Saved as by Fire! CHAPTER 2.
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I have taken a dozen pledges," said Granger, as we passed into the street; "but they are as flax thrown into fire, when this demonic thirst seizes upon me."
"Because," I answered, "they are only external bonds; and if the inner force is against them, they will break, should the force be stronger than the bond. There is safety only in the strength of an internal integrity. The will must be strong and true. If, to change the figure of speech, the will is trained to guard the door, no enemy can make a breach, unless the will is corrupted. So long as the will is true — the man is safe. No, no. Put no trust in pledges nor promises. They are things outside of you, so to speak. Mere bonds, weak or strong, as the case may be. You must trust in yourself — in the strength of your will — in your manhood and self-confident power. Here is your only true abiding. The pledge may be well enough as a rallying point where a first stand is made against the enemy; but the man must fight it out to the bitter end, and that in himself, and by himself. There is no other hope. No arm but his own, can save him."
We walked in silence for almost the distance of a block, before Granger made any reply. He was, evidently, pondering what I had said.
"No arm but his own arm?" He stopped, and turning, fixed his eyes steadily on my face, with a look in them that I scarcely comprehended.
"If a man fights not for himself, who shall fight for him? This enemy is within, and the man himself must cast him out. I cannot fight the battle for you; nor can anyone else. It is your own strong right arm which must bring the victory."
"Is there no help in God?" There was an eager thrill in his voice as he put the question.
"Of course," I replied, a little coldly. "But we must be careful not to confound things. A false, or irrational trust — is worse than no trust at all, for it will surely betray. God helps those who help themselves; who use in right and orderly ways, the strength He gives to every man. I know of no means by which to get help from God, but in the right use of the faculties with which He has endowed us. They are, of course, God-given, for He is our Maker. But He does not live for us, nor work for us, nor fight for us. All these we must do for ourselves."
I saw the light go slowly out of his face as he dropped his eyes to the ground, and moved forward again. Something like a shadow and a chill came upon my own feelings, and my mind seemed to pass into an obscuring cloud. Had I spoken truly? Was there no other help in God, but this which I had said?
It was all very clear to me while I was speaking; but, somehow, my strong assurance was all at once broken, and I felt as one drifting to sea. I had been laying out this man's course for him, and now I was in doubt myself.
"You may be right about it, Mr. Lyon," Granger said, after another long silence. "But it seems to put God so far away. To take from Him all pity, and tenderness, and love. He will help me — if I try to help myself; but, unless I do this, He will not so much as reach out His hand, though the billows are going over me!"
Even above the noise of the street, I heard the sigh that came with the closing of this last sentence.
"Is not His hand always reached out?" I answered; "and is it not because we refuse to take hold of it, that we are not saved?"
"I don't know." He spoke in a dreary, depressed tone of voice. "If one could see the hand, and be sure it was God's."
"What is the hand of God — but the power that is within us from Him? The power to will and to do what is right; to stand fast in the face of temptation; to walk securely in the strength He gives us? We grasp His hand, when we use this power."
"Doubtless it is so; but our poor eyes have become very dim-sighted."
He was silent again, and I began to feel troubled about his state of mind, lest a depressing sense of weakness should destroy that confidence in his own strength of will with which I was seeking to inspire him.
"We may be very sure of one thing, Mr. Granger," I said, repeating my former proposition, "the true order of life, is the government of reason. This must rule over all the lower things of sense. The appetites and passions must be held in complete subjection. God is with us, and in us; gives us of His strength, and keeps us in safety — so long as we maintain this true order of life. If we will not maintain it, He cannot do it for us; and the same law must rule in restoration and cure as in normal order. We must take the strength God is always giving, and use it for ourselves."
"No help, no love; only laws of order. No pitying face, nor tender voice, nor bending form. No quick, grasping hand as we send out the despairing cry, 'Save, Lord, or we perish!'"
"Don't let us talk any more about this, Mr. Granger," said I. "It is troubling you and confusing your mind; and now, above all things, you need to be calm and clear-seeing, for it isclear-seeing which makes safe walking."
We were not far from his home now, and in a few minutes, we were at the door. What a poor little home it was, as compared with that luxurious one in which I had many times been a guest in former years. Little better than that of a humble day-laborer. I felt a chill and a heart-ache as my eyes looked upon it, and I remembered the beautiful home in which Mrs. Granger had once presided. She was a woman of more than ordinary culture and refinement. In stature below the common height, with regular though not strikingly handsome features. Her eyes made the fine attraction of her face; they were large, and, in color, of a dark hazel, with a perpetual changing of aspect and a restlessness of movement which was very peculiar. But you saw, in all these changing hues and aspects, that they were true eyes, and beautiful as true.
