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Title: The Widow Davis and the young milliners
A story for young ladies
Author: Lucy Ellen Guernsey
Release date: April 25, 2025 [eBook #75954]
Language: English
Original publication: New York: Nelson & Phillips, 1873
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WIDOW DAVIS AND THE YOUNG MILLINERS ***
Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the
public domain.
[Illustration: The Wet Sunday.]
THE
WIDOW DAVIS
AND
THE YOUNG MILLINERS
A Story for Young Ladies.
BY THE AUTHOR OF
"THE MOTHER'S MISSION," "THE OBJECT OF LIFE," ETC.
[_LUCY ELLEN GUERNSEY_]
[Illustration]
THREE ILLUSTRATIONS.
[Illustration]
NEW YORK:
NELSON & PHILLIPS.
CINCINNATI: HITCHCOCK & WALDEN.
CONTENTS.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER
I. SUNDAY AFTERNOON AT THE DAVIS COTTAGE
II. JANE SAUNDERS SEEKING LIGHT
III. OBSTINATE ELLEN
IV. BRIGHTER DAYS
[Illustration]
Illustrations.
[Illustration]
THE WET SUNDAY
JANE SAUNDERS
THE YOUNG MILLINERS
THE WIDOW DAVIS
AND
THE YOUNG MILLINERS.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER I.
SUNDAY AFTERNOON AT THE DAVIS COTTAGE.
MRS. DAVIS had once filled the situation of assistant teacher in a
school, where she had profited by opportunities of instruction; but
after a period of prosperity, a succession of trials and losses,
followed by widowhood and broken health, had reduced her to extreme
poverty. Subsequently her only child, Mary, having, through the
kindness of friends, been instructed in the various branches of the
millinery and dress-making business, was able to afford material help
to her mother, in the little income she earned, and on which they lived
in contented obscurity.
Mary Davis was employed at the establishment of the chief milliner and
dressmaker in her native town, where her steady attendance and never
failing industry were greatly valued, and where tolerable regularity
in the hours of labor, and an hour snatched from rest, either in the
morning or evening, at home, enabled her to minister in many ways to
her mother's personal comfort.
Sunday was Mary's happiest day; a portion of it was spent in the public
worship of God, and the study of his word; a portion in instructing
others at the Sunday school; and the remainder in enjoyment of her
mother's society.
But very different were the Sunday enjoyments of Mary's young
companions at Miss Baylis's, some of whom had homes in the town, and
some lived in the house of business; and Mrs. Davis heard with pain
and regret of their plans for amusement and pleasure on the Lord's
day, which they considered entirely their own. Displays of finery, and
meetings for revelry and gossip, after the six days' restraints of
duty, constituted their chief idea of enjoyment, as if the cessation of
bodily toil implied also the waste of precious time, the misapplication
of other talents, and total neglect of the immortal soul.
No longer able, through infirm health, to prosecute her labor of love
in the Sunday school, or the district, Mrs. Davis applied her heart and
mind, with prayerful interest, to the condition of these thoughtless
young people, and watched in anxious hope for some opportunity of
usefulness in their behalf. They were her daughter's companions
necessarily for six days every week; they were immortal creatures;
and they were living not only without God in the world, but in open
rebellion against his authority, and rejection of his love. This was
enough to enlist the active efforts of a practical Christian. She began
with a wet Sunday afternoon.
Among the smaller miseries of human life, first in the catalogue of
the milliner's apprentice, the shopman or shopwoman, and indeed of all
employed in weekly labor, whose hearts have not found peace in Him who
"prepareth rain for the earth, giveth snow like wool, and causeth the
wind to blow," stands a wet Sunday afternoon. Vain were it to attempt
an enumeration of its powers to disappoint, to cross and irritate those
whose minds are set upon self-indulgence in one form or another, from
the tradesman, intent upon his drive, to the little servant maid whose
turn is the "Sunday out."
"Rain again, mother," said Mary Davis, as she prepared for church one
Sunday morning; "how disappointed two of our new workwomen will be,
for they have talked of nothing all the week but a pleasure trip this
afternoon."
"Do you think they would come here instead?" asked her mother.
"Perhaps, as they have not been long enough in the town to have made
many acquaintances, they might be glad of an invitation, rather than
remain in their own room."
Mary shook her head; she did not think it probable that two such gay
and dressy girls as Jane and Ellen Saunders would like to come to her
quiet home, but she would be passing the house, and could call to ask
them; this, on her return from church, she did.
She found the sisters sitting at the window, with most uncomfortable
tempers and discontented faces, looking out upon the dirty street and
the falling rain, making remarks upon every person who passed by, who
afforded any possible subject for their ridicule and criticism of dress
or manner.
"Why, Mary Davis," exclaimed Jane, as Mary entered the room, "who would
have thought of seeing you here to-day? Are you come to sit with us,
and help us to get over this miserable day some how or other? I'm sure
I don't know what to do with myself." *
* See Frontispiece.
Mary delivered her mother's message, and observed with pleasure that
Jane's countenance brightened up from its dull, heavy expression of
idleness and ill-temper, though Ellen still looked as sulky as before.
"I'm sure it's very kind of your mother, and of you too, Mary, to think
of us, and to come in all this rain to ask us," said Jane.
"You need not praise my kindness," said Mary, smiling, "for I have only
called on my way from church."
"What, have you been to church such a morning as this? You are
wonderfully good I'm sure, and don't care about your clothes as much as
I do."
"My cloak and boots are water-proof, you know; but I must not stay, so
what shall I tell my mother?"
"That I shall be very glad to come, very glad indeed, won't you, Ellen?"
"I—I really don't know," stammered Ellen; "perhaps it may clear up yet."
"O no, I don't believe it will; there isn't a gleam of sunshine or a
bit of blue sky to be seen. I give it up altogether for to-day, and you
wouldn't be so ill-natured as to go without me, even if the weather
should get a little better."
There was no knowing exactly what ill-natured thing Ellen might not
have been meditating, if her countenance at all indicated her feelings.
"Well," said she at last, "I'm much obliged to you, Mary, but I don't
think I shall like to go out at all."
"I will come," said Jane, cheerfully; "what time shall I be at your
house?"
"As early as you please," replied Mary. "I shall not be at home from my
Sunday school class till between four and five, but my mother will be
very glad to see you;" and away tripped Mary over the mud, and through
the rain to her frugal dinner at home, before attending the Sunday
school, where she taught a class of little children, few of whom would
probably be present that day.
"I wonder at you, Jane," said Ellen scornfully, as soon as the sisters
were alone; "why you will have a duller afternoon than sitting here
looking out of our window; and somebody might happen to come that would
cheer us up a little; but at Mrs. Davis's, in that stupid dull lane,
what in the world is there to see? Besides, you will get wet in going."
"O but I need not put on anything very nice to go there, you know; and
it will be a change, for I really am tired of sitting here. I like Mary
too; and as she is no gossip, she has not asked us to come for the sake
of amusing herself, but because she knew we must be disappointed of
going where we liked; and I call that kind."
"I don't believe she is sorry we are disappointed though," said Ellen;
"you know she is rather religious, and I dare say her mother is as
stiff as buckram, and does nothing but read the Bible, and sing psalms;
or perhaps she will give you a lecture. Poor Jane, how you will repent
going within her reach!"
And Ellen laughed satirically at the idea of her sister's mortification
under the lecture of her religious hostess.
"For shame, Ellen," said Jane, half vexed and half laughing; "what
right have you to object to her reading the Bible and singing psalms if
it makes her comfortable? What else have old people to do? Enjoyment is
all over for them; and if they can get up something to pass away their
time, and make them easy about death, I'm sure I think it is a great
mercy for them. Besides, it is Sunday you know and a little religion
once a week is only proper for everybody, I suppose."
"Well, then," retorted Ellen, "why did you not go to church this
morning, instead of grumbling here with me?"
"Because," replied Jane, with honesty, "I did not like to spoil my best
things, and I did not choose to go in shabby ones. I can tell you, I
envied Mary that comfortable cloak, that we laughed at her for buying,
instead of having a pretty fancy mantle like ours. She thought of the
wet days, we only of the fine ones."
"I do hate wet Sundays," exclaimed Ellen passionately; "I can't think
what they are made for, except it is to disappoint people who work hard
all the week and have no other day to enjoy themselves in."
Jane looked at her sister with mingled surprise and compassion. She had
quite recovered from her own annoyance, and had never seen Ellen so
thoroughly out of temper on the subject before; and she justly feared
that something more was involved in the disappointment than she was at
present aware of.
"Will it be of any use for me to stay at home with you, Ellen?" said
she, kindly. "I forgot when I accepted Mary's invitation, that you
would be alone."
"O dear no, go by all means, and see how you like the old woman's
lecture. I dare say I shall hit upon some way to amuse myself by and
by."
When Mary reached home in the afternoon, she found Jane seated there,
without any trace of weariness or discontent visible on her bright
face. She knew something of her mother's powers to attract and
interest, and was not surprised when Jane, turning round to notice her
entrance, exclaimed playfully, "I can't talk to you yet, Mary; I must
hear the end of what your mother is telling me first."
"Are you wet, dear?" asked the mother, as Mary threw off her cloak.
"Scarcely at all, mother, thank you; I am so glad I had this useful
cloak."
"Ah, Mrs. Davis," said Jane, "Mary is a sensible girl; who knows it is
not all sunshine in this world, and we could not persuade her to buy a
thing that would not stand a shower."
"I do not like to see people in distress about spoiling their clothes,
if it is right for them to be exposed to the risk of getting wet,"
said Mrs. Davis; "and if we cannot afford to purchase for all kinds of
weather, it is wisest to get such as will not be greatly injured by any
weather."
"Very true; but you see, Mrs. Davis, ours is a dangerous kind of
business for economy of that sort. We are engaged in making pretty
things, and setting people off to the best advantage; and it is
very natural to like to do the same for ourselves when we get an
opportunity. But I do confess that often when we have been tempted to
spend our money on what is elegant, we are obliged afterward to feel
the want of what is useful."
"You speak very candidly," said Mrs. Davis, smiling kindly; "will you
forgive me for asking why the good sense, or the experience which has
taught you that you are liable to such temptation, does not carry you
one step further, and cause you to resist it?"
"Ah, that is just what I should like to know," said Jane. "Here is your
good Mary who never yields to such temptations, nor covets any of the
beautiful things we make up, though they would look as well upon her as
on the people who are to wear them. What is the reason of it? I hate
a weak mind that has always to be troubled with repentance after the
mischief is done."
