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Title: Myra Sherwood's cross, and how she bore it
Author: Lucy Ellen Guernsey
Illustrator: Norman Ault
Release date: September 23, 2026 [eBook #79640]
Language: English
Original publication: London: The Religious Tract Society, 1891
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79640
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MYRA SHERWOOD'S CROSS, AND HOW SHE BORE IT ***
Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration: "WE GALLOPED OFF FOR OUR LIVES."]
Myra Sherwood's Cross
AND HOW SHE BORE IT.
BY THE AUTHOR OF
"THE OBJECT OF LIFE," "HOME IN HUMBLE LIFE,"
ETC., ETC.
[_Lucy Ellen Guernsey_]
[Illustration]
LONDON
THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY
4 Bouverie Street and 65 St. Paul's Churchyard E.C.
CONTENTS.
CHAP.
I. INCIDENTS OF CHILDHOOD, AND A FAMILY HISTORY
II. A TRIAL OF PRINCIPLE
III. THE DESOLATE HOME
IV. "WHAT MADE YOU COME?"
V. HARRY'S LESSONS AND A CHANGE OF SCENE
VI. A SECRET
VII. A HAPPY SUNDAY
VIII. A NEW HOME AND SOME VARIATIONS OF TEMPER IN IT
IX. HOLIDAYS ANTICIPATED
X. THEY THAT WILL BE RICH
XI. PEACEABLE FRUITS
XII. AFTER A TIME
XIII. THE BROTHERS—A CONTRAST
XIV. SIN BRINGS SORROW
XV. IN THE SCHOOL OF CHRIST
XVI. "OVERCOME EVIL WITH GOOD."
XVII. "DYING IS BUT GOING HOME."
XVIII. NEWS FROM AFAR—HARRY'S ADVENTURES
XIX. SISTERS' LOVE
XX. THE LAST OF THE STORY
MYRA SHERWOOD'S CROSS.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER I.
INCIDENTS OF CHILDHOOD,
AND A FAMILY HISTORY.
"DEAR father, you are to name your little granddaughter; what will you
call her?" said a lady, holding in her arms a young child, whose mother
had just been laid in the family vault in the village churchyard.
The old sire was mourning that she, the young, the loved, the useful,
should be cut down in her bloom, and the aged and the helpless left
behind.
"Poor thing, poor thing!" said he, touching the soft cheek. "If Edward
does not object, call her Myra, and let her be brought up to be as much
like our lost one as possible. I will have her mother's picture put
into the nursery; and Myra must be taught to love the sweet face, and
to grow like it. She cannot be like it unless she is good, you know. My
Ethel's face was a good face."
"Edward will be satisfied with your decision, dear father, but his
distress is so terrible, he cannot bear the child in his sight at
present."
"Ah, poor Edward! Time will help him, and me too. I shall soon see her
again, so the faster it flies now, the pleasanter for me. He may have
a long journey yet, but new scenes and faces will beguile him of his
sorrow. I wish you had the bringing up of her child, Amy. Can it be
managed? You are so like Ethel, that the little one would never know
the difference."
"I shall make the offer as soon as I may venture," replied Amy Somers,
kissing her niece, and wishing she might carry her off at once to her
own nursery. But that could not be; for when the poor distracted young
father came to see and love his child, he might be displeased at the
idea of a separation, even though others should feel that it might be
for her benefit.
In due time, the widower ceased to nurse his sorrow. And the grandsire
ceased to mourn for the darling of his life and home, the message
was welcome that bade him prepare to join her, so he set his house
in order, summoned his remaining daughter, blessed his motherless
grandchild, and after a useful life spent in the love of God and the
service of his generation, he fell asleep in Jesus at a good old age.
Again the family vault was opened, and Mrs. Somers, with the little
Myra on her knee, followed her dear and honoured father to the body's
last resting-place. But she rejoiced in the assurance that he and Ethel
had met again among Christ's redeemed, to wait together for the morning
when the finishing touch shall be put to the likeness commenced by
grace below, and the Redeemer shall be "admired," not only in Himself,
but "in all them that believe."
Her thoughts were not idle concerning her father's wish respecting
Ethel's child, but she could only wait, and she waited as patiently as
she could.
The watchful grandsire had seen his prediction fulfilled, that new
scenes would wear away the grief of his son-in-law. And, even sooner
than he expected, a new face had dimmed the remembrance of his Ethel.
The fact was not grudged, but silently noted, and its consequences
provided for. The little Myra, after the first keenness of the shock
of her mother's death, had for some months seemed necessary to the
existence of her father. But by degrees, he went less frequently to the
nursery, required her company less often in his library, sometimes put
her off with a gay kiss when she pleaded for her place on his knee.
And before she was two years old, her scenes of pleasure had become
gradually transferred to the house and presence of her grandfather,
while report spoke of a coming new mistress, and a step-mother in her
home.
