The Easter Awakening

The Easter Awakening By Mrs. L. H. Roylance

"It's only a bit of respectable graft," and the contractor, stretching his long legs lazily, laughed tolerantly. "Respectable graft, huh," snorted the doctor, "honest thievery, there is no such thing; and no one knows it better than you do, Frank Blake." "No thievery about it," defended Frank, "just a matter of getting even with the railroads — a simple question of the sur- vival of the fittest. The railroads are a machine, relentless, grasp- ing, just let them get one of us little contractors in their grip and they crush us out without a flicker of remorse." "Nonsense, they have their interests to protect the same as — you have what have they ever done to you, anyhow, you've made a small fortune off the road in the last fifteen years?" "Sure, but it's no fault of theirs. They've fought us hard enough, overcharged us on supplies, underestimated our work, done about everything they could do to prevent our making any money. If you'll notice, our profits are steadily growing less." "Come, come, Frank, you made $2,300 on that last job in less than three months, that's mighty fair wages; and if it weren't, does that make it right for you to bribe the inspectors?" "Bribe's an ugly word, doctor, and besides, I haven't done it, yet." one that fits," went on the doctor impertura- "It's the only bly. "Frank, you've been open and above board all your life, don't start any dirty work now." "You're making a mountain out of a molehill, doc, lots of the contractors do it, and it's beginning to look to me like about the only way we can do. The extra concrete we get in won't hurt the work any, and the railroads can stand to pay for a few yards they don't exactly need." The doctor was silent a few minutes. True, the question of paying for a few extra yards of concrete in backfillings would be a small item to the road, but it was the principle of the thing — that troubled the doctor or, was it, (he smiled at the thought) was it more the mere fact that it was Frank Blake, his model of integrity, resorting to subterfuge, that made it seem import- ant to him?

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When he spoke it was to ask suddenly, "Does Alma know what you are planning?" — "Alma jumping Jupiter, no," exclaimed Frank, then a hit shamefacedly, "there are some things you can't explain to a woman." "Nor a child," mused the doctor. "I wonder why I won- !

der if it's because they are a bit nearer God than we are." "Frank laughed, mockingly. "Nearer God. I've come to the conclusion that there isn't any God in the scheme of things." "Who, then, created us all, if there is no God? It seems to me some one must have done so." "Read Darwin and he'll explode that theory for you. Between him, and evolution, and Ingersoll, and a few of the rest of them, I've arrived at a very satis- factory explanation of life. We come from nothing, stay and fight for existence till the elements conquer, then we're — back to nothing again perfectly simple, no mystery of crea- tion about it." "Not a very comforting theory," suggested the doctor. "Serves the purpose, though, and saves a lot of wondering." "My wife's people," the doctor spoke very quietly and with a reverence that always came at the mere mention of her name, — — he seldom spoke of her never without especial reason, her death after only two years of married life was still a bitter tragedy to him, "my wife's people have a curious theory about life and death —the eternal circle, I call it. They believe we had an existence before we came here, that our stay here is but — a preparation for a more glorious existence hereafter rather a pretty idea to my notion." "Your wife's people," said Frank, trying to remember, "oh, yes, the 'Mormons,' they've a lot of queer ideas, I understand." "Yes, they are called queer by those who have never studied them, but their religion really embodies rather a fine set of prin- ciples." "No doubt, no doubt," agreed Frank entirely without con- viction, "but the people are probably about like the rest of the Christians — mighty handy with their talk, but right there when it comes to grabbing for the dollar." Then, as if the thought had just struck him, "Eternal circle, huh, an existence before this and one after." Then he laughed a bit hardly — "Well, if I manage to steer clear through this existence, I shan't worry much about the other two. But here comes the men now," he finished as he arose, "it's noon hour, you'd better come on over to the shack and have dinner with us." "No, no, thanks, I'll go on into the cookhouse," answered the doctor. Then, as he watched Blake swing up the hill he mut-

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tered to himself, "If only there were some way to reach him, some way to wake him up!"