"Is not the great safeguard against that unhappy consequence found in
acting always from steady principle, instead of being led by changeable
feelings?" asked Mrs. Davis.
"I dare say it is. And Mary has a steady principle, then."
"O do not quote me, Jane," interrupted Mary. "You do not know how
it would have been with me if I had not a mother, a dear Christian
mother," she added affectionately.
"And a wiser and higher guide in the counsel and control of the Spirit
of God," said Mrs. Davis.
"Dear, dear, how calmly you speak of such awful things!" said Jane,
somewhat alarmed, for she remembered her sister's warning about "a
lecture," and thought it must be coming now.
"And why should we not speak calmly, and thankfully too, of truths
that are intended to give peace to our hearts, and consistency to
our conduct? You wished to know what would enable any one to resist
temptation, did you not, my dear?"
"Yes, but—but I did not know that it belonged to religion; I thought
you said something about principle."
"So I did. I have no idea of any real, strong, trustworthy principle
which does not spring from true religion. I do not mean the dull,
formal, heartless profession which some are satisfied to call religion;
but I mean the sweet and happy pleasure of acting out in all we do the
love with which a living faith in the work and mercy of a most precious
Saviour fills our hearts. But I see Mary has made tea, and by and by,
if you please, you shall help us to read an interesting account of one
who was ruled by this principle, and it will show my meaning better
than my own words can do it."
When Jane reached home at dusk that evening Ellen was absent; but her
arrival at the last moment allowed by the rules of the house, and
in the highest possible spirits, convinced her sister that she had,
according to her own predictions, "hit upon some way to amuse herself."
"O Jane," she began, "what a pity you went out so early! Do you know
that good-natured Fannie Ashton sent her little brother to say that her
father and mother were going out, and she wished us to come and have
tea with her, for she was obliged to stay at home to mind the little
ones. So of course I went, and we have had such fun."
"You and Fanny and the little ones?" said Jane, inquiringly.
"Well, there was just another or two; and Henry Ashton brought in a
companion with him to tea, so we were a merry party. Fanny said she
ought to enjoy herself if she had to keep house, and she gave the
children cakes and sugar-plums to keep them in good humor, and got them
off to bed as soon as she could, and then we did enjoy ourselves till
I was obliged to come away. They all laughed about your going to Mary
Davis; and Fanny said you would be sure not to be caught so again. Did
you get the lecture I promised you?"
"No, indeed," said Jane; "and I don't know that there was anything
to laugh at. I have had a very pleasant afternoon, and Mrs. Davis is
such a nice kind person, her manners and mind are quite like a lady's,
though she is not very well off now, I suppose. I was so glad when she
asked me to go whenever I like on a Sunday afternoon; and I shall very
often like, let who may laugh at it."
"On wet Sundays, I suppose," said Ellen; "but of course you will not
go and mope there on fine ones. We are to go next Sunday the excursion
planned for to-day; and our party will have some other pleasant people
I can promise you."
"Ah, Ellen, take care. You know uncle said you were too fond of company
and new acquaintances."
"Well, do you think he would be pleased with your prim Mrs. Davis
and her daughter? Does he not wish us to associate with people above
us, rather than below us? So take care for yourself, Jane, and don't
suppose that you need to watch over me."
"But you must come with me to Mary's some day," said Jane, "and judge
for yourself. You cannot help liking Mrs. Davis, I'm sure. And do you
know she actually read such a pretty story, and you thought she read
nothing but the Bible."
"Now I know there were bits of the Bible in the book, weren't there,
Jane?" asked Ellen, laughing. "Else you would never have got the story:
I shan't let her choose stories for me."
"It was all very good, wherever it came from," said Jane, "and quite
fit for Sunday, though interesting enough for other days. I shall go
and hear some more of it next Sunday; so, good-night."
Jane and Ellen Saunders were orphans, left to the care of a
respectable, kind-hearted uncle, who had given them as much of
education as he considered suitable to their prospects in life, and
had promised that after they had obtained sufficient experience in the
business to which they had been apprenticed, he would set them up in a
small establishment for themselves. In the mean time they were to be
employed by the Misses Baylis, whose extensive connection furnished
opportunity for acquiring that further experience.
The following Sunday proving again showery and dull, found Jane the
willing companion of Mary Davis, while Ellen still preferred to wear
out her temper and patience at the window, in anxious hope that some
congenial friend would take compassion on her solitude. This happened
at last, for the excursion having been again deferred, Fanny Ashton,
with her brother and his friend, called to invite her to a walk toward
some public gardens, where they could take tea, and find shelter if so
inclined. It never struck the vain and foolish girl to observe how her
company served the design of Fanny Ashton, by occupying the attentions
of the brother, under whose protection she left home, while she herself
appropriated those of his flattering friend. Nor did Ellen pause to
reflect, that had Henry Ashton been sincere in his professions of
regard, such scenes of Sabbath-breaking revelry as some of those which
he occasionally permitted her to witness or overhear, were not just
those to which feelings of respect and a sense of propriety would have
introduced her.
Jane found her kind friends as agreeable as before, and soon became a
regular and welcome visitor at the cottage.
By a natural and easy transition from opinion or opposition to decision
and proof, Mrs. Davis gradually led the attention of the ignorant
girl to the great standard of truth, and stimulated her interest by
occasionally calling upon Mary to name the chapter and verse in which
the desired reference occurred; and as Mary had learned Scripture
from her childhood, she served the purpose of a concordance to the
astonished Jane.
"Dear Mary, I never knew anything like your memory," she exclaimed one
evening; "I wish I could remember where to find what I want in the
Bible as you do."
"That is to be done by practice," said Mrs. Davis; "and if you will not
think it too childish, suppose I ask you to learn a text for me every
week. Say it over to yourself each day, and you will certainly know it
by Sunday."
"I'm sure I have no objection if it will please you," said Jane;
"you are the first person who ever made me think there was anything
interesting in the Bible, excepting to old people who are going to die
soon. You are not old yet you know," she added quickly.
"I have no objection to be classed with old people, I assure you," said
Mrs. Davis, smiling, "if it is one of their privileges to find the
Bible their dearest consolation; but do not young people die sometimes?"
"Perhaps they do; but then one does not expect that they should, you
know."
"But since it does often happen, is it not wise to be prepared at any
time for that which must come some time?"
"I dare say you are quite right, but it is so melancholy to be thinking
about death; and while we are well I don't think it can be necessary:
there is no need to meet trouble half way, is there?"
"It is only melancholy to those who do not know of a Friend in heaven,
with whom to be present is far better than any earthly pleasure."
"My father and mother and two little brothers are in heaven," said
Jane, "but that does not make me wish to go there yet."
"But have you a Saviour in heaven an advocate with the Father, who
has 'washed you from your sins in his own blood,' who represents you,
pleads for you, loves you with an everlasting love, for whose sake you
will be welcome to all the happiness and honor of his presence and
kingdom?"
"Ah, Mrs. Davis, who can tell that?"
"All who walk and live by faith in the Son of God, dear Jane, can tell
that."
"Then I have no faith, for I know nothing about such things; and if
they make one wish to die, I don't want to know them yet."
"It is not necessary to wish to die; but it is most comforting to know
and feel that which would take away the sting of death, if it pleased
God to cut short our term of life. But the very same faith and love
which would rejoice to depart and be with Christ, also enables God's
people to live in content and happiness on earth as long as he sees
good to spare them."
"Do you wish to die?" asked Jane, abruptly.
"Not now, dear. But I did wish it once when I had some severe trials;
I used to say with David, 'Oh that I had wings like a dove! for then
would I fly away, and be at rest . . . I would hasten my escape from
the windy storm and tempest.' But it was wrong, and I know now that in
heaven, where there is no sorrow, or sighing, or sin, we cannot glorify
God in the way that we may here amid the trials and temptations of
life."
"But," exclaimed Jane, with the perversity of the natural heart, "I
should not wish to live if I thought I must have trials and miseries in
this world."
"Then, dear girl, do you not perceive how desirable is that divine
grace which so overcomes the self-will and the selfishness of our
sinful nature, as to make us submissive and patient under all God's
dealings? You know you must submit after all, for who can successfully
resist his will? But to trust his love, like an affectionate, obedient
child who knows that he 'doth not willingly afflict,' is peace, most
precious peace, and the secret of true happiness."
"Ah," thought Jane, "I am afraid Ellen would say I am getting the
lecture now."
"But," said she, "if I wished to feel as you say, Mrs. Davis, how can I
be made to do so? Is it not very hard and difficult, and should I not
be obliged to give up a great many things that I like?"
"The Bible does not say so, and I never heard any true child of God say
so. The message of the Gospel is not a command to give up anything,
or to be or do anything, of ourselves; it is just an invitation to
receive something. It offers to lost sinners a Saviour, in whom God has
provided every blessing, every gift, every supply of which we stand in
need."
"But, Mrs. Davis, am I such a sinner as that—a lost sinner? I'm sure
I don't wish to sin; it is such a strong, disagreeable name to call
people who do nothing very bad."
"Do you love the Lord God with all your heart, and mind, and soul, and
strength? And do you love your neighbor as yourself?"
"No, I can't say that I do," replied Jane, coloring; "but then I have
never done any harm to anybody that I know of."
"But God's holy law demands that some thing must be done that is right,
as well as nothing done that is wrong; so if you have failed at all,
you are a sinner, and must not expect to escape the displeasure of
an offended God, who sees only two classes of human character—saved
believers and lost sinners. You are able to judge for yourself whether
you have cast yourself, with all your sins and weakness, on the love
and pity of the great Redeemer, who came to seek and to save that which
is lost; or whether you are hoping to need no mercy, and get to heaven
some other way. You read this evening what Scripture says of the people
who do that in the tenth chapter of John's Gospel."
"But what do you mean, Mrs. Davis? You say we must obey God's law, and
yet that no one does obey it; how, then, can any one be saved?"
"This is just the inquiry I like to hear you make, dear Jane. It takes
your attention at once to an answer in the life and death, the love and
power of the Son of God, who died for our sins, and rose again for our
justification. The law man could not keep with his evil heart, Jesus
kept and perfectly fulfilled; in place of the punishment man deserved,
and could never have escaped from, Jesus offered his own sufferings and
death for every sinner who believes in him; and all who will not trust
him entirely must bear the consequences of their unbelief, 'for there
is none other name under heaven given among men, whereby we must be
saved.'"
"Then it does not matter whether I obey God or not if Christ has died
for me, does it?"