It was not wonderful that these changes should work other changes, both
in thought and practice. And when the grandsire's will was read by the
attorney, after the funeral, it was found that only a legacy was left
to his son-in-law, as a mark of regard and good-will, while the portion
that would have fallen to his loved daughter was confided to suitable
trustees (for the whole and sole use of her only child) until the age
of twenty, when they were to surrender their trust, or continue it, as
she and they might decide.
Mrs. Somers followed her brother-in-law to his own house, in anxiety
about the effect on him of this unexpected settlement of affairs. He
was in his library, and had ordered that no one should disturb him. But
he was not accustomed to brood over disappointments and vexations, and
learning that Mrs. Somers was with Myra in the nursery, he proceeded
thither.
"Papa, papa," cried the little one, "see mamma." And she pointed to the
picture of her mother, and then to her aunt's face, putting her little
fat arms round Mrs. Somers, and kissing her, saying, "Pretty mamma,
Myra's mamma!"
Mrs. Somers clasped the child close, and looked up in Mr. Sherwood's
gloomy face.
"Edward, will you, can you, give or lend her to me now?"
"Myra seems to have decided," said he, looking from the picture of
his late wife to the face of her sister; "the likeness is certainly
striking. It has been evidently intended that I am not to have much to
do with her," he added bitterly.
"Nay, brother, your authority over your child is not interfered with;
only the property, and you do not need it."
"That is nothing to the point. It is monstrous that two comparative
strangers should have the management of it. It is an insult to my
integrity, and my feelings as her father. What will she think of such
mistrust, when she is able to understand it?"
"My dear father meant it for the best," said Mrs. Somers sadly; "let us
hope it will prove so; and if you will trust me to take care of Myra,
she shall never misunderstand, or imbibe a prejudice against, either
him or you."
"I will think of it, Amy," he said, after a silence of some moments. "I
believe I could trust you; you would not alienate her affections from
me. You would let her often come to see us; and, as a visitor rather
than an inmate, some foolish feelings and prejudices might be avoided."
The "us" betrayed the subject of the speaker's thoughts; and Mrs.
Somers's heart bounded with thankfulness at the course they had taken.
"Myra, will you go with Aunt Amy?" said he, taking her in his arms, the
cloud clearing from his brow.
Myra patted his face, and returned his kisses, but then, stretching out
her arms to her aunt, she said again, "Mamma, go to mamma."
"It will be a great charge for you, Amy, in addition to your own, but
I see it is the best thing to be done for Myra. Be liberal in all
provision for her, nurses and governesses, and so on. Let her have a
first-rate education, and let your children share whatever advantages
you give to her. Nothing can repay you for your kindness to her and to
me. I will give orders to nurse about preparing for the change."
"Edward, you must do one thing more; you know we may live even farther
away from you than we do now, for my husband's health may require a
warmer climate, at least for the winter. Let Myra have a picture of you
to match this, and they shall be side by side wherever she is, that you
may be associated with everything she loves, and furnish a stimulus to
every effort to become what you wish your daughter to be."
"It shall be done," said the gratified father; "it is a nice thought.
She is a dear little thing, and I should not like her to forget me."
Then he rang for the nurse, gave her all needful orders, and left them.
Though deeply annoyed at the terms of the will, Edward Sherwood's
mind was greatly relieved. Not only was it satisfactory to know that
his child was provided for without any trouble on his part, but the
perfectly natural and satisfactory guardianship of her aunt would leave
the coast clear for the new-comer, saving her from all the fears and
troubles and responsibilities of a step-mother; securing to the little
maiden herself the most happy of homes and the most loving of friends,
and avoiding the probable contingency of banishment to school at some
early day. Nothing could be better, and the picture should be painted
at once, and accompany its companion (the likeness of the cherished
bride of some three years ago) to Myra's future home.
Mrs. Somers and her charge had not long departed, when alterations were
commenced in the house, and, in due time, another fair young wife was
the heart-cheer and comfort of its master.
Years sped swiftly, committing three children—two daughters and a
son—to the parents' care. And when the little Myra came to see them,
and learned to love them, it was a never-failing comfort to the
father's heart, though not unmixed with slight remaining jealousy,
that, come what might through the fluctuations of business, she needed
nothing from his provision for the others.
Mrs. Sherwood wisely kept her own view of the case to herself, and, in
her husband's presence, was all that he could wish to his elder child.
Myra, however, seemed never sorry when her visits ended, though she
desired to love them all if they would but allow it. Helen, the eldest
of the three, was her favourite, because she responded kindly to her
overtures, but Harry was rough and blunt, and Florence was shy and hard
to win.
A great and unexpected change occurred when Myra had reached her ninth
year. She was suddenly summoned to her father's death-bed, and only
arrived in time to share with the others his parting blessing. With
a stricken heart, she begged to remain some time with the mourning
family. But, evidently not recognised as having an equal share in the
sorrow, and finding her presence neither appreciated nor desired, Mrs.
