwards. The grin of satisfaction on his face I accepted as an acknowledgement of his mean and cruel revenge. Within a week from that time one of my cows had a horn knocked off.” “I went to Dick Hardy, and gave him a piece of my mind.” “That is, thee scolded and called him hard names, and threatened.” “Yes; just so, friend Martin.” “Did any good come of it?” “About as much good as though I had whistled to the wind.” “No change for the better; it grows, if anything, worse and worse. Dick never gets weary of annoying me.” “Has thee ever tried the law with him, friend Levering? The law should protect thee.” “Oh, yes, I’ve tried the law. Once he ran his heavy wagon against my carriage purposely, and upset me in the road. I made a narrow escape with my life. The carriage was so badly broken that it cost me fifty dollars for repairs. A neighbor saw the whole thing and said it was plainly intended by Dick. So I sent him the carriage-maker’s bill, at which he got into a towering passion. Then I threatened him with a prosecution, and he laughed in my face malignantly. I felt the time had come to act decisively, and I sued him, relying on the evidence of my neighbor. He was afraid of Dick, and so worked his testimony that the jury saw only an accident instead of a purpose to injure. After that Dick Hardy was worse than ever. He took an evil delight in annoying and injuring me. I am satisfied that in more than one instance he left gaps in his fences in order to entice my cattle into his fields166 that he might set his dogs on them, and hurt them with stones. It is more than a child of mine dares, to cross his premises. Only last week he tried to put his dog on my little Florence, who had strayed into one of his fields after buttercups. The dog was less cruel than the master or she would have been torn by his teeth, instead of being only frightened by his bark.” “It’s a hard case, truly, friend Levering. Our neighbor Hardy seems possessed of an evil spirit.” “The spirit of the devil,” was answered with feeling. “He’s thy enemy, assuredly; and if thee does not get rid of him he will do thee great harm. Thee must if thee would dwell in safety, friend Levering.” The Quaker’s face was growing very serious. He spoke in a lowered voice, and bent towards his neighbor in a confidential manner. “Thee must put him out of the way.” “Friend Martin!” the surprise of Paul was unfeigned. The countenance of Levering grew black with astonishment. “Kill him!” he ejaculated. “If thee doesn’t kill him he’ll certainly kill thee, one of these days, friend Levering. And thee knows what is said about self-preservation being the first law of nature.” “I don’t think they’ll hang thee,” coolly returned the Quaker. “Thee can go over to his place and get him all alone by thyself, or thee can meet him on some by-road. Nobody need see thee, and when he’s dead, I think people will be more glad than sorry.” “Do you think I’m no better than a murderer; I, Paul Levering, stain my hands with blood!” “Who said anything about staining thy hands with blood?” said the Quaker, mildly. “Thee’s mistaken, I never used the word blood.” “But you meant it. You suggested murder.” “No, friend Levering, I advised thee to kill thy enemy, lest some day he shall kill thee.” “Isn’t killing murder, I should like to know?” demanded Levering. “There are more ways than one to kill an enemy,” said the Quaker. “I’ve killed a good many in my time, and no stain of blood can be found on my garments. My way of killing enemies is to make them friends. Kill neighbor Hardy with kindness, and thee’ll have no more trouble with him.” A sudden light gleamed over Mr. Levering’s face, as if a cloud had passed. “A new way to kill people.” “The surest way to kill enemies, as thee’ll find, if thee’ll only try.” “Let me see. How shall we go about it?” said Paul Levering, taken at once with the idea. “If thee has the will, friend Levering, it will not be long before thee will find the way.” And so it proved. Not two hours afterward as Mr. Levering was driving into the village, he found Dick Hardy with a stalled cart-load of stone. He was whipping his horse and swearing at him passionately, but to no purpose. The cart wheels were buried half way to the axles in stiff mud, and defied the strength of one horse to move them. On seeing Mr. Levering, Dick stopped169 pulling and swearing, and getting on the cart, commenced pitching the stones off on the side of the road. “Hold on a bit, friend Hardy,” said Levering, in a pleasant voice, as he dismounted and unhitched his horse. But Dick pretended not to hear, and kept on pitching off the stones. “Hold on, I say, and don’t give yourself all that trouble,” added Mr. Levering, speaking in a louder voice, but in a kind and cheering tone. “Two horses are better than one. With Charlie’s help we’ll soon have the wheels on solid ground again.” Understanding now what was meant, Dick’s hands fell almost nerveless by his side. “There,” said Levering, as he put his horse in front of Dick’s and made the traces fast. “One pull and the thing is done.” Before Dick could get down from the cart it was out of the mud hole, and without saying a word more, Levering unfastened his horse from the front of Dick’s animal and hitching up again rode on. On the next day Mr. Levering saw Dick Hardy in the act of strengthening a bit of weak fence through which Levering’s cattle had broken once or twice, thus removing170 temptation, and saving the cattle from being beaten and set on by dogs. “Thee’s given him a bad wound, friend Levering,” said the Quaker, on getting information of the two incidents just mentioned, “and it will be thy own fault if thee does not kill him.” Not long afterwards, in the face of an approaching storm, and while Dick Hardy was hurrying to get in some clover hay, his wagon broke down. Mr. Levering, who