Granger took a latch-key from his pocket as we paused at the door.
"Shall I go in?" I asked. "It might not be pleasant for Mrs. Granger."
He did not answer, but threw the door open, and made a motion for me to enter. There was a narrow hall, covered with a worn and faded carpet. From this, we passed into a small parlor, in which were a few articles of furniture, remnants of better days. There were no pictures on the walls beyond a few photographic likenesses and two fine pictures of Mr. and Mrs. Granger. Once they possessed many rare paintings. Plain shades now hung at the windows. Though everything was in order, there was a certain chill and desolateness in the atmosphere of the room which struck me sensibly. It might have come from the contrast I saw between this and the large and luxurious parlor in which I had last met this unhappy family.
But I had scarcely time to notice my surroundings, or to question my state of feeling, before quick feet were heard on the stairs, and in a moment afterwards Mrs. Granger stood at the parlor door with wide-open, eager, questioning eyes; now fixing them upon me, and now upon her husband. "Mr. Lyon — you remember him." I reached out my hand as her husband gave my name. A faint tinge of color rose to her pale face. Ah, how changed and wasted!
She did not repeat my name, and I was not certain that she recognized me. For a moment only, did her eyes rest on me; then they went swiftly to her husband. I saw a throb in her throat, and a flush and thrill quickening on her face.
"There is going to be a new order of life, Mrs. Granger," said I, breaking the silence and pantomime. "And the old days are coming back again."
"A new life, Helen! Yes, a new life, God helping me! And the old better days again."
I saw the lips that had been closely shut, fall apart, and the large eyes grow larger. There was a statue-like stillness; then a faint, smothered cry, and a dropping down of the quivering face on Granger's bosom. My eyes were dim with sudden tears, but I could see the husband's arms fold themselves closely about the small, light form of that true, patient, long-suffering one in whose heart, love had never failed.
I would have gone out and left them so, but that might not be well; so I waited for this first strong tide of feeling to ebb. They were still standing — Mrs. Granger's face hidden on her husband's bosom, and his arms clasping her tightly — when the sound of other feet on the stairs was heard, and in a moment after a beautiful girl stood, with startled eyes, at the door of the little parlor.
"Oh, it's father!" she ejaculated. Then on seeing me, she shrank back a step or two, with a timid air, the blood rising to her temples.
"Is anything the matter?" she asked, in a panting voice, as a scared expression came into her face.
"Yes, something good," I answered, quickly.
On hearing this, Granger withdrew one of his arms from about his wife, and holding it out toward the girl, said: "My daughter!"
Gliding past me with a rapid motion, she threw herself within the extended arm, and mother and child lay held in a single strong embrace.
So I left them, passing out with noiseless feet. For stranger eyes, all this was too sacred; and I felt that it was best for them to be alone.
Next day I called at Mr. Granger's office, and found him at his desk, busy over some law papers. Things about him had a look of new-made order, as if there had been a recent general setting to rights; and something in his personal appearance gave the same impression. There was a bright flash in his eyes as he lifted them in recognition, and I saw a marvelous change in his face; and, indeed, in his whole aspect.
"All right," I said, cheerily, as I grasped his extended hand.
"All right, thank God!"
"And right once for all," said I, in a confident tone.
"Yes, once for all. Somehow," he added, "I feel stronger than I have ever felt before; more self-confident, and with a firmer grasp on the reins. The fact is, Lyon, you gave me a new thought yesterday, and I've been looking at it and holding fast to it ever since; and the more I look at it, and the longer I keep hold of it — the more assured do I feel. I see, as I never saw before, where the danger lies. It is the weak will which betrays."
"Always," I made answer. "If the will is true and strong, the man is safe. Appetite can do nothing if the will is firm in denial. Never forget this. In the hour of temptation, it is the 'Iwill,' or the 'I will not,' which determines everything. There is not a devil in Hell subtle enough to betray a man — if he meet him with the all powerful 'I will not!'"
"I believe you, my friend." There was, I did not fail to notice, more confidence in Granger's words than in his voice; and this gave me a slight feeling of uneasiness.
"Hold on, as with hooks of steel, to your faith in yourself — in the strength of your God-given manhood. If the tempter comes, say 'No!' as you will always be able to say. It is the weak, the doubting, the half-hearted — who fall."