Somers was glad to take her away again to the more genial home she had
so long enjoyed. No more invitations came for Myra, the little letters
that had passed between the children became few and far between, and
none of Mrs. Somers's invitations were accepted.
Whether Mr. Sherwood had made any ample provision for his family was
not known, but the news of his widow's marriage with the gentleman who
had undertaken the settlement of his affairs occasioned only a little
passing surprise. This gentleman, Mr. Haynes, was a prosperous man of
business, and he was kind to the children, to whom his protection and
guardianship were supposed to be invaluable; so all went on calmly
again, and in the indulgence of a more luxurious style of living than
before.
Mr. and Mrs. Somers, on their part, devoted themselves to the education
of their children wherever the best assistance was to be found, and
Myra received with them, according to her father's wish, a first-rate
education; the only drawback being, and to her loving heart it was a
real one, that he could no longer enjoy her success in study, nor its
results in her future character.
Twice only, on occasions more like a stranger's call than a friendly
visit, the children met during several years, but Mrs. Haynes was now
a fashionable woman, still in the prime of life, highly attractive,
and too much engrossed with her own family and position to bestow much
attention on her former step-daughter.
The children of Mrs. Haynes were under the charge of professors and
teachers, and seemed to care very little for their elder step-sister,
though three younger playmates were received with every token of
satisfaction. Myra would have clung, with a sister's love, to those who
bore her father's name, but it was hard to be repulsed with coldness.
Myra was at no loss for channels for her young affections. Her uncle
and aunt were as parents, and her cousins were as dear as any sisters
or brothers could be. Seldom had "the lines fallen" in more "pleasant
places" to an orphan girl, and Myra know nothing of the sorrowful side
of that condition. Love and peace surrounded her, and it must have
been an ungracious plant indeed that would refuse to bloom in such an
atmosphere. But Myra was not an ungracious plant, and she bloomed into
a very lovely flower.
———————
CHAPTER II.
A TRIAL OF PRINCIPLE.
MYRA SHERWOOD could not remember the time when "the name of Jesus" had
not been a sweet sound in her ears.
Her uncle and aunt were true believers in the Son of God, not merely by
intellectual assent to a certain creed, but by living faith in a divine
Person, whose life and death and resurrection form the only ground of
salvation, whose example and precepts provide the rule of a happy, holy
life, and whose likeness and visible presence constitute the "blessed
hope" and "unspeakable glory."
Such a faith was also a practical power, influencing all around
them, and Myra was more familiar with the motive of pleasing God and
honouring Jesus, than with any other by which feeling and conduct can
be ruled. It was the habit of her life to do whatsoever she did in that
home, thinking first what He would do, or wish her to do, under all
circumstances and on all occasions of selection or choice.
If sometimes it might seem that imagination had a share in such
decisions, it was a sanctified imagination, becoming the handmaid of
principle, and adding attractiveness and pleasure to the subject. The
religion of the young Myra was simple and practical, satisfying her
heart and employing her hand, while a clear and comprehensive mind saw
to it that the faith and the practice sprung from a source that the
boldest reason and the most cultivated intellect could never corrupt.
One day, for instance, a gentleman of sceptical opinions, who had
called on Mr. Somers as an English resident, turned the conversation
into a channel in which he evidently expected to sail triumphantly, to
the confusion of all opponents.
Mr. Somers answered him from the Bible with such effect that, smarting
under the vexation, the opponent turned his attack on the weapon
so skilfully wielded, and brought forward some of the stale, old,
oft-refuted objections to the inspiration and authenticity of the
Scriptures.
Here again his ignorance was exposed and his conscience appealed to,
and before he left the house, he had given a solemn promise to examine
into reliable evidences before again presuming to contend against a
rock whose foundations he had never fathomed, and a truth whose light
he shunned.
"Well, Myra," said Mr. Somers, when the visitor had retired, "what did
you think of that gentleman's views? I observed your attention to all
that was said."
"I could not help thinking, uncle, of your curiosity drawer in the
cabinet. He seemed to have collected a great many odds and ends out
of which to construct a theory, but they would not fit together,
notwithstanding all the hammering. He may as well leave them in cotton
wool, and be content with the masterpiece direct from heaven already in
our hands;" and she laid hers on her uncle's Bible. "Why, uncle, even
if Christianity were not inspired truth, cannot they see that it is
the most perfect, the wisest, the most pure and beautiful system ever
seen upon earth, and the most worthy of man's confidence? If it is not
divine and true, nothing yet discovered can compare with it, so we will
stand by it until something better comes. Surely a religion that never
speaks but to bless those who meekly listen, never touches heart and
conscience but to heal and sanctify, cannot but vindicate its origin at
every step!"
"Right, my dear niece; and those who can estimate the force of such
evidence are in little danger from misbelievers. If men would take
the Bible for daily guidance, irrespective of all arguments on its
doctrines, they would soon find an echo within that would be worth ten
thousand arguments, and a witness that could defy all human doubts and
speculations. It is not evidence that is wanted, it is humility. Pride
hates a superior, and the love of sin detests control. These lie at the
bottom of all the unbelief in Christendom."