Doctor Dayton had known the Blakes for many years. Frank had come from a good Christian home, but at the death of his father had been thrown early on his own resources. He was a clean, moral man, of splendid character, and the doctor sus- pected at heart really rather religious. But long years in the camps, among rough men, and fighting for existence among the hardest of conditions, had given him an outer shell of cyni- cism that bade fair to become an integral part of him. So hard and long had been the struggle to get an opening that would lift him above mere drudgery that when at last suc- cess came, he was at the point that comes in so many men's lives, where the dollar and what it could do seemed the all im- portant thing. "It's the man with the money that makes more money," he was wont to say, "and money talks." He had al- ways confided in the doctor, and at his casual mention that morning that it looked like they'd come out in the hole on this contract, unless they could fix the inspector, the doctor had taken sudden alarm. That Frank would actually let his money- hunger lead him into a deal not entirely square meant that he was beginning seriously to believe the things that the doctor knew had been only a profession of worldliness in him, until now. His interest in Frank for his own sake was great, but for his wife's sake, perhaps greater. As he thought of Anna, his face softened, she was as dear to him as any daughter of his own might have been. He had known her intimately from the time when, as a little doll of a girl, with hair like crinkled sunshine, and great, questioning, blue eyes, she had come pattering along delightedly with her engineer father as he went out daily over the works. He had rejoiced in her as a girl, and as a woman, so singularly pure and high minded had she been; and now, at this time, she seemed infinitely more sweet and lovable; for, with the coming of the Eastertide she was to become a mother. The dinner bell clanged. Mechanically he greeted the men as he took his place at the table, but his mind was far away, wrestling with the problem of how to make Frank understand.

Frank Blake knocked at the timekeeper's door at three o'clock Easter morning and to Mrs. Allen's half sleepy, "Who is it?" answered quickly and a bit shakily. "It's Blake, Anna's sick and the 'phone won't work, I can't get either the nurse or the doctor, and I don't know what to do." "Nothing to be alarmed about," answered Mrs. Allen,

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cheerily. She was now thoroughly awake. "Go over and call Mrs. Adams and we'll both go right up there." "Isn't there a speeder on the works?" spoke up Tom Allen. "Doesn't happen to be one around," answered Blake, "or I'd have sent a man to town." "Well, then I'll row across the lake. It's probably only our line that's down — I can get in touch with the doctor from the store." — "But the trouble it's a terrific row!" protested Blake. "Trouble nothing, why nothing is too much trouble at a time like this." Mrs. Adams was equally willing, and as Frank walked back to the shack with the two neighbors, a strange wonder at their unsuspected friendliness began to take root in his heart. An hour passed, another, and another. Anna's suffering grew intense. "Isn't there a thing we can do to relieve her?" Frank asked, as he sat by the bedside watching the two kindly neighbors as they moved briskly and busily about, arranging tiny little garments in a basket, airing sheets, doing all the countless little things so necessary, yet to a man so apparently frivolous in the face of great suffering. "No, there's nothing to be done," answered Mrs. Adams, "she's alright yet," she added in a voice she tried to make re- assuring, as she noted the worried look in his eyes. But awhile later, when the nurse and doctor came in at the kitchen door, she met them anxiously. "Things look pretty bad," she said. "We've been dreading convulsions the last hour. Her face looks so drawn and her lips twitch so strangely." The arrival of the doctor and the capable looking nurse quieted Frank's fears somewhat, and he accepted his banish -

ent from the sick room, a short time later, as a matter of course. The quiet faces of the neighbors, as they puttered around in the kitchen getting the breakfast, then clearing away the dishes, and straightening up the rooms, seemed only natural at first, but as time passed and faces grew graver, a nameless dread took — possession of him a dread that became a certainty when the doctor came out to the porch and to his eager, "Will it be much longer now, doctor?" answered slowly: "It's hard to have to tell you, Frank, but I'm afraid we can't save the baby, and" he paused as if dreading what he must say next "and it — — looks now as if we can't save either of them." "Not save either of them'" Frank's face blanched as he re- peated the words blankly, "you don't mean! you can't mean that Anna will die."

