Over and over in his mind did Tip repeat this verse; it seemed to sound all around him, and mixed up with everything he did. And yet he went out of the house that evening, and turned straight down the street in the direction leading to the tented circus grounds, walking along slowly, talking to himself.
"It won't do any harm just to listen to the music. I don't mean to go in—of course I don't! Suppose I'd do that, after all I said to Kitty! Besides, I couldn't if I would; I haven't got any ticket. I'm just going to walk down that way, and see if there's lots of folks going, and if the music sounds nice."
"Avoid it, pass not by it." Oh yes, Tip knew; he heard the voice, yet on he went; beginning to walk swiftly, only saying in answer, "I ain't going in; I couldn't if I wanted to; and I don't want to."
By and by he came within sight of the tents and within sound of the music, which, to his untaught ears, was wonderfully beautiful; came up even to the very door of the large tent, bewitched to go just a step nearer, though he didn't mean to go in, not he.
Yes, the people were crowding in. Mr. Douglass stood by the door. Tip knew him very well; that is, he knew he lived in a large house and had plenty of money; and he knew, when the men were trying to raise any money, some one was sure to say, "Go to Mr. Douglass; he's always ready to give."
Everybody liked Mr. Douglass. He turned around now from looking down the road, and looked down at Tip.
"Well, Tip," he said, "going to the circus?"
Tip shook his head.
"What's the matter?—no money? Pity to get so near and not go in; isn't it, pet?"
This last to the dainty little girl whose hand he held.
"Yes," she answered, with a happy smile. "Papa, why don't mamma come?"
"Oh, she'll be along soon. Here, sir," to the doorkeeper, handing him twenty-five cents, "let this ragamuffin in. In with you, Tip, and practise standing on your head for a month to come."
It was all done in a hurry; the doorkeeper stepped aside, the crowd jostled and pushed against him, the music burst forth in a new loud swell. A moment more, and Tip stood in the brightly-lighted room, staring eagerly around him. There was enough to see; the seats were filling rapidly with gaily—dressed ladies and gentlemen. He knew them, many of them, had seen them on the streets often and often; had seen some of them in Sabbath school, seated before their classes.
Tip was speedily giving himself up to enjoyment, hushing the small voice in his heart. One of the nicest men in town had let him in; yes, and there he was now with his wife and little girl; Mrs. Douglas was not only a teacher in the Sabbath school, but a member of the church. If she could go to the circus, why couldn't he? So Tip reasoned, and nobody told him that his lamp said, "Every one of us shall give account of himself to God."
Presently the wonderful little shaggy ponies trotted out; and back behind the curtains was one of the riders; he got a peep of her every now and then in her splendid dress; he knew she would be out pretty soon, and then she would ride.
Oh, that music! how it rolled around the ring! Tip was too busy looking and listening to keep out of people's way; he stepped back, still jostled by the crowd who were pouring in, and stepped directly in front of a man who was trying to make his way through the crowd around the entrance. Tip knew him in an instant; he was one of the circus men,—the one with the ugly face that he had noticed in the morning; it was ugly still, and red with liquor. He turned a pair of fiery eyes on Tip, and a dreadful oath fell from his lips as he swung him angrily out of his way.
Oh, Tip Lewis! No wonder your heart fairly stops its beating for an instant, then bounds on with rapid throbs. Only a few days ago you listened to the story of a bleeding, dying Saviour, bleeding and dying for you; and you promised, with honest tears, that for this you would love and serve and honour Him for ever. And yet, to-night, here you are, watching the tricks of men who can speak that sacred name in such a way that it will make even you, who are used to this, shudder and turn cold. "In the name of the Saviour whom you love, what do you here?"
It was to Tip as if Christ Himself had asked that question. He turned suddenly, and, with both hands pressed to his ears, fairly fought his way through the crowd.
"Let me out! let me go!" He fairly shrieked the words at the astonished doorkeeper, who stood aside to let him pass. Up the hill with swift, eager steps he ran, trying still to shut out the ring of that awful oath, the sound of that hateful voice, speaking the name which had so lately become to him the one dear and precious name in earth or heaven. On, on, up the hill, and then down on the other side, stopping finally at the great tree under the hill, just across the pond. Stopping and sitting down, he tried to think. What had he done? He had been warned, he had been tempted, and he had fallen. It didn't help him now to think that good men and women were there. Perhaps God had not so plainly shown them the wrong. Perhaps they had never found that verse: "Avoid it, pass not by it." Perhaps—oh, anything—it was nothing to him now. This much was certain: he had done wrong. Such a heavy, heavy heart as Tip had to-night. "What should he do? What would Kitty say, if she found it out? Oh, what would Mr. Dewey think, or Mr. Holbrook? and then, above all else, came the thought, What could Jesus, looking down on him now from heaven, what could He think of him? This thought brought the bitter tears, but it brought him also on his knees; and he said,—
"Oh, Jesus Christ, in spite of it all, you know I love you. Won't you forgive me and let me try again?" Long he knelt there, trying to get close to Christ, and his Saviour did not leave him alone. It was only yesterday he had learned the verse, and it came to him softly now: "Thou art a God ready to pardon, gracious and merciful, slow to anger, of great kindness."
In his sore trouble, Tip's lamp had not failed him.
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