Chapter II

The young minister entered the room. Susan had taken up Saints’ Rest, which lay by her, and commenced reading where she had left off, when she saw Mr. Carlisle coming up the yard. As he came into the room she laid down the book, and looked, for all the world, as though she had not a friend in the world. The assuming of this appearance was involuntary on her part; it was in accordance with her nature.

Mr. Carlisle seated himself by her side, and commenced catechising her in regard to the impression the contents of the book produced upon her mind—whether it afforded her consolation in her troubled mind—and finally whether she really thought she had a hope. To all these queries Susan replied in a satisfactory manner, assuring the handsome young shepherd that she had been much edified by her reading.

There was a smile of mischief playing upon the pretty and expressive face of Mary, as she peered over the top of Hard Times, to observe the ghostly interview. She could see that Mr. Carlisle engaged in the conversation with her sister merely as a matter of professional interest—sincerely, it is true, but with no unusual interest in the penitent. He regarded her as a wandering sheep, whom it was his duty to bring into the fold.

But she compassionated her sister, who had deluded herself into the belief that she could win the heart of the shepherd by becoming one of his sheep; and she was provoking enough to tell her that instead of making a sheep, she had made a calf of herself.

When the minister had finished his professional counsel, he turned to Mary. As he did so, an involuntary smile came upon his lips. It was not the smile of a ghostly father, but of a young man who has flesh in his heart and blood in his veins.

Mary laid down her book as she noticed his intention to address her.

“What are you reading, Miss Fairbank?” asked he.

“Hard Times,” promptly replied Mary.

“A novel?”

“Yes, sir.”

The jaw of the young minister dropped down two inches.

“Do you like it?”

“O, very much, indeed!” replied Mary, with wicked enthusiasm; “I admire Dickens’s of all the novels I ever read.”

“Do you make a practice of reading novels?”

“I seldom read anything else. I did read Reveries of a Bachelor and Dream Life.”

The minister shook his head.

“I take the newspapers, and I always read them through—stories, poetry, sentiment, editorials, and all.”

“Will you allow me to suggest some reading for you? and I should take the greatest pleasure in lending you the books.”

“Thank you.”

“Baxter’s Call to the Unconverted is an excellent book for——.”

“It is so stupid!”

Mr. Carlisle was horrified.

“I would not be hired to read it.”

“Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress, perhaps, would suit your taste better.”

“I have read it; but don’t you call that a novel?”

“An allegory.”

“If I mistake not, I saw you reading Uncle Tom’s Cabin. I’m sure that is a novel, and no better novel either than any of Dickens’s.”

“It is a moral and philanthropic work.”

“So are Dickens’s works. Indeed, I have never read a novel from which a great deal of good might not be obtained, though I know there are such.”

“Mere fictions generally have a debasing tendency.”

“I judge novels as I do anything else—by their own merits. If I understand you, Mr. Carlisle, you object to works of fiction, as such, and not on account of any evil they may contain.”

“Certainly.”

“You insist that the book must be true in its narrative in order to be good.”

“I do.”

“Then you despise the teachings of Him you profess to serve. He spoke in parables—in fiction. I do not understand the Prodigal Son to be a narrative of facts.”

“Perhaps not.”

“Then why may not Scott, Dickens, Irving, Miss Bremer, and Miss Leslie teach us love and charity through the same medium?”

“Such works vitiate the taste.”

“O, it is the taste, and not the heart, that is damaged.”

“Both; the latter through the former. Let me induce you to read Baxter’s Call, and you will then allow that you have obtained more real good from it than from all the novels you ever read in your life.”

“It is too dull and insipid for me. I must draw my inspiration from more sparkling fountains.”

“You misjudge the book.”

“Perhaps I do. I am not a saint, I am willing to acknowledge; therefore it does not suit me. And I fancy it is so with half the world, who, rejecting the counsels of the church, get their wisdom and their goodness from works of fiction. They are readable to those whose taste, like mine, has not become sanctified; without them they would read nothing, and thus the world is better for novels.”

Mr. Carlisle could not but grant that there was some truth in what Mary had said; and though he did not, in so many words, yield the point, an impression was produced upon his mind which could not fail to soften down the bigotry of his views.

But the merry, fearless, independent tones of the eloquent advocate of works of fiction, went deeper down than the mind, and touched a weak spot in his theological heart. Her pretty, sparkling eye, roused and animated by her earnest thought, were irresistible; and the Rev. Mr. Carlisle, maugre the carnal nature of the fair debater, actually fell in love with the contemner of Baxter’s immortal works.

Mary was undoubtedly a great sinner, but she was a beautiful and spirited girl for all that. We will not trouble the reader with the ingenious plans which the enamoured minister laid that night to reclaim the erring beauty; it is only necessary to say that, within a week, he popped the question to her; and that she, out of consideration for her sister, refused to consider the proposal.