<h2>CHAPTER XXXV</h2>
<h3>What if she misses her Chance?</h3>
<div class='poem'>
"Who would be planted chooseth not the soil<br/>
<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">Or here or there, ;. . .</span><br/>
<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">Lord even so</span><br/>
<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">I ask one prayer,</span><br/>
<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">The which if it be granted</span><br/>
<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">It skills not where</span><br/>
<span style="margin-left: 0.5em;">Thou plantest me, only I would be planted."</span><br/>
<div class='sig'>
<span class="smcap">T. E. Brown.</span><br/><br/></div>
</div>
<div class='cap'>TWO pictures of two evenings rise as I write. One is of
an English fireside in a country house. The lamps have
been lighted, and the curtains drawn. The air is full
of the undefined scent of chrysanthemums, and the stronger
sweetness of hyacinths comes from a stand in the window.
Curled up in a roomy arm-chair by the fire sits a girl with a
kitten asleep on her lap. She is reading a missionary book.</div>
<p>The other this: a white carved cupola in the centre of a
piece of water enclosed by white walls. People are sitting on
the walls and pressing close about them in their thousands.
A gorgeous barge is floating slowly round the shrine. There
is very little moon, but the whole place is alight; sometimes
the water is ablaze with ruby and amber; this fades, and a
weird blue-green shimmers across the barge, and electric
lamps at the corners of the square lend brilliancy to the
scene. The barge is covered with crimson trappings, and
hundreds of wreaths of white oleander hang curtain-wise
round what is within—the god and goddess decked with
jewels and smothered in flowers. Round and round the
barge is poled, and in the coloured light all that is gaudy and
tawdry is toned, and becomes only oriental and impressive;
and the white shrine in the centre reflected in the calm<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_324" id="Page_324">[324]</SPAN></span>
coloured water appears in its alternating dimness, and shining
more like a fairy creation than common handiwork.</p>
<p>We who were at the festival, three of us laden with
packets of marked Gospels, met sometimes as we wandered
about unobserved, losing ourselves in the crowd, that we
might the more quietly continue that for which we were
there; and in one such chance meeting we spoke of the
English girl by the fireside, and longed to show her what we
saw; and to show it with such earnestness that she would be
drawn to inquire where her Master had most need of her.
But no earnestness of writing can do much after all. It is
true the eye affects the heart, and we would show what we
have seen in the hope that even the second-hand sight might
do something; but words are clumsy, and cannot discover to
another that poignant thing the eye has power to transmit to
the heart. And it is well that it is so, for something stronger
and more consuming than human emotion can ever be must
operate upon the heart if the life is to be moved to purpose.
"A moving story" is worth little if it only moves the feelings.
How far out of its selfish track does it move the life into
ways of sacrifice? That is the question that matters. What
if it cost? Did not Calvary cost? Away with the cold,
calculating love that talks to itself about cost! God give
us a pure passion of love that knows nothing of hesitation
and grudging, and measuring, nothing of compromise! What
if it seem impossible to face all that surrender may mean?
