The Angel of His Presence
Read The Angel of His Presence Online
Authors: Grace Livingston Hill
The Angel of His Presence
By
Grace Livingston Hill
JOHN WENTWORTH STANLEY stood on the deck of an Atlantic liner looking off to sea and meditating. The line of smoke that floated away from his costly cigar followed the line of smoke from the steamer as if it were doing honest work to help get Mr. Stanley t
o New York. The sea in the dis
tance was sparkling and monotonous and the horizon line empty and bright, but Mr. Stanley seemed to see before him the hazy outlines of New York as they would appear in about twenty-four hours more, if all went well.
And
of course all would go well. He had no doubt of that. Everything had always gone well for him.
Especially well had been these last two years of
travel and study abroad. He re
flected w
ith satisfaction upon the knowl
edge and experience he had gained in his own special lines, upon the polish he had acquired, and he glanced over himself, metaphorically speaking, and found no fault in John Wentworth Stanley. He was not too Parisian in his deferential manner, he was not too English in his deliberation, neither was he, that worst of all traits in his eyes, too American in his bluntness. He had acquired something from each nation, and considered that the combined result was good. It is a comfortable feeling to be satisfied with one's self.
Nor
had he been shut
entirely out of the higher circles of foreign society. There were plea
sant memories of delightful eve
nings within the noble walls of exclusive homes, of d
inners and other enjoyable occa
sions with great personages where he had been an honored guest. When he thought of this, he raised his chest an inch higher and stood just a little straighter.
There was also a memory picture of one, perhaps more, but notably of one "
ladye
of high degree," who had not shown indifference to his various charms. It was pleasant to feel that one could if one would.
In due time he would consider this question more carefully.
In the near
future
this lady was to visit America. He had promised himself, and her, the pleasure of showing her a few of his own country's attractions.
And
— well, he might go abroad again after that on business.
His attention
was not entirely distracted
by his vision of the "
ladye
of high degree" from looking upon his old homeland and anticipating the scenes and the probable experiences that would be his in a few hours. Two years seemed a long time when he looked back upon it, though it had been brief in the passing. He would doubtless find changes, but there had been changes in him also. He was older; his tastes were— what should he say—
developed?
He would not take pleasure in the same way that he had taken it when he left, perhaps. He had learned that there were other things— things if not better, at least more cultured and less o
ld-fashioned than his former di
versions. Of course he did not despise his upbringing,
nor
his homeland, but he had other interests now as well, which would
take much of his time. He had been from home long enough for the place he left to have closed behind him, and he would have no difficulty in staying "dropped out." He expected to spend much of his time in New York. O
f
course
he would make his head
quarters at home, where his father and mother were living, in a small city within a short distance of America's metropolis.
His man—he had picked up an excellent one while traveling through Scotland—had gone on ahead to unpack and put in place the various objects of art, and other treasures he had gathered on his travels. He had not
as yet
become so accustomed to the man that he could not do without him from day
to day, and had found it conve
nient to send him home on the ship ahead of his own.
He wondered what his homecoming would be like. His father and mother
would, of course, be
glad to see him and give him their own welcome.
But
even with them he could not feel that he was coming home to
a place where he was indispens
able. They had other children, his brothers and sisters, married and living not far from home. Of
course
they would be glad to have
him back, all of them, but they had been happy enough without him, knowing he was happy.
But
in town, while he had friends, there were none whom he eagerly looke
d forward to meeting. He had at
tended school there, of course, and in later years, after his return from college, had gone into the society of the place, the literary club
s and tennis clubs and, to a de
gree, into church work.
He had indeed been quite enthusiastic in church work at one time, had helped to start a mission Sunday school in a quarter where it was much needed, and had acted as superintendent up to the time when he went abroad. He smiled to himself as he thought of his "boyish enthusiasm," as he termed it, and turned his thoughts to his more intelligent manhood. Of
course
he would now have no time for such things. His work in the world was to be of a graver sort, to deal with science and art and literature. He was done with childish things.
He was interrupted just here
by one of the passengers
. "I beg your pardon. I have just discovered who you are and felt as if I would like to shake hands with you."
The speaker was a plain, elderly man with fine features and an earnest face. Mr. Stanley had noticed him casually several times and remarked to himself that that man would be quite fine looking if he would only pay a little more attention to his personal appearance.
Not that he was not neatly dressed, nor that his handsome, wavy, iron-gray hair was not carefully brushed; but somehow John Wentworth Stanley had acquired during his stay abroad a nice discrimination in toilet matters, and liked to see a man with his trousers creased or not creased, as the height of the mode might demand, and classed him, involuntarily, accordingly.
But
he turned in
surprise as the stranger addressed him. What possible business could this man have with
him,
and what had he done that should make the man want to shake hands with him?
Mr. Stanley was courteous always, and he at once threw away the end of his finished cigar and accepted the proffered hand graciously, with just a tinge of his foreign-acquired nonchalance.