"You must first be satisfied that the benefits of his death are made
yours by faith personally. Do you think you could know positively
that a friend had endured some dreadful suffering and disgrace that
you might be spared, and not love that friend, and feel very deeply
grateful for his love to you?"
"No, indeed; I hope not, I think not."
"And could you willfully grieve and disobey one whom you love, and take
pleasure in what he disapproves and caused his sufferings?"
"O Mrs. Davis, I see what you mean now."
"Yes, dear Jane, you see the tender bond by which true believers in the
Lord Jesus Christ are bound to obey his will, and to follow his steps.
His love constrains them. They no longer wish to live unto themselves,
but into him who died for them."
"Then I must believe first, I suppose? It seems easy enough to do that."
"It would appear that the apostle Paul did not think so, when he wrote
that 'the natural man discerneth not the things of the Spirit of God.'
Saying 'I believe,' is not believing. True faith is the gift of God.
His Spirit takes of the things of Jesus, and shows them to the sinner's
heart. It is a lesson beyond human teaching, dear Jane, but one which
God the Holy Spirit teaches successfully, where he teaches at all, and
which we are too far fallen to learn of ourselves. The very desire to
learn of him is his work; and if you would believe in Jesus to the
salvation of your soul, ask for the blessing, and you cannot be denied."
Jane remained silent and thoughtful, looking into the fire for some
time, and then suddenly asked for the text she had promised to learn.
"Take the twenty-third verse of the sixth chapter of the Epistle to
Romans first," said Mrs. Davis. "'The wages of sin is death.' Is that
enough to make you feel happy all the week, Jane?"
"No," said Jane, with a slight touch of sadness in her voice, "give me
some other; I told you I did not want to think about death yet."
"Then learn the whole verse. 'The wages of sin is death; but the gift
of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord.'"
"Does it say that really?" And Jane seized the book to satisfy herself
that it did indeed say so.
She was not forgotten that night in the affectionate prayers of her
faithful friends.
CHAPTER II.
JANE SAUNDERS SEEKING LIGHT.
ONE morning in the ensuing week, as the young people were busily
engaged upon some elegant dresses for a ball about to be given in the
neighborhood, Miss Baylis hastily entered the room with a roll of black
crape in her hands.
"Young ladies," said she, in a voice somewhat agitated, "I am sure you
will be sorry to hear that the ball-dress for Miss M. is no longer
needed; she died last night after a very short illness."
The work fell from every hand, and looks of astonishment and regret
overspread every countenance.
"Dear, how awful!" exclaimed one. "And she was here only the other day,
looking so well and happy."
"It is quite a warning to us all, I'm sure," said Miss Baylis; "she
had everything to make her happy, and was only just come out too. Poor
thing! It is very sad indeed. Pray put away those flowers and ribbons
that she was going to wear, I cannot bear to see you do another stitch
at that ball-dress; and here, Miss Davis, begin immediately to cut out
crape bonnets and mantles for poor Mrs. M. and the little sisters. This
will throw several families into mourning, and I'm afraid we shall have
a great deal to do in a very short time."
And, with a few further directions, Miss Baylis disappeared.
It was not possible for kind-hearted girls, however thoughtless, to
hear with indifference of the sudden removal of one who had so lately
stood among them, giving her orders for this ball-dress with the
greatest interest and satisfaction.
They remembered how they had admired her beauty, and envied her rank
and station in life; how affably she had spoken to them, and how
they had watched her graceful figure as she remounted the beautiful
horse, which she told Miss Baylis was a birthday gift from her father
the day before; and how she had glanced up toward their window, with
consciousness that the eyes of some six or eight young people about her
own age were earnestly and admiringly regarding her. And now—ah, what a
painful contrast!
"I declare I feel quite melancholy and miserable," said Ellen Saunders;
"do make haste, Mary, and let us get over this gloomy work. I wish the
poor thing had not been here so lately, it makes one think so much more
about her."
"I wonder if she knew that text, Mary—my text," said Jane softly as
she helped Mary to fix the pattern about to be cut out. And in another
minute a tear stole down the young milliner's cheek, observed only by
the friend who understood and appreciated her feeling.
"Let us hope that she did, dear Jane, and learn ourselves to value it,
so as to be safe and happy in life or death."
"But if she did not know what your mother says all must know who are
saved, what then, Mary? So young, so pleasant, so happy!"—And Jane
paused.
"God's word must be true, Jane; we have nothing to do with applying it
to any one's case but our own: only we know that the Judge of all the
earth will do right. He has sent us a very solemn lesson, and our day
of salvation is now; let us not neglect it, for it may soon be over
forever."
[Illustration: Jane Saunders.]
It happened that Jane Saunders, being an excellent fitter, was sent
to Mrs. M.'s to take the pattern for frocks for the children. She was
shown into a large and handsome room, where the front shutters were
closed, and a large blind hung to the ground, at the back window,
excluding nearly all light, and the view of trees and flowers in the
garden to which it opened. Jane sat waiting some time, feeling very
sad and gloomy, and then the door was softly opened, and a little girl
stole in with a frock in her hand.
"If you please," said she in a low voice, "mamma cannot come to you,
but she says you are to make it like this."
"May I draw up this blind a little way, that I may see to take your
pattern?" asked Jane, moving toward the back window.
"Yes, I dare say you may, just for a minute, but there is no light
anywhere in the house more than this; and poor mamma is ill with crying
about dear Clara. Are you not sorry about her, too?"
"Yes, dear, I am indeed, very sorry," said Jane, in a tone of sincere
sympathy.
"But they say she has gone to heaven," said the child, "and everybody
is happy there. I don't feel so sorry since they told me that, for I
know who lives in heaven."
"Whom do you mean, dear?" asked Jane timidly.
"Why, I mean Jesus Christ. I have got a nice book that tells about him;
and it says he is so kind and good, and that he likes little children
to come to him, and to love him. So I shall go to him when I die; but
I must love him, and do what he wishes here first. I hope dear Clara
loved him, but she never told us. Do you love Jesus Christ?" added she,
turning round, and looking full into Jane's face.
"I—I hope I shall," said Jane, astonished and perplexed at the
straightforward question.
"Ah yes, I hope so: and then if you die, I can say that you loved him,
and I shall know that you are gone to heaven."
Jane might have replied to one older; but to the simple, trusting child
she could not, dared not say that she knew nothing of Jesus Christ to
warrant a hope of happiness in heaven; and though she would gladly
have prolonged the conversation, she felt awkward and confounded, and
concluded her task in silence.
Miss Baylis was quite right in her anticipations of having a great
deal to do in a very short time; and Saturday found much work still
unfinished, which was expected by some of her best customers that
evening. What was to be done? There were some who would not be offended
if their dresses were sent in early on Sunday morning, rather than not
at all; and to secure the finish of as many as possible, Miss Robson,
the forewoman of the establishment and the expectant of a junior
partnership in the same, set herself diligently forward to accomplish
the wishes of her principals in the best manner their united wisdom
could devise.
It was very rarely that the young people were detained long beyond
their appointed hours; but when especially requested to remain, they
usually were willing to comply. Every day of this particular week
they had worked early and late, and were not prepared for the further
demands of the obliging forewoman.
"It will greatly oblige Miss Baylis if some of you will stay and work
until about eight or nine o'clock to-morrow morning, young ladies,"
said she, on the Saturday afternoon; "we can accomplish a great deal
among us to-night, and it is but once in a way as it were. The poor
M.'s, you know, must have their things; we cannot refuse what death has
required; and then you see the ball takes place on Monday evening, and
we may have alterations to make in some of the things."
"Indeed, Miss Robson, I am half asleep over what I am doing now," said
one of the girls, with a yawn; "I don't think Miss Baylis can expect us
to stay to-night. I mean to lie in bed all day on Sunday."
"Well, you can go to bed, you know, directly you go home. I am sure we
would not deprive you of the whole of your Sunday. It is as a favor
Miss Baylis asks it; she does not, of course, demand it, but, for my
part, I have great pleasure in obliging her, and have no doubt that all
who are living in the house will feel the same."
"I'm sure I don't though," said Ellen, unhesitatingly; "I don't like to
give up my own day to please any one, and I never thought we should be
asked."
"Only two or three hours of it, my dear," said Miss Robson, soothingly:
"in fact, I dare say we can have done all that is really wanted by
seven o'clock if we try hard."
"And what shall we be fit for after sitting up all night, I should like
to know?" said Fanny Ashton, laughing satirically. "However, my mother
would not allow it, so it's of no use to ask me, Miss Robson."
"Well, I will say no more than this," and Miss Robson looked round
with a meaning smile, "that I have always found Miss Baylis knows how
to appreciate an obligation; and those of the young ladies who do
nothing but lie in bed, or amuse themselves on a Sunday, might as well
do something useful for once to please another person. Miss Baylis
expressly said that she would not ask any one who she believes makes a
conscientious use of her Sunday, as Mary Davis does, going to church
and Sunday school regularly, and having a sick mother to attend to,
and so on, but only those who do not think it necessary to be so very
strict, and have nothing to do for others."
Mary Davis, it should be observed, was not present when Miss Robson
made her appeal, but was gone down to the shop for some articles
required.
"Then," said Jane, who had listened hitherto without making any remark,
"does Miss Baylis think that we, who are doing a little wrong to please
ourselves, might as well do more to please her?"
"Doing wrong, Jane Saunders? What a strange speech!" exclaimed two or
three at once. "We are doing right to claim our own day, and to keep it
too; but it is certainly wrong to work on Sunday."
"I am inclined to agree with Miss Robson and Miss Baylis," said Jane;
"and if I only wanted to please myself to-morrow, I don't see any great
difference in the wrong between my amusement and my work, and wouldn't
mind on that account working till noon, or all day."
"O, but we need not do that, Miss Saunders. You are very kind, and I'll
tell Miss Baylis what you say," said Miss Robson complacently.
"O no, pray do not, Miss Robson," exclaimed Jane, "for I cannot consent
to work after midnight. I wish to make a better use of Sunday now than
I used to do," she added, blushing; "and I hope never again to deserve,
as I have done, to be asked to work on that day."
"That's Mary Davis's doing," whispered the young woman who sat nearest
to Miss Robson.