Is there not provision for the impossible? "In the Old Testament
we find that in almost every case of people being
clothed with the Spirit it was for things which were impossible
to them. To be filled with the Spirit means readiness for
Him to take us out of our present sphere and put us anywhere
away from our own choice into His choice for us." These
words hold a message alike for us as we meet and pass in<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_325" id="Page_325">[325]</SPAN></span>
that Indian crowd, and for the girl by the fireside at home
who wants to know her Lord's will that she may do it,
and whose heart's prayer is: "May Thy grace, O Lord, make
that possible to me which is impossible by nature."</p>
<div class="sidenote">"All the Way"</div>
<p>Let us have done with limitations, let us be simply
sincere. How ashamed we shall be by and by of our
insincerities:—</p>
<div class='poem'>
Thy vows are on me, oh to serve Thee truly,<br/>
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Pants, pants my soul to perfectly obey!</span><br/>
Burn, burn, O Fire, O Wind, now winnow throughly!<br/>
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Constrain, inspire to follow all the way!</span><br/>
<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Oh that in me</span><br/>
<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Thou, my Lord, may see</span><br/>
<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Of the travail of Thy soul,</span><br/>
<span style="margin-left: 3em;">And be satisfied.</span><br/></div>
<p>We had only a few hours to spend in the town of the
Floating Festival; and being anxious to discover how things
were among the Temple community, I spent the first hour
in their quarter, a block of substantial buildings each in its
own compound, near the Temple. I saw the house from
which two of our dearest children came, delivered by a
miracle; it looked like a fortress with its wall all round, and
upstairs balcony barred by a trellis. The street door was
locked as the women were at the Festival. In another of
less dignified appearance I saw a pretty woman of about
twenty, dressed in pale blue and gold, evidently just ready
to go out. One of those abandoned beings whose function
it is to secure little children "to continue the succession"
was in the house, and so nothing could be attempted but
the most casual conversation. All the other houses in the
block were locked as the women were out; but I saw a
new house outside, built in best Indian style, and finely
finished. It had been built for, and given as a free gift, to
a noted Temple woman.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_326" id="Page_326">[326]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>These houses would open, in the missionary sense of the
word, but not in an afternoon. It would take time and
careful endeavour to win an entrance. Such a worker would
need to be one whom no disappointment could discourage,
a woman to whom the word had been spoken, "Go, love, ;. . .
according to the love of the Lord." When will such a worker
come?</p>
<p>As I left the Temple quarter, I met my two companions
who had been at work elsewhere, and we walked together
to the place of festival. Tripping gaily along in front was
a little maid with flowers in her hair. It was easy to
know who she was, there was something in the very step
that marked the light-footed Temple child. Poor little all-unconscious
illustration of India's need of God!</p>
<p>Later on we saw the same illustration again, lighted up
like a great transparency, the focus for a thousand eyes.
For on the daïs of the barge, in the place of honour
nearest the idols, stood three women and a child. The
women were swathed in fold upon fold of rich violet silk,
sprinkled all over with tinsel and gold; they were crowned
with white flowers, wreathed round a golden ornament like
a full moon set in their dark hair; and the effect of the
whole, seen in the luminous flush of colour thrown upon
them from the shore, was as if the night sky sparkling
with stars had come down and robed them where they
stood. Then when it paled, and sheet-lightning played, as
it seemed, across water and barge and shrine, the effect was
wholly mysterious. The three swaying forms—for they
swayed keeping time to the music that never ceased—resembled
one's idea of goddesses rather than familiar
womenkind. To the Indian mind it was beautiful, bewilderingly
beautiful; and the simple country-folk around drew
deep breaths of admiration as they passed.</p>
<p>The little girl looked more human. She too was in violet<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_327" id="Page_327">[327]</SPAN></span>
silk and spangles and gold, and her little head was wreathed
with flowers. It may have been her first Floating Festival,
for she gazed about her with eyes full of guileless wonder,
and the woman beside whom she stood laid a light, protecting
hand upon her shoulder.</p>
<div class="sidenote">That Little Child!</div>
<p>That little child! How the sight of her held us in pity as
the barge sailed slowly round. She was so near to us at times
that we could almost have touched her when the barge came
near the wall; and yet she was utterly remote, miles of space
might have lain between; it was as if we and she belonged to
different planets. And yet our little ones who might have
been as she, were so close—we could almost feel their loving
little arms round our necks at that moment—this child, how
far away she was! Had one of us set foot on the place where
she stood, the friendly thousands about us would have changed
in a second into indignant furies, and so long as the memory
of such impiety remained no white face would have been
welcome at the Floating Festival.</p>
<p>We stood by the wall awhile and watched; the sorrow of it
all sank into us. There in the holiest place of all, according to
their thinking, close to the emblems of deity, they had set
this grievous perversion of the holy and the pure. Right on
the topmost pinnacle of everything known as religious there
they had enthroned it, and robed it in starlight and crowned
it as queens are crowned. "Oh, worship the Lord in the
beauty of holiness!" "One thing have I desired of the
Lord ;. . . to behold the fair beauty of the Lord"—such
words open chasms of contrast. God pity them; like those
of old, they know not what they do.</p>
<p>We came away, our books all sold and our strength of
voice spent out, for everywhere people had listened; and as
we came home, strong thanksgiving filled our hearts, thanks
and praise unspeakable for the little lives safe in our nursery,
for the two especially who but for God's interposition might<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_328" id="Page_328">[328]</SPAN></span>
have been on that barge—and oh, from the ground of our
heart we were grateful that He had not let us miss His will
concerning these little children. We thought of those special
two with their dear little innocent ways. We could not think
of them on the barge. We could not bear to think of it—again
and again we thanked God, with humble adoring thanksgiving,
that He kept us from missing our chance.</p>
<p>But the mere thinking of that intolerable thought brought
us back upon another thought. What of that girl by the fireside?