Myra had learned the secret of that evidence. She had sat like Mary at
the feet of Jesus, and had heard His words; and the Holy Spirit had
taught her to appropriate them.
Naturally warm-hearted and enthusiastic, she had, while travelling with
her uncle's family in the East, trodden with reverence and delight the
scenes of the Lord's life and death—stood on the temple's site, traced
His steps to Bethany, meditated with solemn awe in "sad Gethsemane,"
rested by Siloam's pool, gazed upward from the spot where the disciples
may have stood when angel comforters came to tell how "that same
Jesus," who had just ascended into heaven, should at a future day "so
come in like manner as they saw Him go."
She had visited Rome, and seen where early Christians hid and early
martyrs died, and where, in later times, Rome papal took up the
persecuting sword which Rome pagan had been compelled to drop, and
another army of martyrs bore testimony to her right to the titles and
descriptions by which she stands denounced in Apocalyptic vision.
How grand, how glorious, she thought, to die witnessing for Jesus, who
died for sinners! And often the words of the Lord to His martyr Church
came flashing in light before her mind—
"Be thou faithful unto death, and I will give thee a crown of life."
But to live a life of self-denial as a member of Christ's body on the
fallen earth, amidst its petty cares and temper trials, its frets
and worries, its treacherous pitfalls, vanities, and snares, this is
another and, perhaps, not a lower thing in the sight of Him who said,—
"Whosoever would be My disciple, let him deny himself, and take up his
cross, and follow Me."
"To him that overcometh will I grant to sit with Me in My throne, even
as I also overcame, and am set down with My Father in His throne."
This was a phase of Christian life not so much contemplated by the
ardent girl, and, in the sweet content of the home hitherto enjoyed,
there seemed little fear of any very painful experiences.
The twentieth year had come and gone, the birthday had been
commemorated with due honour, the trustees had done their duty well,
and Myra was now mistress of her own actions and of her property. Her
wise old grandsire had desired to make her independent of all personal
effort for maintenance, and to enable her to indulge charitable
sympathies to a moderate extent, but he had not designed to make her a
prize for fortune-hunters, or the prey of a spendthrift.
There was no reason for any change in her manner of life. To continue
as a loved child in her uncle's house, assisting her aunt in the care
of younger cousins, to be the friend and confidante of the older ones,
and all uniting in works of love and charity among the people where
they dwelt,—this was field enough for Myra. And her friends trusted
that, if other or higher range of duty awaited her, He who "makes all
things work together for good to them that love Him" would in the best
time and way direct those "things" for her.
The family party was augmented by the presence of Frank Somers and a
college friend, both of whom were on an expedition of pleasure after
a hard collegiate term. The former had sought an introduction to his
father for one of whose friendship he was proud, and to whom he was
indebted for much that had promoted his success and stimulated his
exertions at college.
As the friend of their son, Ralph Penwald found a ready welcome from
Mr. and Mrs. Somers. And many little expeditions had been planned,
and some already enjoyed, which tended to cement the intimacy thus
commenced.
One day, the letters and English newspapers were lying, as usual, on
the table, waiting the return of the party from some exploring trip.
And, after distributing the letters, Mr. Somers took up a paper and sat
down to read. A paragraph at once arrested his attention, and he went
to seek his wife that they might read it together.
"Drowned, by the capsizing of his yacht off V—, William Haynes, Esq.,
Marian his wife, and Helen their eldest daughter."
So ran the notice in the obituary.
A longer account of the event went on to tell how the family had gone
to the sea-coast for recreation, and how the eldest son had also shared
in the catastrophe which occurred, but, by the brave exertions of one
of the crew, he had been saved, while all the others, being either in
the cabin or entangled with the rigging, had not been found until long
after life was extinct.
"Myra must be told of this, Amy," said Mr. Somers. "What do you suppose
she will do?"
"We must let her judge for herself, dear husband. I foresee what she
will do; and we must not hinder her."
Myra was summoned, and the grievous news tenderly laid before her.
With a pale cheek and quivering lip, she begged for the newspaper, and
retired to her own room.
Her step-mother, and that step-mother's husband, and her own
step-sister Helen to be thus suddenly swept into eternity! Harry and
Florence, and the three children of Mr. Haynes, suddenly orphaned!
The paper was several days old; and yet, among the letters, not one to
inform her of the calamity, or anticipate her sympathy!
But Myra knew that Christian duty is not dependent upon the opinions
or caprices or mistakes of others; it is just doing what we see to be
right in the sight of God, deduced from His precepts or example, and
often marked out by His providence in ways that we are able thankfully
to recognise. Myra saw her way as clearly as if a voice had stated it
to her; and, kneeling down, she offered herself to God, for the benefit
and blessing of the orphan family, if He would make her acceptable to
them, and let His presence be with her in all she should undertake on
their behalf.
