412
T H E K I N G ' S B U S I N E S S
December, 1938
Jerry pressed his hand against a bulge in his coat pocket. Yes, it was still there— not an expensive present, but one Mother would appreciate. There was another pres ent in his inside coat pocket. He hoped Fa ther would understand the sacrifice he had made to get it for him. Last week Jerry had sent home a doll for six-year-old Louise, and in the same package a pair of ice skates for ten-year-old Carl. It was the sending of those skates that had made him decide to go home for Christmas, for ice skates had reminded him of the frozen la goon along Maple Creek and of happy moonlit evenings there with gay young people from the church, among them, one for whom there were memories that would never fade. Faye Bernard had been more than a pal. In time she might have be come. .. He sighed, then his jaw Squared in a hard line. She hadn’t written to him. Not even once! From behind him there came the cheery, wintry sound of sleigh bells, jingling mer rily. It was a defiant sort of jingling that challenged the storm and the cold and the drifting snow, challenged too his melan choly mood, as if it would lay hold upon every unhappy thing in the world and whirl it away. He turned his back and shuffled to the side of the road to let the cutter pass. But the driver drew rein and stopped in a swirl of snow and jingling bells, while the spirited horse stood panting and snorting, gray frost streaming from his nostrils. He knew in a flash who drove that sleigh. Quick pain stabbed at his heart, while in the same second, hope poured in a healing balm. W hy had she stopped? He deter mined not to look. Then he heard her voice, silvery, cheery, above the jingling bells: "Jerry!” He stopped, his heart pounding. He half turned, afraid to look. She had not written. She had not believed in him. In her eyes he was a thief, a ne’er-do-Well. Scum! Her voice came again, above the storm, ‘‘If you would like to ride, I’m going your way.” ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ Sitting beside her in the cutter, listening to the bells and the slithering sound of the runners in the snow, with the cold wind cutting his face, Jerry felt detached, as though a thousand leagues separated them. She spoke accusingly, “You didn’t an swer my letter!” She had written, then, and the letter had not reached him! In his mind, things were a blur after that. As he talked with Faye, the old comradeship came to life again. From somewhere, courage flowed to him. Presently he was humming a little tune as he helped the girl carry to the house the packages and bundles, gifts sh e had brought for Carl and Louise. To gether they waded through the snow to the back door. The kitchen fire was out and no one was at home. "Perhaps they went into town after the funeral this morning,” Faye said quietly. Something in her voice startled him. Whose funeral! Who had died! He was afraid to ask. He was trembling when they laid the packages on the kitchen table and went back to the cutter.
There was no sense at all to his question, but he had to say something: "Faye, what made you drive out here today anyway?” “I saw you walking past, Jerry,” she told him, "right straight past me without even looking up. I had to do something. So I decided to follow you with the gifts for the children. I’d planned to drive out with them tomorrow, but I saw you. Jerry, when
w atch. . . ” He gulped. Mother had been keeping watch. . . Downstairs, he checked the fires, and went outside in the gathering dusk. He spoke, but no one was there to hear him. “Oh, Father! Father! Everything’s got to be all right. I can’t stand it if it isn’t!” The sky was clearing. Cars and sleighs were passing in the road. He finished the evening chores, went back to the house, and relaxed in Father’s big chair. How tired and sleepy he was! How long he slept he did not know. But he was awakened by the happy jumble of family voices, everybody talking at the same time. Christmas talk! Laughter! Suddenly Jerry wanted to hide, to run away somewhere until he could gather courage to face them. He roused himself, started for the front door, then stopped abruptly, held impotent by his emotions. It was Carl who saw him first. He let out a war whoop and made a dive for him. "Mother! MOTHER!” he cried. “It’s Jerry!” Mother was already there, eyes blinded by tears, voice choked by tears, a true mother giving a son a true mother welcome. He swallowed hard. Where was Father? Louise hung back. “Come, Little Sister,” Mother coaxed. “Aren’t you going to give your big brother a hug? You haven’t for gotten him, have you?” Louise backed out of the room shyly. A moment later she returned and stood in the doorway, hugging tightly a lifelike, blue eyed doll with beautiful brown curls. It was her way of saying. “Of course, I remember! And thank you for the nice dolly, but I’m just a little bit frightened right now.” Where was Father! Perhaps he had gone to the barn to put up the horse! Jerry ex cused himself, went through the kitchen to the back door. Jerry, flashlight in hand, ploughed through the drifts in the barnyard. "Stay out! . . ." Memories of words uttered long ago mingled strangely with the prayer that rose from his heart. O God, make every thing all right! (He was crying inside) . . . "1 h a v e sinned in th y sigh t and am no m ore w orth y to b e ca lled th y son . . ." - He stopped, stood in the doorway of the bam. Father was standing beside the lad der to the haymow, pitchfork in hand, ready to plunge it into a bunch of hay. His face, in the glow of the lantern light from a near-by sill, was pale as with suf fering. He looked up suddenly, dropped his fork, and ran to meet his son . . . halfway. "Father, I h a v e sinned . . .” No words were spoken, that is, no audible words— unless indistinguishable sobs and embrac ing arms were words. A little later, the two men walked arm in arm toward the house. "Dad, I’ve got a check for two hundred and fifty dollars for you,” Jerry said. "That was how much was stolen from the store, wasn’t it? Didn’t you pay Larson that much for me?” "Two hundred and fifty dollars? That’ll go a long way toward your college educa tion, Jerry.” ’’What do you mean?” They were opening the kitchen door now. “Oh, nothing. I’ll explain later. Only, Lar- [C ontinued on p a g e 413]
Where was Father? Perhaps he had gone out to the barn. you didn’t answer my letter, I didn’t know what to think. I’ve been trying to let your mother know. I’ve always believed in you. I thought she’d write you that; I thought---’-' Suddenly, Jerry was not afraid any more. Faye trusted him! She had been faithful, bless her heart! He knew that she had— and even as he made the admission in his mind, joy and courage welled up within him. Like a flash, there came to him the memory of another transaction: G od had been faithful—faithful in forgiving him. Months earlier, Jerry Ranger had read the words of Scripture, "If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness,” and while he’d believed them absently, he had never a cted as though he had believed. Now—thoughts were tumbling over them selves in his mind: “I’m a child of God . . . Jesus Christ Himself saved me by dying for me. . . And He keeps me. . . . I made a blunder by joining up with that godless gang, but I told Him so, and He’s brought me through. Here I am, free, FREE—and with Faye!” He pressed her hand. “You’ll not need to wonder any more, Faye,” he said. “You’H know." For a long minute, they spoke to each other with their eyes—hers, tear-starred; his, alight with joy. After she had gone, he went back into the house, found kindling wood, started a fire in the kitchen range, went to the base ment and threw more coal into the furnace. W hy didn’t the family come home? Where were they? Whose funeral? Why hadn’t he asked Faye? He went upstairs to his old room and found it much the same as he had left it two years ago. His graduation pic ture was on the bureau, the old-fashioned kerosene lamp on his study desk in the corner, an opened Bible lying beside it. Some one had opened the Bible to the Christmas story. He read one brief pas sage: "And th ere w ere in the sam e coun try sh eph erds abiding in th e field, k eeping
Made with FlippingBook - Online magazine maker