What if she misses her chance? We know, for letters
confess it, that many a life has missed its chance. What of
the woman, strong and keen, with pent-up energies waiting for
she knows not what? What of the girl by the fireside crushing
down the sense of an Under-call that will not let her rest?
The work to which that Call would lead her will not be anything
great: it will only mean little humble everyday doings
wherever she is sent. But if the Call is a true Call from heaven,
it will change to a song as she obeys; and through all the
afterward of life, through all the loneliness that may come,
through all the disillusions when her "dreams of fair romance
which no day brings" slip away from her—and the usual and
commonplace are all about her—then and for ever that song of
the Lord will sing itself through the quiet places of her soul,
and she will be sure—with the sureness that is just pure
peace—that she is where her Master meant her to be.</p>
<div class="sidenote">"This I wish to do, this I Desire"</div>
<p>Not that we would write as if obedience must always mean
service in the foreign field. We know it is not so: we know it
may be quite the opposite; but shall we not be forgiven if we
sometimes wonder how it is that with so much earnest Church
life at home, with so many evangelistic campaigns, and conventions,
there is so poor an output so far as these lands
abroad are concerned? Can it be that so many are meant to
stay at home? We would never urge any individual friend to
come, far less would we plead for numbers, however great the<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_329" id="Page_329">[329]</SPAN></span>
need; we would only say this: Will the girl by the fireside, if
such a one reads this book, lay the book aside, and spend an
hour alone with her Lord? Will she, if she is in doubt about
His will, wait upon Him to show it to her? Will she ask Him
to fit her to obey? "And this I wish to do, this I desire; whatsoever
is wanting in me, do Thou, I beseech Thee, vouchsafe
to supply."</p>
<p>Forgive if we seem to intrude upon holy ground, but sometimes
we see in imagination some great gathering of God's
people, and we hear them singing hymns; and sometimes the
beautiful words change into others not beautiful, but only
insistent:—</p>
<div class='poem'>
The Lord our God arouse us! We are sleeping,<br/>
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Dreaming we wake, while through the heavy night</span><br/>
Hardly perceived, the foe moves on unchallenged,<br/>
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Glad of the dream that doth delay the fight.</span><br/>
O Christ our Captain, lead us out to battle!<br/>
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Shame on the sloth of soldiers of the light!</span><br/></div>
<div class='center'>
<b>. . . . .</b></div>
<div class='poem'>
Good Shepherd, Jesus, pitiful and tender,<br/>
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To whom the least of straying lambs is known,</span><br/>
Grant us Thy love that wearieth not, nor faileth;<br/>
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Grant us to seek Thy wayward sheep that roam</span><br/>
Far on the fell, until we find and fold them<br/>
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Safe in the love of Thee, their own true home.</span><br/></div>
<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_333" id="Page_333">[333]</SPAN></span></p>
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