saw from one of his fields the accident, and understood what its loss might occasion, hitched up his team, and sent his own wagon over to Dick’s assistance. With a storm coming on that might last for days and ruin from two to three tons of hay, Dick could not decline the offer, though it went against the grain to accept a favor from the man he had hated for years, and injured in so many ways. On the following morning Mr. Levering had a visit from Dick Hardy. It was raining fast. “I've come,” said Dick, stammering and confused, and looking down on the ground instead of into Mr. Levering's face, “to pay you for the use of your team yesterday, in getting in my hay. I should have lost it171 if you hadn't sent your wagon, and it is only right I should pay you for the use of it.” “I should be very sorry,” answered Paul Levering, cheerfully, “if I couldn’t do a neighborly turn without pay. You are quite welcome, friend Hardy, to the wagon. I am more than paid by knowing that you saved that nice field of clover. How much did you get?” “About three tons. But Mr. Levering, I must”— “Not a word, if you don’t want to offend me,” interrupted Levering. “I trust there isn’t a man around here that wouldn’t do as much for a neighbor in time of need. Still, if you feel embarrassed—if you don’t wish to stand my debtor, pay me in good will.” Dick Hardy raised his eyes slowly, and looking in a strange wondering way at Mr. Levering, said: “Shall we not be friends?” Mr. Levering reached out his hand. Hardy grasped it with a quick, short grip, and then, as if to hide his feelings that were becoming too strong, dropped it, and went off hastily. “Thee’s killed him!” said the Quaker,172 on his next meeting with Levering; “thy enemy is dead!” “Slain by kindness,” answered Paul Levering, “which you supplied.” “No, thee took it from God’s armory, where all men may equip themselves without charge, and become invincible,” replied the Quaker. “And I trust for thy peace and safety, thee will never use any other weapons in fighting with thy neighbors. They are sure to kill.” It had some grains of truth, at least,
That fable of the Sybarite,
For whom, because one leaf was creased,
The rose-strewn couch had no delight.
’Tis pity that one thwarting thought,
One adverse chance, one sudden fear
Or sharp regret can turn to naught
The full content that seemed so near!
But this strange life of ours abounds
With notes so subtile, they afford
A thousand discords and harsh sounds
For one harmonious, perfect chord.
Now girls, I have got news for you!” The speaker was a showy girl, dressed in the hight of fashion. She was just entering a room where sat several young ladies, her cousins, pursuing various household employments. “What is it, Ada?” cried one and another. “You’ll never believe it; Lizzy Ashbrook has professed religion!” was the half-serious, half-laughing reply. “Lizzy Ashbrook!” The girls repeated the name more or less in surprise. “Lizzy Ashbrook,” said the elder cousin, Julia, seriously: “why, she was forever making sport of the subject.” “And such a fashionable girl; why, she would hardly look at a girl who was meanly dressed,” remarked another. “Her father an infidel, too; what will he say?”174 “I heard that he turned her out of the house,” said Ada. There was a long silence. “Well,” it was abruptly spoken by the youngest of the family, “we shall see now if there is that reality in religion that Christians talk about. I don’t believe there is one single person in any branch of her family who is religious. She will have unusual trials to undergo; I wouldn’t be in her place.” “Trials! pshaw! there’s no such thing as persecutions in these days; it would be a rare thing to see a martyr!” This was lightly spoken by Ada, who had been Lizzy’s nearest friend, and who felt unusual bitterness springing up in her heart against the young girl, who she knew could no longer enjoy her companionship as of yore. Martyrs are not rare, even in these days! aye, and martyrs to religious persecution, as we shall see. The cousins made an early call on Lizzy, who received them with her accustomed grace, and a sweeter smile than usual, and there was a purer expression in her beautiful face, yet she appeared like one wearied a little with some struggle in which she was the sufferer.175 Although she did not speak directly of the new vows she had taken upon her, the new peace she had found, her visitors could see distinctly and clearly the wondrous change in dress, in manner, and even in countenance. Lizzy was engaged in marriage to a thorough man of the world. George Phillips loved his wine, his parties, his race-course, the theatre, the convivial free-and-easy club. The Sabbath was his day of pleasure, and many a time had Lizzy graced his elegant equipage, radiant in beauty on the holy day, as they swept along. He bore a dashing exterior, was intellectual, a wit, courted, caressed, admired everywhere. His brow darkened as he heard the news. What? the girl of his choice, the woman he would place at the head of his brilliant household, become a canting Christian! Nonsense, he didn’t believe it; he would see for himself. He didn’t furnish his parlors for prayer-meetings; he wanted no long-faced ministers, elders or sisters to visit his wife, not he. It was a ridiculous hoax; it must have originated in the club-room. What! the daughter of Henry Ashbrook, the freest of free thinkers? “Ha! a capital joke—a very clever joke—nothing more!” He called upon her not long after the visit before mentioned. His cold eye scanned her from head to foot—but how sweetly! how gently she met him? Surely the voice that was melting music before was heavenly in its tones now. All the winning grace was there, all the high-bred ease—the merry smile dimpled her cheek—but there was a something, a subtle something, that thrilled him from