It might prove that she was not needed; it might happen that some
prescribed directions by their father's will might set her aside
entirely. But, under any circumstances, Harry and Florence might not
reject her sisterly sympathy in the loss of their sister Helen. She
(that sister Helen) had ever tried to keep harmony among them, and,
left to herself, she would have sought no dearer friend than Myra. But
it was not so to be; and every overture now must come from the banished
one, to those who had been taught estrangement, if not jealousy and
mistrust.
"Dearest aunt," said Myra, when she opened her heart with all its fears
and feelings to this true friend, "your teachings and your example
satisfy me about your opinion. If you had not pitied the poor little
orphan, what might have become of me?"
"My darling, the cases are different in several important points: but
yours will be the trying one; mine has been uninterrupted peace and
pleasure. I pray that the dear children may receive you as they ought,
but it may be long before they comprehend your respective positions,
and you may have a trial of patience."
"I seldom have any such trial here, aunt. I am going, perhaps, to test
my reality, and see whether the practice of the hour of need will
correspond with the theory of hours of ease."
"I expected as much," said Mr. Somers, when informed of Myra's wish
to set out for England immediately, without waiting the exchange of
letters; "and I fear there is more need than she can suspect. It
appears that Penwald knows the name, and visited in the neighbourhood
only a few months ago. He says there was then a rumour that Mr. Haynes
was what is called 'living too fast'; and some persons did not scruple
to comment severely on the purchase of this very yacht. I think he had
only one brother, not in such apparently prosperous circumstances as
himself. However that may turn out, Harry and Florence are Myra's own
connexions, bearing her father's name, and she would not rest without
doing her best for them."
"Why, Myra, what wild-goose scheme is this you are after?" cried her
cousin Frank. "Surely you are not going without waiting to hear from
some of them?"
"Oh, Frank, only think of the confusion and distress this terrible
event must have brought upon them! Perhaps Harry is ill after such a
shock. The greatest kindness you can do me is to get my passports and
set me on my way."
"Whew! It's a shame. It's altogether too bad; isn't it, Penwald? Here's
Myra cheating us out of half our plans. She manages everything so well,
it will be no fun without her, and she knows it: and she is going to
give us all up for a set of people who know hardly anything about her,
and care less, to judge by the way they have treated her. I say, isn't
it too bad?"
"I am not a competent judge, Frank," said Mr. Penwald, "but to the
disappointment it will cause to us all, I can bear full testimony."
Myra turned her eyes upon the speaker. "Oh, Mr. Penwald," said she,
"please ask Frank to help me to do right, and not to make it harder for
me; he knows—yet, no! He cannot know, what it will be to me if I have
to quit entirely such a home as I have had,—such parents and brothers
and sisters as I have here."
"I am silenced, Frank," said Ralph Penwald; "I must leave the field to
you."
And, taking up his sketch-book, he stepped out on to the lawn, and
looked about, but saw nothing. Bay, ships, trees, flowers, all jumbled
themselves up together in strange, uninteresting confusion; and a fine
airy castle seemed to crumble at his feet.
By-and-by, however, he was made to comprehend that a courier, who had
just brought a family to Mentone, was to take charge of two English
ladies back to Paris. They were acquaintances of Mrs. Somers, and very
gladly agreed that Myra should join their company, promising that she
should be safely escorted to the coast. Mr. Somers easily arranged for
her reception in England, and attendance on to her destination. The
journey was to commence on the following day.
Mr. Penwald felt bewildered. Myra Sherwood was to him the most
attractive girl he had ever known. It had been a perfect delight to
accompany her on their pleasant excursions, to help gather specimens
for her various collections, to make sketches for her portfolio, and
do all the kind, attentive things that men can do to make themselves
agreeable, without becoming too particular.
Ralph had soon to decide on his life's work. Happily, he had learned
and obeyed that calming, restful precept,—
"Trust in the Lord with all thine heart, and lean not unto thine own
understanding: in all thy ways acknowledge Him, and He shall direct thy
paths."
His desire was to be a minister of the gospel of Christ; and Myra was
precisely the helpmeet for such a work. He suspected that she knew more
of the practical power of that gospel than he did, and was beginning
to draw out her views and feelings, when this unexpected and most
disturbing illustration of it was presented before him.
True to their own high principles, the loving friends of Myra's
childhood and youth, who could quite as easily have separated from any
of their own children, did their part in preparing her for the probable
circumstances in which she might soon be involved. They did not press
for a speedy return, nor counsel retreat under adverse prospects, but
they gave her their earnest blessing, committed her to God's gracious
care, and promised to follow her to England, if need arose, and assist
her to fulfil whatever duty she should find allotted to her in His
"unerring providence and unchanging love."
———————
CHAPTER III.
THE DESOLATE HOME.