"It's unfortunate just now, at any rate," returned Miss Robson, in the
same confidential tone; "but you've no idea how highly Miss Baylis
thinks of Mary. She says she does not agree with her in some things,
but she would trust her for truth, and uprightness, and honesty and
all that sort of thing, beyond any young person she ever knew, and I
wouldn't say a word against her for the world. She has been pretty well
watched I can tell you though, and Miss Baylis says she does more work
and better than any of the others, and is always here first on a Monday
morning, looking so fresh and happy, while some of you come lounging
and yawning in as if you were tired to death."
"That's true enough," replied the other, laughing; "I always do feel
tired to death on a Monday, and I can't think why it is."
"Well, you had better get Mary's remedy then. But get on with your
work as fast as you can. I know one reason why Mary does a great deal
more than some. She never gossips away her time, for you don't hear
her voice once in an hour." And the forewoman, conscious that she was
not just then setting the best of examples, began to stitch away with
redoubled vigor.
On Monday morning Mary arrived at five o'clock, anxious to do her best
in the emergency. She found Jane in the work-room before her, and the
two friends who had honored God on Sunday, served their employers more
effectually on Monday than those who had yielded to Miss Robson's
proposal, for indolence could not very justly be reprimanded which was
declared to result from the overwork, and want of lawful rest.
Notwithstanding her good resolutions, Jane Saunders once or twice
yielded to Ellen's entreaties to join her and her companions in
Sunday afternoon excursions, but had not derived from them any of the
enjoyment so liberally promised. The fact was, that her conscience was
sufficiently awakened to perceive that their course was one of folly
and sin, and that there was evidently no fear of God before their eyes;
and if her heart did not at once candidly renounce their pleasures, it
was uneasy and disturbed while sharing them.
She saw that Ellen was absorbed in vanity and pride, elated with
flattery, and discontented and restless when any other seemed likely to
attract the attention she coveted.
Then Jane returned with thankfulness to her quiet afternoon with Mrs.
Davis. And after the sudden death of the interesting Miss M., she had
prevailed on one or two others to accompany her. These also, being
touched with the kind interest felt for their true welfare, and finding
themselves neither scolded nor lectured, repeated the visit, and soon
wished to follow Jane's example of learning a text every week.
Thus, the little party grew by degrees, until all Mrs. Davis's chairs
and benches were in requisition, and one or two friends in the town,
hearing from their young dependents of the Bible-reading at this humble
refuge from Sunday idleness and sin, sent now and then a little present
of grocery, or other useful things, that the widow might be enabled to
"show hospitality" without embarrassment or privation in the week.
"I wish, Jane," said Ellen, one day, "if you are determined to go to
that Mrs. Davis's, you would call for me at Mr. Ashton's on your way
home. I expect to spend the evening there, and they have so often asked
about you, that it seems quite disrespectful of you never to go near
them."
"I did go, you know, Ellen, once, to please you, and I did not like the
way you all behaved at all."
"Ah, that is your prim, precise nonsense, since you went so much with
Mary; but surely I have as much right to choose my friends as you
have," said Ellen, tossing her head; "but it is Mr. and Mrs. Ashton who
want to see you, or I'm sure I should not press it."
"I will call for you, and wait in the shop until you are ready," said
Jane; "I would rather not come in."
"Well, you will see how that will be; so I shall expect to see you."
And the sisters parted, one to giddy amusement and folly with a young
party bent on doing their own pleasure; the other to the happy little
group assembled round the widow and her Bible.
"You gave us so little to learn, Mrs. Davis," said Jane, "that I have
learned a long piece besides."
"I cannot find fault with that, my dear," replied Mrs. Davis; "but
the reason I gave you little was, that you might consider it deeply,
because the sentence, though so short, contains the pith of many a
volume."
"So you said; but really I cannot see so very much in it. They
crucified Him; what is it but a statement of a fact?"
"It is, as you say, a statement of a fact, and how solemnly important a
fact, I hope you will learn to understand. But I want to tell you, dear
girls, about a friend of my early days, who found a great deal in that
text. She was, as you seem to be, anxious to be what she called 'very
good;' but I hope your efforts will be more Scriptural toward that end,
than hers were in the beginning of her course.
"She was a warm-hearted, spirited girl, brought up by worldly parents,
and allowed to do very much as she pleased in most things. After she
grew up to womanhood, it happened that she heard some startling sermons
from an eminent preacher of the Gospel, which convinced her that there
must be something more interesting in religion than she yet understood,
and a great deal more to be done than she had ever attempted. So she
resolved to renounce 'the world,' which, in her view, consisted of
amusements, visiting, gay and expensive dress, and novel-reading, all
of which she rigidly denied herself, and thought she was wonderfully
successful in attaining an exalted position among the people of God.
Any appearance of remonstrance or opposition on the part of her
indulgent friends made her declare herself firm and ready for martyrdom
in defense of her new opinions. You do not need me to tell you that her
religion was as much opposed to the pure Gospel as her worldliness,
and more dangerous to her soul; for she was building herself up in
self-righteousness, while the religion of the heart, and the teaching
of God's Holy Spirit, were still unknown to her.
"One day, during a course of lectures on the history of the Lord Jesus
Christ, Elizabeth's favorite minister took for his text this short
passage, and she sat ready, as usual, to listen and admire, proud of
her ability to appreciate what she called 'a good sermon.'
"'How clever!' thought she, as she prepared her pencil and paper to
take notes. 'What can he say about such a little text as that?'
"And now I am going to read to you what she was able to remember
afterward of the sermon.
"'They crucified Him.'
"'They,'" repeated the preacher, pausing on the word, "who were they?
'Crucified,' what was it? 'Him,' who was He? Let us answer the last
question first.
"'God who at sundry times and in divers manners spake in time past unto
the fathers by the prophets, hath in these last days spoken unto us by
his Son, whom he hath appointed heir of all things.' 'Who, being in
the form of God, thought it not robbery to be equal with God: but made
himself of no reputation, and took upon him the form of a servant, and
was made in the likeness of men: and being found in fashion as a man,
he humbled himself, and became obedient unto death, even the death of
the cross.'
"He was the same of whom it is written, 'The Word was with God, and the
Word was God;' and 'the Word was made flesh, and dwelt among us . . .
the only begotten of the Father, full of grace and truth.'
"But how came this wonderful person in company with thieves, enduring
a disgraceful death, a public execution? He was not personally guilty,
for no charge deserving of punishment could be proved against him. He
was not powerless, for he could heal the sick and raise the dead; and
angels who were eagerly looking into the events of his extraordinary
career, would have sped to do his bidding.
"The ignorant taunt of his enemies was, 'He saved others, himself
he cannot save,' which was only true because he did not choose to
take himself out of their hands. The crowning act of his earthly
ministry must be performed; and while 'by wicked hands' the Son of
God was 'crucified and slain,' the eternal purpose of redeeming love
was accomplished; and that sinners might be saved, Christ died. He
was 'made sin,' 'numbered with transgressors,' 'endured the cross,
despising the shame,' and 'lifted up, that whosoever believeth in him
should not perish, but have eternal life.' So 'they crucified him.'
"Had the Jews been his executioners, they would have stoned him; but
being condemned by the Roman governor, the Roman punishment must
be inflicted. A painful, lingering, and cruel death; nay, more, an
accursed death, for it is written, 'Cursed is every one that hangeth on
a tree.'
"God had manifested his displeasure against sin by casting out of
heaven rebellious angels, 'who kept not their first estate,' and by
pouring out a destroying flood upon rebellious men; but now he was
declaring 'the riches of his grace,' in his kindness toward us by Jesus
Christ; and drawing the eye of faith and the affections of the heart
to 'the Lamb of God, which taketh away the sin of the world.' So 'they
crucified him.'
"'They.' Again let me ask, Who were they? You reply, The Roman soldiers
crucified him; and so they did, aggravating with every ingenuity the
sorrows they could not understand. But who put Jesus into the hand of
the Roman governor? The chief priests and scribes, who scorned his
instructions, envied his influence, and detested his purity. 'What will
ye that I shall do unto him?" asked the irresolute governor. 'Crucify
him,' shouted the false-witnesses and their angry masters. So 'they
crucified him.'
"And are we to stop there? O no! 'Forasmuch as ye know,' some of you
at least, 'that ye were not redeemed with corruptible things, as
silver and gold . . . but with the precious blood of Christ, as of a
lamb without blemish and without spot.' Then, what if, passing by the
actual hands that struck, and the voices that shouted, we pass along
the stream of time, during which multitudes that no man can number
have been saved and blessed through this solemn fact, and consider
ourselves at the present moment, you and I, did we not crucify him? 'He
was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities:
the chastisement of our peace was upon him; with his stripes we are
healed . . . and the Lord hath laid on him the iniquity of us all.'
"If Jesus had not died, we could never have been saved; if Jesus had
not died, man could never have estimated in any degree the depth and
power of that infinite love from which the plan of salvation sprang.
It was not that God needed to be appeased, 'for God so loved the
world, that he gave his only begotten Son;' but it was that his moral
government being thus righteously upheld, the lost might be sought
and found, and his love commended to us, 'in that, while we were
yet sinners, Christ died for us.' It was not that God was angry and
implacable, but that man, being redeemed by the blood of Christ, was to
be won and reconciled to him. It was the setting up, as it were, of an
eternal altar, on which sinners, feeling helpless and undone, might lay
their load of sin and care, and on which the one is consumed and put
away forever, and the other is changed into sanctifying discipline.
"If your sins be not repented of and confessed, and blotted out there,
they are yet on your own heads; and unpardoned sinners must die, for
'the wages of sin is death.' O, it is an easy thing to read and believe
a history, and give a sigh to the fate of an unjustly condemned and
persecuted man, and this may be done sincerely by an amiable, kind
heart that is never influenced beyond the moment by the fact; but, it
is quite another thing to take God at his word, to receive his message
of mercy and love, and, believing in his love to you, to yield up
in return the affection of your hearts, and the grateful service of
your lives. I would solemnly ask you to go to your closets, search
and see what is your real position before God, look to Jesus who was
lifted up that he might draw all to him; and then, in penitence and
self-renunciation, you will learn who 'they' were that 'crucified him.'"
Mrs. Davis paused, and left the minds of her young friends to meditate
for a little while on the truths she had read. She observed with
encouragement that no head was turned to question the impression made
upon another, and, perhaps, in that silence each, at least for once,
looked anxiously into her own heart.
Then she resumed. "Elizabeth had prepared to follow the preacher with
her ready pencil, that she might enjoy over again, or detail to others,
the eloquence she so much admired. Soon, however, her hand paused, the
paper remained blank, and her eyes rose with astonishment and alarm to
the face of the earnest speaker.