"My name is Manning. You
don't
know me. I came to live at Cliveden shortly after
you went abroad, but I assure you, I have heard much of you and your good work. I wonder I did not know you, Mr. Stanley, from your resemblance to your mother," the stranger added, looking into the young man's eyes with his own keen gray ones. He did not add that one thing which had kept him from recognizing his identity had been that he
did not in the least resemble
the Mr. Stanley he had been led to expect.
Mr. Mann
ing owned to himself in the pri
vacy of his stateroom afterward that he was just a little disappointed in the man, though he was handsome, and had a good face, but he did seem to be more of a
man of the world than he had expected to find him. However, no trace of this
was written
in his kindly, interested face, as John Stanley endeavored to master the situation and discover what all this meant.
"Oh, I know
all about your work in Clive
den, Mr. Stanley. I have been interested in
the Forest
Hill Mission from my first resi
dence there, and what I did not learn for myself my little girl told me
. She is a great worker, and as she has no mother, she makes me her confidant, so I hear all the stories of the trials and conflicts of her Sunday school
class. Among other
things
I con
stantly hear of this one and that one who owe their
Christian experience to the ef
forts of the founder of the mission and its first superintendent. Your crown will be rich in jewels. I shall never forget Joe Andrews' face when he told me the story of how you came to him Sunday after Sunday, and said, 'Joe, aren't you ready to be a Christian yet?' and how time after time he would shake his head. He says your face would grow so sad." The elder gentleman looked closely at the clean-shaven, cultured face before him to trace those lines which proved him to be the same man he was speaking of, and could not quite understand their absence, but went on, "And you would say, 'Joe, I shall not give you up. I am praying for you every day. Don't forget that.'
And then
when he finally could not hold out any longer and came to Christ, he says you were so glad, and he cannot forget how good it was of you to care for him and to stick to him that way. He said your face looked just as if the sun were shining on it the day he united with the church.
That was a wonderful work you did
there. It is marvelous how it has grown. Those boys of
yours will someday repay the work you put upon them. Nearly all of the or
iginal mem
bers of your own class are now earnest Christians, and they cannot
get
done telling about what you were to them. My little girl writes me every mail more about it."
John Stanley suddenly felt like a person who
is lifted out of his present life and set down in a former existence
. All his tastes, his friends, his pursuits, his surroundings during the past two years had been
utterly foreign
to the work about which the strang
er had been speaking. He had be
come so engrossed in his new life that he had actu
ally forgotten the old. Not for
gotten it in the sense that he was not aware of its facts, but rather forgotten his joy in it.
An
d
he stood astonished and bewil
dered, hardly knowing how to enter into the conversation, so utterly out of harmony with its spirit did he find himself.
As the stranger told the story of Joe Andrews, there rushed over him the memory of it all: the boy's dogged face; his own interest awakened one day during his teaching of the lesson when he caught an answering gleam of interest in the boy's eye, and was
seized with a desire to make Jesus Christ a real, living person to that boy's heart; his watching of
the kindling spark in that slug
gish soul, and how little by little it grew.
Finally, one night the boy came to his home when there were guests present, and called for him, and he had gone out with him into the dewy night under the stars and sat down with him on the front piazza shaded by the vines, hoping and praying that this might be his opportunity to say the word that should lead the boy to Christ.
Behold, he found that Joe had come to tell him, solemnly as though he were taking the oath of his life, that he now made the decision for Christ and hereafter would serve him, no matter what he wanted him to do. A strange thrill came with the memory of his own joy over that redeemed soul, and how it had lingered with him as he went back among his mother's guests, and how it would break out in a joyous smile now and then till one of the guests remarked, "John, you seem to be unusually happy tonight for some reason." How vividly it all came back now when the vein of memory
was once opened
. Incident after incident came to mind, and again he felt or remembered that
thrill of joy when a soul says, "You have helped me to find Christ."
Mr. M
anning was talking of his daugh
ter. John had a dim idea that she was a little girl, but he did not stop to question. He was remembering,
And
there was a strange min
gling of feelings. His new char
acter
had
so thoroughly impressed its im
portance upon him that he felt embarrassed in the face of what he used to be. Strangely enough the first thing that came to mind was,
W
hat
would the "
ladye
of high de
gree" think if she knew all this? She would laugh. Ah! That would hurt worse than anything she could do. He winced almost visibly under her fancied merriment. It was worse than if she had looked grave, or sneered, or argued, or anything else. He could not bear to
be laughed at,
especially in his new role.
Somehow
his old self and his new did not seem to fit rightly together.
But then
the new love of the world and his new tastes came in wi
th all the power of a new affec
tion and asserted themselves, and he straightened up haughtily and told himself that of course he need not be ashamed of his boyhood. He had not done anything but
good. He sh
ould be proud of that, and espe
cially so as he would probably not
come in contact with
such work and such people again. He had
more important things to attend to
.