A WEEK had elapsed since a melancholy funeral procession had yielded
the last token of respect to the late owners of Laurel Lodge.
Externally, the handsome house remained unchanged; the great dog dozed
in the vestibule as usual, and only a few scattered leaves in the walks
yet betrayed the absence of the gardener's usual care. There was,
however, a silence about the premises, and within doors, accounted for
by the fact that the principal servants had, on the previous evening,
departed.
There remained only a housemaid, a cross-tempered kitchenmaid, and Mrs.
Dinah the nurse, who waited the promised return of Mr. Haynes, brother
to their late master, who was to settle affairs, and make any further
arrangements which might be necessary.
In the room usually designated "the study," quiet and yet restless,
longing for renewal of activity, yet subdued by the recent shock and
a sense of weary desolation, were five children between the ages
of fourteen and four. Two men were going from room to room taking
inventories; and the children had gathered together out of their way,
hoping they should not be disturbed in their own special haunt.
"Oh, how miserable it is!" cried Harry, the elder boy. "I wish uncle
would come and tell us what we are to do. Florrie, what do you think it
will be?" And his restless fingers went on cutting up a quill which he
had been trying to transform into a pen.
"I'm sure I don't know," replied Florence, pushing back her hair, and
looking at her brother with tears in her large dark eyes. "I am afraid
he doesn't know himself, and that is the reason he keeps away, perhaps."
"I wish we had all been drowned with papa and mamma and Helen," said
the younger boy. "It is of no use to let us live without them."
"All very fine to say that, sitting comfortably there in your
rocking-chair, but if you were floundering about in the water, kicking
out for your life, you would think differently," said Harry. "I know
I thought of nothing but living if I could, and I minded nobody but
myself till they hauled me out, and my senses came back. And when I
asked for—for the others, they were all gone;" and Harry covered his
face and stifled his sobs.
"Oh, Harry, I wonder how you can speak of it," said Margaret. "I feel
as if I had cried till I can't cry any more, and yet—"
"Crying will do no good," said Florence; "dear Helen would say, 'Get
something to do,' you know."
"I know what I shall do, and pretty soon, too, if nobody comes to
settle it for me," said Harry.
"I know," cried Leonard; "you will go to sea and be a sailor, and get
drowned again."
"That's just it, little one; and there's nobody to hinder me now. I
wonder if those horrid men have done yet? I am awfully tired of being
shut up here." And he yawned and stretched himself for another minute
or two.
"I wish I had my work," said Margaret, "but I left it upstairs, and I
am afraid to go because of those men."
"Who's afraid?" cried Harry, starting up. "I'll get it; I should like
to face them." And away he rushed, the others holding the door, and
peeping after him.
Harry mounted the stairs and found the two men on the landing,
surveying some beautiful cabinets there.
"Those are pretty things, they'll fetch something," said the younger
man admiringly.
"Ah yes, if the right people see them," replied the other; "but you see
they are not everybody's money. I shouldn't wonder if they go cheap,
pretty as they are. They are not solid and useful, you know, good for
all times. See that picture over there. It is said to be a real old
master, I forget who, but—"
"He is an ugly old chap, any way," interrupted the younger, laughing;
"I wouldn't give him house-room."
"That's your ignorance, you see."
And they laughed together, while Harry proceeded slowly on his errand.
"That's a fine little fellow," said the auctioneer's clerk, in a low
voice.
And then they went on with their work.
Harry resolved not to be afraid; and, roused by the remarks he had
heard, he walked up to the elder man of business, and said,—
"Please will you tell me what is going to happen?"
"Happen, happen, young gentleman?" said Mr. Jennings, glancing uneasily
at his companion. "What do you mean, sir?"
"I mean about our things. What is going to be done? Did my uncle tell
you to come and see our furniture?"
"Is there nobody here to make you understand what's what, my dear?"
asked Mr. Jennings kindly, and thinking of the six children at home for
whom he was working with hearty good-will.
"No," said Harry, colouring, "not yet, but we expect my uncle back
again every day. Only I want to know what you are doing."
"Well, I don't wonder; that's all right, for, young as you are,
maybe it's proper you should know. It's just this, you see, sir.
Your father,—mind, I daresay it would have been all right if he had
lived, but it happened that he died insolvent, and his creditors claim
everything he has left, and a deal more if they could get it."
"He was not my father," said Harry hastily; "my name is Sherwood."
"Ah, I remember; he was executor to your father, too, I believe, and
married your mother. Well, it is a pity there was not some provision
for you, but everything has to be sold to pay up; and that's what's
going to be done, my dear. It is the law, and nobody can help it now."
"Thank you, sir," said Harry, darting down the banister rail at one
slide; and rushing into the study, he banged the door behind him.
"Florrie," he cried; "get the dictionary, and look what 'insolvent'
means. I wouldn't ask the man, because I am sure it is something nasty."
"Insolvent," murmured Florence, tracing with her finger down the
column; "here it is! Oh, Harry!"