"At first she struggled proudly against the thought that she, if a
believer, could have anything to do with the death of Jesus. The
personal application of such a fact had never entered her mind before,
and yet the frightful alternative was not to be endured for a moment.
She meant to be saved, she must be saved. She could not, she would not,
cast in her lot with the enemies of God, with unbelievers, with lovers
of pleasure, and of the world which she thought she had renounced.
"What then must she do? Lay aside her self-complacency, her
self-denials, her religious observances, her charitable acts, her
readiness for martyrdom, and take up 'only her sins,' and carry them to
Jesus? Must she be like the penitent Magdalene, the convicted Peter,
the man who would not so much as lift up his eyes in the temple, but
smote upon his breast, crying, 'God be merciful to me a sinner?' Yes,
she must do thus if she would be saved, because it was for sinners
that Jesus died. It was sin that crucified him, and the utmost daring
of her self-righteous spirit had never gone so far as to assert, or to
imagine, that she had not sinned.
"She had a temper, and a tongue, and vanity and pride that could
have contradicted, at any moment, such self-complacent thoughts. She
had therefore always made the condescending admission that nobody is
perfect, that all have failings; but she hoped she was a great deal
better than many, and was doing something occasionally to commend
herself to the favor of a discerning God. And now came this humbling
Scriptural declaration of atoning merit and forgiving love, proclaiming
to faith and penitence a complete salvation, the effect of which
uproots the love of sin, dethrones self, and secures a loving obedience
to lawful authority; frees the toiling slave, and makes him an adopted
child.
"Elizabeth went home sad that night; the words she had failed to
write on paper sinking into her proud heart and probing its secret
depths. She tried to pray as usual, but now it seemed no prayer at
all; she had to learn as a little child, and to seek a Divine but ever
ready teacher. I need not describe to you the exercises of her soul
under the unexpected light that had dawned upon her; but she was not
able to fight long against the sacred truth, that 'not by works of
righteousness which we have done, but according to his mercy he saved
us;' and then she saw how grateful love would seek to render every act
righteous, and impress every thought and feeling with the beauty of
holiness, not merely to save self, but to glorify God.
"O my dear young friends, never suppose that God calls you to do
anything by way of merit in order that you may be saved, for there is
no merit in penitence or faith. And if you ask,—
"'Must we not give up our gaiety, and our amusements, and our love of
dress, and our Sunday excursions, and our thoughtless, or envious, or
unholy talk,' or any other things in which you allow yourselves?
"I answer, you are not told to think about giving up anything, except
as the proper fruit of faith and love to God and Christ, which the
Spirit of God has implanted in your heart; so that it is no longer
pleasure, but pain and grief, to do anything that is inconsistent with
obedience and devotedness to him.
"It will then no longer be,—
"'"Must" I give up this? Or deny myself that?'
"But rather—
"'What shall I render unto my Lord for all his benefits toward me? I
will take the cup of salvation . . . I will offer to thee the sacrifice
of thanksgiving, and call upon the name of the Lord. Whither he leads,
I will go; what he loves, I will love; and what he bids, I will do; his
friends shall be my friends, his foes my foes, his word my delight.'
"It shall no longer be,—
"'How near may I remain to the world, and yet be a believer in Him?'
"But,—
"'How far may I get from worldliness, and how closely may I walk with
Him?'
"The love of Jesus and the love of dress and vanity cannot agree
together in the same heart; the love of Jesus and the practice of
Sabbath-breaking cannot exist in the same person; one must exclude the
other, and the way of holiness will be found the way of true enjoyment."
"How I wish," said Jane Saunders to herself as she walked along,
according to promise, to call for her sister, "how I wish I had not to
call for Ellen to-night. I want to go and be alone and think, but she
will not let me. Why should I be troubled about her?"
Then memory recalled, like a still small voice of gentle rebuke,
a portion of a chapter she had learned: "He first findeth his own
brother Simon, and saith unto him, We have found the Messias; . . .
and he brought him to Jesus." She admired the brother's love: should a
sister's love be less zealous?
When Jane was announced at Mr. Ashton's, a rush was made from the
sitting-room, which opened by a glass door into the shop, and before
she could express any will or wish upon the subject, she was dragged
into the midst of the party assembled there, who seemed to be about to
sit down to supper.
"Ellen," said she, "I have called as you bade me, and we have only just
time to get home by nine o'clock. Will you get ready at once?"
"Why did you not come earlier then?" said Ellen, vainly endeavoring to
conceal her annoyance. "But it will not matter for you to be a little
late for once; Miss Baylis will excuse you, I know."
"I hope not to give her any cause for excusing me, Ellen; so be quick,
there's a dear girl, and let us go. Mrs. Ashton, I am sure you will
think it quite right for us to obey Miss Baylis's rules." And Jane
looked pleadingly toward Mrs. Ashton.
"Certainly, my dear, certainly; we will not ask you to stay to-night. I
am very sorry, Miss Ellen, but I see we must not have the pleasure of
your company and your sister's to supper."
"Pray do go and put on your bonnet, Ellen," whispered Jane, earnestly.
"Really, I am quite sorry," said Mr. Ashton, rousing himself from a
doze in his easy chair; "one so seldom gets a sight of you, Miss Jane;
but you are quite right about minding rules. I'm a great advocate for
punctuality and obedience myself; there's no managing young people
without them. Well, but you can come in and spend next Sunday with us
instead."
"O no, indeed, sir, thank you; I cannot indeed," said Jane quickly.
"Cannot? Why who is to hinder you?" asked Mr. Ashton, looking at her
with some surprise.
"I—I mean—I should say—I am very much obliged to you, sir, but I would
rather not," stammered Jane, coloring deeply.
"O, that's another thing; will not and cannot have rather different
meanings, Miss Jane; but I hope you don't think there's any more harm
in coming here, than in going to visit some other friends on a Sunday.
We hear that you are turning religious, and we think it a pity you
should wish to grow dull and formal."
"O, I am not religious," said Jane; "and I never knew, until I went to
Mrs. Davis's, what a happy thing it is to be so, at least, to have such
religion as hers. If Fanny and Ellen would come only once, they would
soon see that we are not dull and formal."
"Well, well, my dear, I'm afraid you are getting on fast; but every
one to his taste. I'm sure I shall never persecute any one for his
creed, for everybody has a right to judge for himself, according to his
conscience, I think."
Jane felt exceedingly uncomfortable, but she did not know how to reply
to a sentiment which, nevertheless, she knew to be false and dangerous.
At last, however, summoning courage, she said, as meekly as she could,
lest Mr. Ashton should think her presumptuous: "We study the Bible
at Mrs. Davis's, sir, to find out what is God's will, and then our
consciences can tell us afterward whether we try to do it or not."
"Ah, I dare say; that is Mrs. Davis's way, you see," said Mr. Ashton.
"O sir, surely it is the right way. How can we tell what is really true
and right in any other way?"
"I never argue, my dear; I let people think as they please," said Mr.
Ashton, hastily.
"Now, Ellen," again implored Jane, seeing her yet unprepared to depart,
"indeed I must go without you."
And she opened the door, on which Ellen and Fanny darted up stairs,
leaving her to wait in the shop until their return.
It was evident that the family in the sitting-room supposed she also
had gone up to hasten the process of dressing for the walk, for a
conversation immediately commenced, which they could scarcely have
intended for her ear, but the door not being completely closed, and
Jane having seated herself in the dark, to wait as desired, she could
not avoid hearing it.
"I'll tell you what, Harry," said Mr. Ashton to his son, "it's easy
enough to be seen which of those two girls will make the sensible
woman, and I hope you won't be paying too much attention to that
foolish Miss Ellen."
"O, you need not fear," replied the hopeful Mr. Harry; "it only amuses
us to see how she is puffed up with vanity and conceit. She little
thinks the fun we make of her for it. But I can tell you, we never talk
nonsense to prim Miss Jane."
"All the better for her; she's a steady girl, though she may be getting
a little Methodistical; but that's a great deal better than the silly
thoughts that seem to fill her sister's mind. A vain, dressy, giddy
girl will make a miserable, helpless, extravagant wife for any man who
has the misfortune to marry her; and even if the old uncle could give
her a good settlement, I should never wish to see that little simpleton
daughter-in-law of mine."
"Dear, dear, Mr. Ashton, of course not," said his wife; "Henry would
never be so foolish."
Mr. Harry was saved the necessity of a reply by the entrance of Ellen
and Fanny, when he started up to offer his escort home. Whereupon Jane,
burning with indignation, threw open the door, and haughtily declined
his services.
"Whatever is the matter with you, Jane?" exclaimed Ellen, as soon as
they had left the house; "I never saw you so rude and disagreeable
before."
"I am very sorry, I don't wish to be rude or disagreeable," said Jane;
"but I do wish I could persuade you to—"
"To come and be made a Methodist, I dare say," cried Ellen, angrily;
"but you need not expect it, so don't waste your trouble upon me."
Jane said no more until they reached their own room, when, putting her
arm round her sister, and affectionately kissing her half reluctant
cheek, she whispered the conversation she had overheard, so far only as
it related to Ellen herself.
In vain Ellen would have doubted; she knew that Jane scorned a
falsehood; and after a hysterical struggle to exhibit no other feeling
than indignation at the impertinence, she laid her head on her sister's
shoulder and wept bitter tears of mortification and distress.
"Dear Ellen," said Jane, when the disappointed girl was a little
calmed, "if you would but trust those who love you, instead of such
friends as these, how happy we might be! Will you not hear about Jesus
Christ, and let us follow him together? O, Ellen, he is no pretended
friend, to laugh at our faults when we are out of sight. He screens
them from others, and shows them only to ourselves, that we may confess
them, and that he may forgive them. I do feel that this vexatious event
has strengthened in me every desire and resolution I ever had to serve
and follow him, for he is the faithful and true Friend, and just the
one we need to keep us safe from harm and trouble."
And if the little girl at the house of mourning had been present to ask
again, in her artless tone of wishful inquiry, "Do 'you' love Jesus
Christ?" Jane's full heart would have prompted the reply, "'Lord, thou
knowest all things; thou knowest that I love thee.'"
CHAPTER III.
OBSTINATE ELLEN.
MARY DAVIS and her friend Jane were one day in the show-room together,
completing some arrangements for the display of fashions, which, at
stated periods of the year, brought all the ladies of the neighborhood
to inspect Miss Baylis's tasteful and tempting productions.