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The old doctor's lips twitched, he shook his head, "We'll do all we can, boy, but I don't know, I don't know." Frank stumbled out into the sunshine, "Anna die," he mut- tered, as a dry sob choked in his throat, "Anna die!" He turned instinctively down the spring trail to the little sheltered nook where her hammock hung, where they had spent so many happy hours during the last month. He flung himself into the hammock, face downward, and lay there a long time, his senses half numbed as the awful sentence, "We can't save either of them," seemed to burn itself into his brain. Then his strong will began to assert itself. He fought off the numbness and tried to think it out clearly, to face the possible issue, as he had faced so many critical issues in his strenuous life. As for the baby it did not seem to matter, its coming had seemed so vague and unreal a thing that it would seem only a strange end- ing to a stranger dream, if they lost it; but Anna, his Anna, so — beautiful, so full of life, it could not be she must not die. The whir and grind of the gasoline concrete mixer sounded in his ears, a woodpecker tapped monotonously at the tree a- bove him, a tiny humming bird whizzed in and out of the salal bush below him; and just beyond, on the stiff leaves of the Oregon grapes, little drops of water glistened and sparked as they were splashed up by the brook, rippling over a tiny fall. The breath of spring, living, pulsing spring, with its perfume of new leaves and wood violets was in the air, and as he sensed it, a dull rage crept over him. Everything remained unchanged the sunshine, the flowers, the birds, even the work was going on as usual, and in there in that little cabin his wife lay dying. It — must not be he clenched his fists grimly and, rising, paced angrily to and fro. "If money could buy," the thought mocked him, what could money do now? Why that very morning, friends had done what money had had no power to do. There was no better doctor than Doctor Dayton, on the coast, he would save her if anyone could, and if he didn't, the awful blankness of a future without Anna appalled him. Death had not touched Frank Blake's life for many years, itssudden nearness now recalled the only other death that he remembered distinctly. As in a trance he lived again the awful time when they had brought his father in stiff and cold, from the mines, the coming and going of many people, the funeral, then the desolate blankness when night came and no daddy came bounding up the gravel path to meet him. He remembered his childish wonder at his mother's calmness, after the first awful shock had passed; he remembered her gentle answer when he had asked, with boyish fierceness, how she could bear it. "My boy," she had said, "it is only a little while, such a few short

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years, till we, too, will be called, then we can be with him in a better land." A few short years, after all it would be only a few, why some little lives were ended almost as soon as they began. His little childish soul had been comforted; perhaps he would be called next to go to heaven and be with daddy. But as the years passed the words that had meant so much to him, had lost their significance, been all but forgotten. And now death was hover- — ing near again he thought of Darwin and Ingersoll, of all the cynical expressions he had so ofteh quoted. Their wise phil- osophy seemed suddenly fruitless and barren. If Anna died, it could not be the end. Her beautiful body must moulder in the dust, but the soul of her, the throbbing, vivid soul of her, must this, too, be the end of that? In a flood of memory the little incidents of the past year reenacted themselves. Her plans, the tiny little clothes he had scarce dared handle, the soft sweet light in her eyes, as she spoke of the little child that was to come ! Even in her most miserable hours, and they had been many, she had smiled and said, "It's worth it, Frank, every minute of it," and now this was the end! Almost a year of suffering hours of unbelievable torture, and perhaps death itself, all for a bit of inanimate clay. Where was justice, where was mercy? Then, suddenly, he stopped. Jus- tice, mercy, they had no place in the scheme of things, as he had professed to accept it. Nature went only by law, rigid, im- mutable law. All the fiery fierceness of his soul rebelled. What law had Anna broken? For what could Nature be demanding this terrible toll? Why, she had lived a life as pure and perfect as lay within human power. No, there must be some other ex- planation, things like this didn't happen without reason. Sud- denly the old doctor's words came back, birth, life, death. The eternal circle what a strange idea it was. A previous existence, ;