"What is it? Let me see," cried the boy impatiently. "Yes, there it
was,—
"'Unable to pay.' 'Insolvency, inability to pay debts.'"
"Horrid! I was sure it was something hateful. I am glad my name isn't—"
"Hush, Harry!" whispered Florence, seeing Margaret with angry eyes
fixed upon them, and even Leonard looked as if he understood.
"Papa would have paid everybody if he had not been drowned," exclaimed
Margaret passionately; "how dare you speak so, Harry?"
"I dare, and I will!" shouted Harry. "I'll take care never to have
anything that I can't pay for. Why, there isn't a thing in all the
house that we can call our own."
"We must give them everything, Harry dear," said Florence; "your pony,
and the little chaise, and everything, even our beautiful baby-house."
"I know; I'll tell them," said Harry resolutely, the more so because
Leonard began to cry, and declared that no one should take away his
rocking-horse.
He went upstairs again at once.
"Sir," said he to Mr. Jennings, "if you please, we don't want to keep
you out of our study; there are plenty of nice handsome books there,
and I'll show you our playroom with my tool-chest, and my sister's
baby-house, and Leonard's rocking-horse, and they all cost a great deal
of money, I believe."
"You are a fine little fellow," said Mr. Jennings; "I wish we were all
such boys in notions of honour, and that the world could never rub them
out when we come to be men."
"It shan't rub them out of me," said Harry proudly.
"Well, I hope it may not, but, my dear, if it is to be so, excuse me
for what I am saying, you must get hold of a principle that will stand
fire; there is nothing holds out against man's wrong ways but God's
good ways. Go by what He says in your Bible, and then you'll do to
others as you wish them to do to you. That is the way to be honest and
true, you see." And Mr. Jennings ended his little homily with a very
short but potent text,—
"'Thou shalt not covet.'
"That's the bottom of it all, I believe."
And he came into the study respectfully, and took his inventory, the
children retreating together.
"Come along, and let us walk round the garden," said Harry; "I can't
breathe in the house, and I want to talk to you, Florrie."
"Harry," said Florence, coming close to him, "do you think we shall
have to go to the workhouse?"
"The workhouse! What in the world made you think of such a thing?"
cried Harry, with a face of fire.
"Only this. I heard cook, before she went away, tell Janet that she was
sorry for us, for there was no place but the workhouse for us to go to."
"What a shame! How dared she? Let them mind their own business. You
cheer up, girls; I shall work by-and-by for us all. We'll have such a
nice little house; and you shall make my shirts and mend the stockings,
and I'll do the gardening, and grow everything we want."
"You can't grow milk and tea, and sponge cakes and tarts," said Leonard
scornfully.
"But we can buy milk and tea and all that; and Florrie will make the
cakes and tarts, you know. Won't you and I give her three cheers for
doing them? I say, look there, Florrie, some lady is coming to see us.
I don't want to see any lady. Come away; you run into the study by the
glass door, and I'll hide."
All agreeing that no strangers were welcome, the children disappeared.
And when the visitor reached the door, the great dog rose up and
growled.
"Ah, Milo, good dog; I've heard of you; we must be friends, Milo," said
a soft sweet voice.
Milo seemed at once to come to the same conclusion, for he looked up
into the pleasant face, and put his nose into the caressing hand, and
wagged his great tail with evident satisfaction. He growled no more,
but quietly looked after the lady as she stepped from the vestibule
into the hall, finding no reply to a knock and ring.
Passing the handsome reception-rooms, she proceeded to the study,
whence came the sound of voices in low, murmuring tones, which ceased
as she opened the door after a gentle knock.
Margaret had taken up her work; Leonard was making figures on a
slate; a fair little creature lay on the floor playing with her doll.
All stared with surprise as the young lady came towards them. She
was dressed in deep mourning, and looked anxious, and, going up to
Margaret, gave her a warm, loving kiss.
"You are Margaret," she said,—"and you are Leonard," as the boy drew
back from her hand; by which time the fairy on the floor had sprung up
into her arms, delighted to be once more the object of caresses she had
missed, and gazing wonderingly into the fair, pleasant face.
"Don't you know me, darlings?" said Myra, the tears forcing themselves
into her eyes.
"I don't," said the little one, "but if you have come to be Helen, I'll
love you."
"We will agree to that in dear Helen's name," said Myra, clasping the
child, whose arms were round her neck. "I am Myra, your sister. Will
you not own me too, dear Margaret and Leonard?"
"You are Harry's and Florrie's sister, but not ours," said the boy
sulkily.
"And you are only half-sister to them," said the ungracious Margaret.
"Well, we will not talk about it now," said Myra. "May I take off my
travelling things? And can any one go to the station about my luggage?"
"I don't know; you had better ask nurse," replied Margaret awkwardly.
"Beg pardon, miss," said Mr. Jennings, putting his head in at the door.
"We won't be many minutes, but we have just got to measure this carpet
that we forgot."