"O Mary," said Jane, as she settled a bonnet on the stand, "I do so
often wish we were not milliners. I have never told you yet what I have
been thinking about it, because you are one yourself; but it seems to
me quite a different sort of business from what it did when I began it."
"Does it? Why?" said Mary, going on with her work, which just then was
the completion of a pretty little cap.
"Why, what have we been doing now, but setting out temptations to
people to come and spend their money on many things they do not really
want, who will be persuaded to commit all sorts of extravagances,
instead of doing good with the means that God has given them."
[Illustration: The Young Milliners.]
"I have thought of that," said Mary, "but I never persuade; I show the
thing I am asked for, and it seems to me, that as people must have
respectable clothing, they may as well buy what is new and pretty when
they are about it."
"Ah! But it is not what 'must' be had that I am objecting to; you will
see, presently, many ladies will buy things they never thought of,
just because Miss Baylis says they are fashionable, or cheap, or very
becoming; and she says her bills are sure to be paid, because no lady
likes her milliner's account to be known. Besides, Mary, one is obliged
to be so insincere, and tell people things are becoming and suitable,
when one sees all the while they are just the very opposite."
"Obliged?" said Mary.—"Obliged to say what is not true, Jane?"
"Miss Baylis thinks so, and Miss Robson does it without any scruple, as
you will hear if you stay in the show-room."
"But you and I, Jane?"
"Well, dear Mary, not you, I am quite sure, but I can't say as much for
myself; if I should be determined to get on, I may be tempted. And you
may depend upon it that all who get on do it."
"One might have a good business, I think, if one only worked for those
who mean what they say, and want what they come to look at," said Mary.
"Good enough to satisfy you, perhaps; but is it not the gay and
fashionable, the vain and extravagant, who make milliners' fortunes?"
"Well, but is it right to want to make a fortune? Does not the Bible
say, 'He that maketh haste to be rich shall not be innocent;' and
'They that will be rich fall into temptation and a snare, and into
many foolish and hurtful lusts?' And they may do that in any kind of
business."
"Then you would not think it right to induce people to buy your goods?"
"Not against my conscience, and, as you said just now, my sense of
their being proper for them."
"Well, now, whom would you wish to buy that pretty cap you have just
finished so nicely?"
"Some nice-looking lady, who can afford to sit still, I think," replied
Mary, laughing, as she held up her work to see the effect; "for these
gossamer quillings will never keep their proper places in a breeze."
"Hush, Mary! Look, look!" whispered Jane. "Here come some ladies to get
the first look at the thing."
And two or three ladies advanced into the room.
"I want a pretty cap, and Miss Baylis says there is one just the thing
here," said an elderly person in spectacles, with a florid complexion
and a bustling manner, but, who was one of the richest of Miss Baylis's
customers. "Is this it?" she asked, taking the cap out of Mary's hand,
and turning to one of her friends. "Very pretty, isn't it? And quite
new, Miss Baylis said. I'll just try it on."
And the delicate little cap was presently placed on a head considerably
too large for the shape.
"Will it do, do you think?" said the lady, looking good-humoredly
at Mary, while the friends had gone to some other part of the room,
perhaps to avoid giving an opinion.
Mary saw at once that it did not "do" at all.
"I think, ma'am," said she, modestly, "if you will allow me, I can show
you some others which may suit better!"
"But this is a new style, is it not?"
"Yes, ma'am, but—perhaps this, the style is not old of this one." And
she presented a comfortable looking cap, much better suited to the age
and appearance of the lady.
"Ah, yes, this is very comfortable." And it looked comfortable too,
Mary thought.
"But," continued the lady, "I want something a little more dressy, you
know. This is rather too much of a morning cap."
"We can make up the same pattern in handsomer materials, if you think
proper, ma'am," said Mary respectfully.
"Well, yes, do so then. I think this suits me very well, and it fits so
comfortably."
At this moment Miss Baylis appeared, and immediately suspecting that
the millinery had not been recommended with any particular eloquence,
she began to praise the cap, entreated the lady to try it again, and
expatiated so warmly on the becoming effect of the latest fashion, that
the cap was purchased, and the lady departed, fully persuaded that she
had the prettiest head-dress in the town.
"I wish Miss Robson to attend in the show-room, you know, Mary," said
Miss Baylis.
"She was not quite ready, ma'am," replied Mary; "and she only asked me
to wait until she came."
Then Miss Robson came forward, and being a stylish looking little
person, with a head and shoulders that suited every decoration that
could be put upon them, and admirably showed off Miss Baylis's fashion,
she seldom failed, by her flattery and insinuating manners, to persuade
any purchasers who came within the power of her tongue, that the thing,
whatever it might be, which seemed to please, or which required to be
got rid of, was, without doubt, the very article they most wanted, and
certainly ought to buy.
"Mary, I was very near speaking out about that cap," said Jane, "for it
vexed me to see it carried off by that foolish old lady. I wonder her
companions did not advise her not to make herself look ridiculous."
"I felt sorry to see so little idea of what is comfortable and suitable
in old age," said Mary; "I did what I could to help it."
"Miss Baylis is to blame; she said many things that were untrue about
it, and now you see one reason why I dislike the business; I think I
shall ask uncle to let me do something else. But I shall talk to your
mother about it first."
Jane did not forget the subject, and when she told Mrs. Davis of her
wish to give up her present occupation, she felt a little disappointed
when her kind friend asked calmly, "On what ground, my dear, will you
name this wish to your uncle? He will want a good reason for it, of
course."
"I shall tell him that it is a business which tempts people to be vain
and worldly, and that I do not like to spend my time so."
"But examine well, dear Jane, before you blame the business. There will
always be people who have neither time, not inclination, nor ability to
make their own clothing; and is it not right that they should have it
done for them?"
"Yes, I suppose it is."
"Well, cannot directions be obeyed, and the best method and the best
materials employed, without vanity, or insincerity, or worldliness on
the part of the workman?"
"They might by Mary."
"And why not by Jane, if she has the same principle to guide her, and
the same desire to adorn the Gospel she professes to love? It appears
to me that your idea is just met by the advice of the apostle, 'Let
every man abide in the calling wherein he is called,' if it be a lawful
one. The only objection you bring against your business is that which
covetousness or some such sin joins to it. There is nothing wrong in
itself; and if you see it abused into wrong by others, you should try
to prove that it is no more of necessity the minister of sin than any
other calling in the world."
"But one would never get on, you know. It would be but a poor
second-rate sort of business, if one could not do as others do."
"'What is 'getting on,' Jane? Where does one get to? What is the end
in view? Is it to glorify God in some prospect of a future that we may
never live to see? It seems to me that the Christian has nothing to do
with what the world calls 'getting on,' but his desire and duty are to
glorify God every day and every hour of his life in the present, the
only time he is sure of; and if doing that, 'why take ye thought for
the morrow?' 'Why envy the foolish their rapid prosperity, when so few
can bear it without being 'lifted up to their hurt?' How far better to
walk with God in conscientious regard to truthfulness and sincerity,
depending prayerfully on his providence, than to manage a first rate
fashionable business with a worldly eye to 'getting on.'"
"Then don't you think one ought to wish to give up some day, and be—be
independent?" hesitated Jane. "To save something, I mean, that we may
have it to live upon when we are not able to work."
"That may be done—it had better be done—quite honestly, Jane; and the
believer will not allow his present conscience to be blotted with any
known sin, to secure a future object. If God's Spirit is in him, and
God's word guides him, he will have patience, he will live frugally,
and he will give cheerfully, nor refuse to do good with his dime now,
because he hopes to have his dollar to give away by and by. The looking
forward to a time to spend in self-indulgence that which has been
laid up in years of industry, is one of the devil's snares to check
benevolence and foster covetousness; and he persuades men that it is
lawful from the highest to the lowest branch of earthly business. It is
not for the true Christian to stoop from his high calling to this; it
is of the world, it is like the world, it is meddling with forbidden
things, and yet it may be made to seem so plausible, that it needs a
careful exercise of Christian judgment and the strict watchfulness of
an enlightened conscience to discern motives for earning and saving, as
well as for giving and spending."
"Then," said Jane, "you see no inconsistency in helping to make vain
and extravagant people more vain and extravagant still."
"I see that Mary and you are engaged in obeying the orders of people of
very opposite dispositions, without being aware in many cases of what
they are, and without being influenced for the better or the worse by
them. Our consistency, my dear girl, does not lie in the power of those
around us; it must have its deep living root in the love of Christ in
our own hearts."
"Well, then, Mrs. Davis, I am sure you will agree with me in the next
thing I am going to say. I mean to alter the style of my own dress at
once, and no longer look like a show-block for the exhibition of the
fashions."
"I confess there is something about it occasionally that may be
improved, my dear; but it will be right to consider that in future, and
not cast aside what you have already bought, unless you can afford to
do so."
"Ah! Then you think me wrong again I see?"
"Be sure that God has changed your heart first, Jane. His work begins
within; and the heart that is being probed and cleansed and renewed
by his grace does not begin with external things. I knew a young lady
once—she was such by birth and station—who became acquainted with
a Christian family, and admired and loved them ardently. They were
extremely plain in their dress, and having resolved to follow them in
everything, she did so in that. She not only gave up the gay society
she had mixed in, and offended all her relatives by denouncing them as
worldly, and unworthy of her attention and love, but she gave away all
her ornaments, many of which were very valuable, burned or destroyed
all her fashionable clothes, and appeared abroad in a plain common
gown, and a bonnet with only ribbon enough on it to serve for strings.
Her friends began to think she was deranged; but she said that God's
people were 'a peculiar people,' and the Lord Jesus himself was said to
be mad.
"She was sent from home for a time, in the hope of giving a turn
to her thoughts; but this only strengthened her resolutions, and
increased the ardor of her apparent devotion to her religious views.
At last, believing her to be sincere and conscientious in all these
singularities, her mother received her again, allowing her to dress,
act, visit, read, and go among the sick and poor as she pleased, while
the subject of religion was never mentioned in her presence excepting
with respect and concurrence in anything she thought proper to say.
"By degrees she wearied of a profession which had no enduring
life-giving energy within, and no connection with true faith from
above; and after the lapse of about two years, the cessation of all
opposition left the sparks she had kindled herself to die out. I
met her in the street to her way to pay a morning visit, dressed
expensively and fashionably, even to a white bonnet and feathers; and
I heard of her shortly afterwards dancing among the gayest and most
thoughtless at a ball given by some of her worldly friends, who were
delighted to perceive that she had what they called 'come to her senses
again.'