As we talked, a gentleman named Stannard came in. On seeing the change in Granger's appearance, he said: "Been turning over another new leaf, I see. Glad of it from my heart. And now, friend Granger, what is to be the first writing thereon?"
"I will not," was the firmly spoken answer.
"Good as far as it goes."
"What more?" asked Granger.
"God being my helper."
"Is not God's strength in every true 'I will' or 'I will not?'" said I, speaking before Granger had time to answer, for I was afraid of some confusion being wrought in his mind.
"There is no good thing that does not come from God," was the calmly-spoken answer. "In Him we live, and move, and have our being."
"No reflecting man will deny that. But the serious and practical question is, how does God bestow His good things? What are the laws of order, by which He acts with men?"
"Love is His great law," said Mr. Stannard.
"We all believe that; but love works through orderly means. If a man willfully closes his eyes, God cannot make him see. If he shuts himself away in a dungeon, God cannot give him light. If he 'will not,' God cannot save him, though all day He stretches forth His merciful hand."
"No one will question that, I presume," was answered.
"But now we have the other proposition under consideration. It is the 'I will not' of our friend here as set against temptation. Now, under what law is he to get God's help?"
"It will come to him in his effort to do right."
"'Ask and it shall be given unto you. Seek and you shall find. Watch and pray, lest you enter into temptation. Come unto me.' These are the Lord's own words; and do they not mean that we are to do something more than what your answer indicates. Will all the help needed, come without the asking?"
"As if," I said, with a slight tremor of feeling in my voice, "as if God held back for man's formal asking? As if His infinite love were not forever yearning to save? and forever flowing with divine strength, into every effort to fight against evil. It is in man's will, where he is truly potential; and he must set his will against allurement, and stand in the strength of his true manhood."
"But suppose the will has become so sickly and depraved, that it cannot receive a just measure of life and strength from God? When an organ in the human body is diseased, it is no longer able to do its proper work, though the heart is perpetually sending for its use a due portion of healthy blood. If the will were in order, we might trust to the will; but, alas! it is not. It is diseased; and without help from the Great Physician, will fail in the work of its office. Nay, nay, friend Granger, put no faith in your 'I will not,' unless you write also on the leaf of the new page you have turned, 'God being my helper.' If this be not done, all your good purposes will avail, I fear, but little."
"Anything to give our friend strength," I replied. "It will do no harm for him to write as you say; only let him not lose faith in himself, because of his trust in God. It is just here that the danger lies. It is the clear-seeing, as I have said to him, that makes the safe-walking. If we do not know the way, we are all the while in danger of stumbling."
'"I am the way, and the truth, and the life,'" said Mr. Stannard. "If we go to Him, shall we be in any danger of losing our way? I think not."
As we talked, Granger looked first at one of us, and then at the other, hearkening carefully to what we said, and evidently weighing the import of our words. That all was not clear to him, was evident from his manner. I dropped the argument, in fear that his mind might get confused, and that, while in this unsettled state, his old enemy might rush in upon him and bear him down before he had time to arrange his order of defense.
Mr. Stannard had called on a matter of business, and on becoming aware of this, I withdrew from the office and left him alone with Granger. I carried away with me an uneasy feeling. Mr. Stannard was a man for whom I had great respect. He was a prominent church member, and active in Christian work; and so far as my knowledge of him went, his life among men was blameless.
But my philosophy of religion, differed in some essential points from his. We both held to the necessity of a pure life; but were not in agreement as to the means whereby this purity of life was to be attained. He held to the power of grace, through faith, as the only means whereby man could be saved — at least, so I had understood him. I held to man's innate force of will, into which strength would flow from God the instant his will moved in a right effort. My fear now was, that Mr. Stannard might undo the work I had attempted, and destroy Granger's faith in himself, leaving him to a blind confidence in some outside help which might never come. This was the ground of my uneasiness.
I did not see Granger again for several days; and then our meeting was in a public thoroughfare, and for a few moments only. His face was clear and bright, and his air manly and assured.
"All right?" I said, as I took his hand.
"All right," he responded, giving me a strong returning grip.
"Standing fast by 'I will not.'"
"Standing fast," was his answer, a slight change in the expression of his countenance.
It was on my lips to say: "Don't forget that the will is the man; and that all Hell cannot move him, if the will stands fast." But I held the sentence back from an impulse I did not quite understand. So we parted, each going his way.
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