then this little space for preparedness, and finally a more glori- ous life ! Something about the thought held him. If that theory were true, then Anna's sacrifice would not be in vain, she was giving her life that a soul might pass from one existence to an- other. As he studied it, the thought grew more beautiful, the coming of the little one to earth, though its stay be but momen- tary, would not be utterly futile. It would have taken one more step in the round of eternal progress. Like a flash of blinding — light the truth came to him birth, life, death! These are not a series of unrelated happenings. They are part of a plan, a glorious preconceived plan, and lie not in the hands of Nature, but of a higher power. One that thinks and reasons, and that — Power is it must be God. A quieting peace crept into his soul. The softly sweet sounds of nature no longer jarred the low music-

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al ripple of the brook, and the sweet, clear warble of a tiny canary became an accompaniment to the beautiful, new faith that was being born within him. The faith that was already beginning to give him power to accept the will of the Father. If God called Anna now, he would try to live the years that were left in such a way that when his turn came, he could go to meet ber unashamed, unafraid. He heard his name called softly. It was the doctor. For — an instant, his heart sank, it was over even the wonderful new faith could not quite banish the chill desolateness that suddenly gripped him. Then the doctor spoke quickly, joyously, "The worst is over, they are both alive; for Anna there is still great danger, but there is a fighting chance." Frank Blake took off his hat, bowed reverently, and in a voice that trembled uttered aloud the heartfelt prayer, "Oh God, we thank thee." — They walked slowly back to the house on the porch in a jardiniere was an Easter lily, its fragrant, waxy blossom just opening to the sunshine. Frank touched it lightly, "I feel, doc- tor," he said, "as if I were like that flower, just being brought in- to the light." "It's the soul of you, boy, the wonderful soul of you re- awakened — — this beautiful Easter day born again."

Late one Sunday afternoon, sixmonths later, the doctor made a friendly call on the Blakes. Anna, still a trifle pale, lounged comfortably on a couch in front of he fireplace. Frank, looking serene and contented, sat by the crib where the babe, a lusty youngster, lay sleeping. For awhile the conversation was general and a bit desultory, but as evening drew near and the soft glow of the firelight shone more rosily in the twilight, it grew intimate and confidential.

"Fact is," said Frank, "the last few months have been the happiest of a long, hard life. I seem to find friendliness and goodwill where I least expect it. The world is changing, it doesn't seem such a grasping, sordid affair, any more." "The change is in you," said the doctor, "your soul is at- tuned to the good and responds to it more readily. "Everything's changed," Frank continued, "I've told Anna what I thought about doing, once, that inspector business, you know. We're both so glad it never happened. It seems such a sneaking sort of way to do now." "You don't know how much the change has meant to me," said Anna, quietly. "It's a hard way to live, feeling always that the hand of the world is against you." "And harder still," added Frank, "to live with the feeling

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that there is no divine power watching over you, no one to whom you can turn in time of need. Christianity is a wonderful thing, doctor." The babe awakened, then, and Frank picked it up, tenderly, but a trifle awkwardly. "We've thought of so many things lately, doctor, one of them is that 'eternal circle' you spoke of once. We don't thoroughly understand it, but it seems to be full of glorious possibilities," he said, trying to adjust the little pink and white bundle he held so proudly. "The more we study the idea", the more beautiful it be- comes," said Anna. "It has opened up a new field of ideas as to our responsibility in bearing children. In fact, it has set us wondering so much that we are going to investigate the principles of the 'Mormon' faith. Any religion containing anything so beautiful as preexistence is quite likely to contain other things worth while." "Wouldn't it be queer," Frank's voice was bantering, bat through it ran a note of seriousness, "if the coming of the babe should cause us to turn 'Mormon?' " The doctor leaned forward and poked at the embers in the fireplace till they made the graying twilight vivid with their rosy glow, then answered slowly, and in his voice there was no hint of lightness, "It would be," he said "a glorious ending for your Easter awakening." Glenada, Oregon

Sacramental Hymn