"Once afterward I had an opportunity of speaking to her, when she
boldly denounced all who made any profession of religion, as hypocrites
or self-deceivers, and said she should forever suspect everybody who
wore a straight ribbon, or a common gown unsuited to her station in
life; that she had made a great mistake herself in being influenced
by the example of others while in their society; but that she had now
regained the exercise of her own independent judgment, and was once
more a reasonable creature. Thus, you see, she had returned from the
extremity of outward opposition to the world and its ways, to the point
from which she set out."
"But did she never have any more religious thoughts or desires?" asked
Jane.
"I do not know; but I should suppose her hours of private meditation,
if she ever had any, could not be very happy ones."
"Poor girl, it was very sad," said Jane; "I hope I shall not be like
her, Mrs. Davis."
"I hope not, indeed, dear Jane; but I have mentioned her to you, that
you may see how possible it is to assume 'a form of godliness,' without
knowing anything of 'the power thereof.' Be sure that what outward
changes you make, you do so because you love God, and desire to glorify
him, and can ask him to sanctify the motive, which no eye but his own
can see in its true light."
"O! Mrs. Davis, how kind you are to talk to me in this way. I am a very
weak, foolish creature, and I fear I am wanting to be doing something
to look religious, before I have got any real religion at all. But I do
sometimes feel sure that I love the Lord Jesus Christ, and then I want
to do something to please him."
"That is quite right, Jane; and God forbid that I should check that
loving thought."
"Ah, but then I find myself wanting to seem better than others, instead
of remembering how wretchedly worthless I am myself before God. I
cannot think how it is, but I never seem to have a good thought or a
right feeling about salvation, but something vain or self-righteous or
abominable gets by the side of it directly, and then I hate myself more
than ever."
"O thank God, dear girl, for revealing to you something of the
deceitfulness of your own heart, for nothing else can make us depend
entirely on the Lord Jesus Christ. There is no safe place for the soul,
no purifying influence for the heart, and no real fulfillment of duty,
except looking unto him; and to be drawing contrasts or making outward
differences between ourselves and others, is just a plot of Satan
to turn aside our gaze from the right direction and our step front
progress in our Master's service."
"But there are many differences between God's people and the people of
the world that should be seen, are there not?"
"Yes, many; but they are, if I may venture to use the expression,
differences of growth and feature: they will come with our spiritual
progress, and should not be assumed as a badge by ourselves. It is as
easy and natural for a real Christian to dress with modest simplicity,
as for a worldly person to be in the height of the fashion; and as
easy to restrain the wishes within the limit of one's means, as for an
extravagant person to exceed them. The love of God is a regulator of
all such matters, when the Holy Spirit has planted it with renewing
power within our hearts. His children bear his likeness without any
unnatural effort of their own."
Ellen's displeasure against her friends, the Ashtons, gradually
subsided. Fanny, she knew, had nothing to do with the cause of offense;
and when her changed manner to Mr. Harry had induced his urgent
inquiries into the reason, she had allowed herself to be satisfied with
his assurances that he had only spoken to disguise from his parents the
real state of his feelings toward her, until he should be able to act
independently of their authority. Alas! Poor Ellen in her gratified
vanity did not pause to reflect, that the sin of the excuse was still
greater than the original mischief; but, had she done so, she would
have had no reason for surprise, for he who deliberately disregarded
God was not likely to be scrupulous about the fifth commandment, or any
other which opposed his inclination.
Jane observed the renewal of the intercourse with great uneasiness,
and made many attempts, by giving up her own greatest pleasure that of
joining Mrs. Davis on a Sunday in order to induce her sister to walk
with her alone, or remain at home together.
"Have you quarreled with Mary Davis," asked Ellen on one occasion when
this proposal was made, "that you are always teasing me to stay with
you?"
"No; but I have not quarreled with you either, and we so seldom have an
afternoon together."
"Why, you are so dreadfully dull now, you have nothing to talk about."
"I am sure I will talk if you will listen to me," said Jane cheerfully.
"Ah, you will, I dare say; but it is about what I don't want to hear. I
don't know at all why you should think ill of me, Jane, and that I need
to be saved, and all that. I go to church very often in a morning, and
if I happen to miss a Sunday or two, I go twice in one day to make up
for it; and when there is a collection you don't know how much I put in
more than you think, depend upon it; and I shouldn't boast of it, only
one must speak up for one's self."
"It is not what I think, dear Ellen; I only tell you sometimes what
the Bible says, and it is not possible to speak up for ourselves to
God, you know. You must hear what he says some day; and if you have no
Saviour to speak for you, what can you do?"
"I hate to hear you, Jane," exclaimed Ellen impatiently; "it is all the
nonsense that Mrs. Davis has put into your head, and I don't believe a
word of it. You pretend to love me one minute, and the next you make
out that I am so wicked I can't go to heaven. And then you would rob
one of the only pleasure we have, our little treats on a Sunday."
"I only want you to try to find your pleasure in another way, for
I quite agree with you that we do need pleasure, or change, or
recreation, whatever you please to call it, after six days' close work."
"Then why in the world do you never take any?" asked Ellen, in great
astonishment at the admission; "it is our own day, and we ought to
enjoy it."
"No, it is the Lord's day, and he gives the real rest, and the true
pleasure. Which of us gives the best proof of that on a Monday morning,
Ellen?"
"Of course you expect me to say you, because you happen to get up
first."
"Yes, I do; your head aches, you are so tired, you wish there was no
work to do, and then with a few others you grumble together and find
fault with everything because you miss the excitement and the flattery
of the day before."
"While you and Mary sit at work thinking how good you are," said Ellen,
knowing full well the truth of her sister's statement.
"We often think how good it is to have a day that no one has a right
to interfere with; when we may have time to read, and think, and pray
for all the help we need to make us happy and contented to work on the
other days, and to remind us that it is not merely to earn money, or
serve an earthly mistress, but to serve our heavenly Father. It is so
happy, Ellen, to turn from our work for the body to that clothing for
a better world prepared for us by our Lord Jesus Christ, which we have
nothing to do with the making of, but only to put it on."
"All very fine indeed; and you pretend this makes you willing to get to
work again on Monday," said Ellen, scornfully.
"It makes me happy to be just where God's will makes it my duty to be,"
replied Jane, meekly.
"I'm sure I wonder you condescend to be a milliner; I wonder it isn't
much too worldly a business for you."
"I thought it was, and wanted to give it up; but Mrs. Davis convinced
me that one may earn an honest living in it without being worldly and
frivolous."
"Well, you needn't expect me to go into partnership with you, and so I
shall tell uncle, for you would ruin our prospects at once, I see; but
I'm going out now, so good-by."
"You have a cold, dear Ellen; pray do not stay out late: you know the
evenings are getting chilly, and come on early now. Do take a shawl, in
case you should feel cold in that light muslin."
But Jane might as well have talked to the muslin itself, and Ellen
flitted away as light and thoughtless as ever. Her lesson was to be
learned under other teaching.
CHAPTER IV.
BRIGHTER DAYS.
MR. SAUNDERS, in the mean time, had not been unmindful of his nieces'
interests, and having heard of a respectable business about to be
disposed of, he secured the premises and the good-will of the resigning
person, and then went to inform them of their future prospects.
To his regret and surprise he was informed that Ellen had been taken
seriously ill, and had been removed by Jane's desire. Following Miss
Baylis's directions, he soon found himself at the neat little cottage
of a respectable widow, whose manners indicated the far superior
station of her former days. Here he was received with respect and
pleasure by Jane, who explained her reasons for the removal to his
entire satisfaction.
"And what has made her ill; do you know, Jane?" he asked.
Jane was silent, and Mrs. Davis relieved her by simply stating the
truth. "Late hours in the damps of autumn evenings, with too little
care in the matter of suitable clothing."
"Very foolish, indeed," said Mr. Saunders; "but I should have thought
you had too much to do to admit of getting out often in an evening.
You don't mean Sundays, I hope?" and he looked again at Jane, who was
silent and embarrassed. "Really, Jane," said he gravely, "I see now how
it is, but I thought better of you; your letters have been so sensible
of late that it seemed time to trust you according to my promise; but
who can expect giddy, thoughtless Sabbath-breakers ever to do any good
for themselves in the world? It is not respectable to go holiday-making
instead of minding your church and your Bible on a Sunday. I wonder
Miss Baylis has not seen to it for you, if you can't judge for
yourselves."
Jane replied that Miss Baylis usually went out of town on Saturday
night, and knew very little of her young people's habits on a Sunday.
"Well, then, she ought to know them; I can't see how she can shirk the
responsibility. I see after the doings of my shopmen and servants, and
put them in the right way."
Mr. Saunders's "right way," however, was not precisely the winning,
loving way that tends, under God's blessing, to make "the Sabbath a
delight, the holy of the Lord, and honorable." His views were those
of a respectable formalist, connecting God's blessing with human
obedience, in higher subjects, besides those of temporal interests,
which, it may readily be admitted, are usually benefited by such
outward respect.
Mrs. Davis took an opportunity of exculpating Jane from her uncle's
condemnation; and though it seemed to make Ellen's conduct still more
reprehensible, yet he spoke with kindness and forbearance to the
suffering girl, and told her of his plans for their future welfare.
Ellen was, indeed, seriously ill. She had paid no regard to Jane's
warning concerning her dress or the evening damp, and after taking tea
out on the grass with her young friends, at a place of public resort in
the country, had returned by water at a late hour, and the next day was
so ill from severe cold, that Miss Baylis gladly acceded to the earnest
request of Jane and Mary, that she might be removed to the care of one
who had been too sadly experienced in attendance on the sick.
Ellen had declared that she should not like Mrs. Davis at all; but in
vain she tried to nourish her prejudices against the kind and gentle
hand that ministered to her wants, and the mild voice that spoke only
of sympathy and interest, and at last ceased to expect the severity
and lecturing which she had persisted in associating with the religion
of the Christian widow. She did not know that the weapons of Christian
love become polished by constant use, and that the mellowing influence
of its principles softens down the roughness or the severity which
sometimes tinges the efforts or the judgment of zealous spiritual youth.
But, to the deep regret of her kind friends, she studiously evaded
every attempt to lead her mind to any serious thought, and employed
Fanny Ashton to retail to her the news of the town, and to supply her
with frivolous novels, with which she beguiled her time when able to
read. After recovering in some degree from the severer symptoms of
her illness, it became evident that no further progress was made, and
Ellen grew impatient of her incessant cough, her restless nights, and
continued weakness; and at last her medical attendant intimated to
Mrs. Davis, that his irritable patient was probably far gone in rapid
decline.