head to foot with apprehension, because it was unlike her usual self. What could it be? At length, lightly, laughingly, he referred to the report he had heard. For one moment the frame trembled, the lips refused to speak—but this passed, and something like a flush crossed her face—it lighted the eyes anew, it touched the cheek with rich crimson, as she replied—“George, please don’t treat it as a jest, for truly, thank God! I have become a Christian! I have only just begun to live! If you knew—” The proud man sprang to his feet, almost throwing her hands from him in his impatient movement; and not daring to trust his voice, for an oath was uppermost, he walked swiftly back and forward for a moment. Then he came and stood before her. His177 forehead was purpled with the veins that passion swelled, his face white, and his voice unsteady as he exclaimed:— “Do you mean to say that you will really cast your lot among these people, that you will give up all—all?” “I will give up all for Christ;” the words were very soft and low, and not spoken without reflection. For one moment he locked his lips together till they looked like steel in their rigidity; then he said, in a full, passionate voice:— “Lizzy—Miss Ashbrook, if these are your sentiments, these your intentions, we must go different ways.” This was very cruel; it was a terrible test, for the young girl had, as it were, placed her soul in his keeping. Before a higher and purer love was born in her heart, he had made up her human love—an absolute idolatry—and the thought of ever losing him, now caused her cheek to grow ashen, and her eyes dim. As he saw this, his manner changed to entreaty. He placed before her the position he would give her; lured her by every argument that178 might appeal to the womanly heart. And he knew how to win by entreaty, by the subtlest casuistry. His was a masterly eloquence. He could adapt his voice, his language, his very looks, with the most adroit cunning, to the subject and object of his discussion. More than once, the gentle spirit of the young Christian felt as if giving away—that only help direct from the Fountain of Life could sustain her with firmness to resist to the end of the interview. At last it was a final “All this will I give you if you will fall down and worship me.” It came to this—“Christ or me.” There could be no compromise, it was “Christ or me.” And standing there clothed with a mantle of a new and heavenly faith, with its light shining in her heart and playing over her pale features, she said, with the firmness of martyrs of old:— Though his soul was filled with rage, so that he could have gnashed his teeth, the slight figure standing there with an earnest upward glance—the brow that seemed to have grown white—the attitude so self-possessed, yet so modest, so quiet and yet so179 eloquent, filled him with a strange, admiring awe. But the hostility toward religion was so strong in his heart, that it bore down all his tenderness, almost crushed his love, and he parted from her, for the first time, coldly, and like a stranger. The engagement was broken off; but who can tell the struggles it cost. This was but the first trial; there came another yet, while the blow lay heavy on her heart. Her father had ever been very loving towards her. He was proud of her; she was the brightest gem of his splendid home. She was beautiful, and gratified his vanity; she was intellectual, and he heard praise lavished upon her mind with a miser’s greedy ear, for she was his—part of himself; she belonged to him. He called her into his study, and required a minute account of the whole matter. He had heard rumors, he said, had seen a surprising and not an agreeable change in her; she had grown mopish, quiet; what was the cause? It was a great trial, with that stern, unbelieving face, full of hard lines, opposite, to stand and testify for Christ. But He who180 has promised was with her, and she told the story calmly, resolutely, kindly. “And do you intend to be baptized?” “Yes, sir,”—a gleam of hope entering her heart; she did not expect his approval, but she could not think he might refuse to sanction this important step. “You know your aunt Eunice has long wanted you to become an inmate of her home.” “Yes, sir,” the gentle voice faltered. “Well, you can go now. Unless you can give up this absurd idea, and trample it under your feet, I do not wish you to remain with me. Be as you were before, and you shall want for no luxury, no affection; follow this miserable notion, and henceforth I am only your father in name.” And still, though her heart was broken, she said, as she had before:— She did forsake all for him, but her step became slow, her form wasted, her eye hollow and her cheek sunken. The struggle had been too much for a frame unable to cope with any overwhelming sorrow. Swiftly she went down into the valley, but it was not181 dark to her. Too late the man who had so sorely tempted her, knelt by her bedside and implored her forgiveness. Too late? No, not too late for his own salvation, for in that hour his eyes were open to the sinfulness of his life, and by her dying pillow, he promised solemnly to give his heart to God. Her father, too, proud infidel that he was, looked on his wasted child, triumphing over death, with wonder and with awe. Such a dying scene it is the privilege of but few to witness. She had given up all, absolutely all for Christ, and in the last hour, like Stephen, she saw heaven open. Her face was angelic, her language rapture, her chamber the gate of heaven. And like one who, but the other day, untied the sandals of life, and moved calmly and trustingly down the one step between earth and heaven, so she said, with a smile inexpressibly sweet—“Sing.” And they sang, “Rock of Ages, cleft for me!” At its close they heard one word—the last. It was:—
“Christ.”