It was a severe shock to the affectionate sister, whose spiritual life
and growth in grace and knowledge had only refined her love for this
nearest earthly relative; but to break the intelligence to the invalid
herself, became a source of the deepest and most painful anxiety.
Fanny Ashton had begged Ellen to be prepared for a treat her brother
intended to give them, at a beautiful spot a few miles up the river.
He had obtained the loan of a pretty little sailing-bunt, manageable
either with canvas or oar, and the first fine Sunday was appointed for
the excursion. Fanny promised that instead of taking refreshment out of
doors, it should be prepared for them at the small inn, kept for the
accommodation of parties of pleasure, and that they should return home
before sunset.
The day arrived, and Ellen attempted to dress for the excursion,
notwithstanding Jane's assurances that her strength was unequal to the
effort. She insisted on trying, and protested that the air would revive
and refresh her. She looked up with envy into the healthy countenance
of her sister, who stood before her ready dressed for church, and whose
serenity was clouded only by anxiety for her.
Poor Ellen tried her shawl, and declared it was too heavy, she could
not wear it; her bonnet hurt her head, everything went wrong, her hands
trembled with weakness and excitement; and at last, throwing aside her
preparations, she sank down upon her bed and burst into tears.
"You are right, Jane," she sobbed, "I am not strong enough yet; you
must call and tell them I cannot go to-day."
Jane turned tearfully away from the thin pale form of the lately
blooming girl, and went to do her bidding.
That day, which had so painfully impressed the invalid with the
first real consciousness of her weakness, was passed in repining and
discontent, and when the hour for the assembling of Mrs. Davis's
reading party had arrived, and Jane still remained at her bedside, she
desired her to go down, and drawing a book from under her pillow, said
she preferred to read alone.
The next day a trying task devolved on Jane, who was considered the
most fit person to break to her sister news which must almost overwhelm
her, but which could not long be withheld. Several times during the day
Ellen had impatiently inquired for Fanny, who, she said, ought to have
been to see her.
"But she will come in the evening, I am sure, to tell me all about the
party, and who went, and who was sorry that I could not go. Fanny is
a nice girl, Jane; I am surprised that you never liked her. I must go
there as soon as I can get out; Mr. Ashton won't call me vain and silly
now, since I've had this illness to make me so steady and quiet." And
she tried to smile at the bitter recollection.
Jane made no reply, and Ellen looked again in her face.
"Why, Jane," she exclaimed, "I hope you are not going to be ill too;
you really look dreadful, and as if you had been crying all night. What
is the matter with you?"
"It was a very good thing you could not go out yesterday, dear Ellen,"
said Jane, tenderly.
"I don't think so at all; but that is not an answer to my question,
you have not been crying about me surely, Jane?" And again she gazed
inquisitively, and with some rising alarm, upon her sister.
"Mr. Ashton called last night," said Jane.
"Mr. Ashton? How very kind! I'm sure I did not expect him to come and
inquire after me."
"He came to see if Fanny had been here."
"Why? Did not Fanny go straight home after the party came back?"
"The boat was very late in leaving to return, I believe," faltered
Jane; "and Henry Ashton, and the other young men had taken too much to
drink."
"O Jane! Go on—what else?" whispered Ellen, turning deathly pale, and
trembling violently. "Tell me quickly, what else?"
"The boat upset; Henry was picked up, and five of the others; but poor
Fanny—"
Ellen heard no more; she sank back, apparently lifeless, and remained
so for some time.
The unhappy young people, to the number of nine, having delayed their
return too late for the idle efforts of four half-intoxicated young
men, embarked hastily, in the hope of reaching a river steamer, which
might tow them easily along. The effort to catch the rope which was to
connect them with the steamer, caused a lurch, which frightened the
female portion of the party, and they rushed to one side; this upset
the boat, and in an instant they were all struggling in the water for
their lives.
Fanny clung to her brother, who, in a moment of sobriety, might have
saved her; but now, stupefied with drink and fear, he was intent only
on self-preservation, and though the steamer hovered for a considerable
time about the fatal spot, three of the young women were seen no more.
The wretched father had returned home after eager inquiries at the
river side, whence nothing could be seen of the boat, and was again on
his way, in almost frantic despair, when he was met by the bearers of
his son, and the news of his daughter's fate.
Henry was seized with brain fever, and his struggles to reach his
sister, whose cries for help seemed to ring in his ears, were frightful
and distressing to his broken-hearted parents, who mourned too late
their negligence of parental duty.
Ellen's lamentation for Fanny Ashton's unhappy end was mingled with
thankfulness for her own escape. "It would have killed me quite," said
she shuddering; "for had I been saved from drowning, I must have died
from the effects of such fright and cold."
"And you feel you would not have been prepared for such a summons to
another world, dear Ellen," said Jane, when, after a time, her sister
thus recurred to the event.
"O, I don't know about that; it did not come you know, so I need not
think about it!"
"But it must come some day, and by some means. If not by sudden
accident, by sickness and—"
"Well really, Jane, I wonder how you ever expect me to get well,
talking about such things," said Ellen, with irritation; "but I want
you to write to uncle, and ask for me to have a change of air directly;
I'm tired of being here, and I want some companions with more life and
spirit than you have, to rouse me out of melancholy thoughts. Poor
Fanny, she always had something pleasant to talk about." And Ellen wept
herself to sleep, with her hand upon the last novel that her friend
had brought, and which Jane softly drew away, leaving her Bible in its
place.
When Ellen awoke she discovered the exchange, and felt annoyed; but
suddenly her thoughts took a new turn. What if Jane's fears were really
excited about her health? What if all this excessive weakness, and
distracting cough, meant something more than temporary indisposition?
She had observed the looks of tender pity with which all seemed to
regard her, and the increased desire to guide her mind to heavenly
things. Could it be that her life was really in danger, and they wished
to make her aware of it without any sudden shock? Then she burst into
passionate weeping, burying her face in the pillow, against which she
leaned, until roused by the gentle hand of her kind nurse.
"O Mrs. Davis!" she cried with broken voice. "Do tell me, am I—am I
dying? Is it possible that I cannot get well?"
"Your soul will die, my child, if you do not ask the Lord Jesus Christ
to save it. If you had peace in him, you would resign yourself to his
will for life or death."
"O! I cannot; I love the world, and I want to live. It is a cruel
thing to die so young. O, do send for other doctors, they may think of
something to cure me. I will have change of air and scene; I will try
everything."
And in restless impatience, poor Ellen waited the arrival of her kind
uncle, who came to take her to his house, that she might try the effect
of her native air.
Mrs. Saunders was a more rigid formalist than her husband, and
carefully attended to all her "duties," under the conviction that her
own righteousness and merit must secure her a future heaven. Of a
present earnest of its blessedness she had no idea; of the Spirit of
adoption she knew nothing; the mighty cost of redemption she had never
calculated, and believed that her frigid rules, and unlovely notions
of a godly and sober life, fully entitled her to glory in herself, and
upbraid all who more manifestly failed in obedience to God's commands.
Ellen had never troubled herself about her aunt's religion before:
but she thought it especially disagreeable now, and missed the loving
accents of true grace in the friends she had left. She did not
understand the difference between her aunt's and Mrs. Davis's religion,
but she felt its influence, and began to think that, if people must
needs be religious, those who made the Lord Jesus their only hope and
example were greatly preferable in temper, humility, self-denial, and
Christian charity.
After a short residence in this uncomfortable home, she entreated leave
to return to Mrs. Davis; and her request was willingly seconded by Mrs.
Saunders, who declared that a more discontented, unchristian invalid
had never fallen to her charge.
And so poor Ellen, weaker, and sadder, and more irritable than before,
was welcomed again by the kind widow as a daughter, over whom her
loving heart yearned with the longing of one who knows what a piteous
object is an unsaved sinner in the day of trouble. She felt now that
the suffering of the weak body was a small consideration compared
with the impending destruction of the soul, and she spoke firmly and
solemnly to the dying girl, and, kneeling by her side, spoke for her to
Him who can prosper his word on its errand of mercy.
A youthful heart, filled with vanity and worldliness, is a very
stubborn thing: habitual disregard of God and neglect of his word are
as fatal to such a one as to those whose bold iniquities proclaim their
ruin to the world, and must end in the same condemnation.
The "convenient season" anticipated by every one who defers
acquaintance with God to some future time, is not often found in the
season of sickness. It is painfully inconvenient, when conscience is
terrified, the heart full of idols, the body languid through weakness,
or tormented by pain, to be groping in confusion and darkness after an
unknown and neglected God.
Poor Ellen found it so, and amid her self-reproaches for wasted
opportunities, she was often heard to deplore with bitter regret those
misspent days, when she had resolutely cast in her lot with those who
feared not God, and refused to praise him for his goodness, and to hear
of "his wonderful works to the children of men."
Happy are those young people who can spend a Christian Sunday in a
Christian home; and deeply to be felt and cared for are those who have
only the house of the hireling to shelter them from the temptation
to wander in streets or revel in godless pleasures. But a home may
be without God; and a hireling's room may be a scene of heavenly
affection, when God and the sinner meet, blessing and blessed, in
hallowed intercourse, which—
"Wafts the happy soul awhile
Far, far away from this low sphere;
And in a Saviour's loving smile,
Arms it anew for duty here."
After Ellen's death Mr. Saunders very kindly, and in gratitude to Mrs.
Davis for her tender care, offered to Mary the partnership with Jane in
the business he had wished the two sisters to undertake; and Mary had
the satisfaction of once more surrounding her beloved mother with many
of the comforts to which she had been accustomed in earlier life.
The friends adorned themselves "in modest apparel, as women professing
godliness," and found themselves able to execute expensive or
fashionable orders for their customers without commending worldliness,
or compromising their own personal consistency; and it was often owing
to their judicious and sensible advice, respectfully offered, that
advancing age was saved from merited ridicule, and extravagance checked
by due regard to means and station.
As employers, they did not forget the experience of their past life in
their conduct toward their own dependents; and when Saturday's work was
done, it was one of their chief desires and pleasures to provide as far
as lay in their power, for the Christian enjoyment of the day of rest.
Their home was also their workwoman's home, if they had no other, and
maternal kindness and friendly interest made it attractive and happy.
And to those who were able to appreciate their many privileges and
advantages, the Lord's day became emphatically "a delight," and was
anticipated with joy as the workwoman's best and happiest day.
THE END.
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