Myra was utterly bewildered; what could they be going to do?
"I am come to take care of the children if I may be allowed," said she.
"Is there any need for a change in the house at present?"
"I am right glad to hear you say that, miss," replied Mr. Jennings;
"for there is need, more's the pity: not five shillings in the pound;
and the creditors have taken possession."
Myra began to comprehend. But, feeling at once that they were all
intruders now, she was at a loss what to do, when Mr. Jennings informed
her that he thought leave had been given for the children to stay until
their uncle's return, when doubtless he would remove them wherever he
thought proper.
Finding that the lady visitor did not depart as they had hoped, Harry
and Florence came to reconnoitre; and, peeping in at the glass door,
they saw the young lady sitting with little Elsie on her knee.
"Hurrah! I know who she is," cried Harry, bouncing in. "Come on,
Florrie; it's Myra, I declare."
Myra at the same moment put down the child, and rose to meet them,
opening her arms to the children of the same father, but not the same
mother. Their greeting was half shy, half doubtful, but Florence
remained in the embrace of the willing arm, and felt as if a friend had
dropped from heaven to help them.
"We never thought of your coming," said Harry; "we thought you were in
Italy."
"So I was when the news reached us," said Myra, "but I came away at
once to see if I could be of any use to you all."
No one replied, but Myra felt a soft pressure from Florence's hand.
Notwithstanding that slight encouragement, her heart was chilled. Had
she resigned so much love and sympathy and tenderness, to intrude
upon those who did not care for her? Yet it was not their fault that
they did not love her, nor hers. Time and God's goodness would undo
mistakes, and teach them the truth about her.
"Do good, . . . hoping for nothing again,—"
her dear Lord had said. And she had been hoping for something at once.
She felt she deserved the disappointment.
"What in all the world has brought her here?" exclaimed Mrs. Dinah,
when she heard the news. She was in an extremely ill humour, having
been detected by the sheriff's officer at the door of the room in which
the plate had been placed, and to which it appeared there were more
keys than one. So Mrs. Dinah had to find another errand. And while Myra
was away with Florence, she went to inflict herself on the children in
the study.
"Miss Maggie, haven't you done that tucker yet? I want it for your
frock that looks so gloomy, with nothing white to 'liven it up."
"Do it yourself if you want it; I'm sure I don't care for it," answered
Margaret, throwing down the muslin.
"Oh, fie, Miss Maggie! Where do you expect to get tuckers nowadays? It
isn't as it used to be, and you'll be pretty glad to do them yourself,
and wait upon yourself too, I can tell you. You little know what the
folks are saying all round us."
"I don't want to know; I wish you wouldn't talk to me," said Margaret
peevishly.
"But it's my duty to talk to you, and make you bring down your pride
before it's done for you, as it soon will be, when you see the house
empty, and nowhere but the workhouse to put your head in."
"For shame, nurse! It is a wicked story," said Margaret, in a rage.
"Hush, darling!" said Myra, who had just returned to the room,
overhearing the lesson on humility. And, going up to Margaret, she
drew the head of the sobbing girl to her bosom. "It will gratify you,
I daresay, nurse, and those around you who are so much interested in
our affairs, to hear that we shall not need to see the empty house, nor
trouble the parish at present. You will kindly pack up all the clothes,
and have them ready for a journey at any time we may decide on."
"Very well, ma'am," said Mrs. Dinah, drawing herself up; "I suppose it
isn't to be thought out of my place to ask where we are going to."
"We shall require no attendance excepting such as I shall provide,
thank you, Mrs. Dinah," said Myra calmly.
Whereupon, Dinah looked unutterable things, and decided "to give the
upstart young lady a piece of her mind" on the spot, declaring that she
would not be separated from her precious children, and that it would
bring her dear mistress out of her grave to think of any one doing for
them but her own faithful Dinah.
Myra made no reply, the children looked uncomfortable, and Dinah,
having exhausted herself for the time, withdrew in high indignation.
"How cool she do take it!" exclaimed she to Janet, as if the "come
down" for those children was nothing at all. "They'll find the
difference, though, before long between her and me."
"Very likely," thought Janet sagaciously.
———————
CHAPTER IV.
"WHAT MADE YOU COME?"
"WILL you tell us now what you meant when you spoke to Dinah?" said
Harry, when, after tea, the children gathered round Myra with a sense
of protection and comfort to which they had lately been strangers.
"What is she to pack up for? Where are we going to?" another asked.
Myra felt very desolate, her thoughts were gone back to Mentone, and
the dear ones there, to whom she had just completed a letter. But she
roused herself to attend to her young questioners.
"I think," said she, taking little Elsie into her lap, "that it will be
right for us to leave this house as soon as possible."
"I'd like to go to-morrow," said Harry; "we have no right here now."
"Well, of course we cannot settle in a moment where we may wish to
live; so I think we will find lodgings for a week or two in a pretty
part of Wales, where you can run about among the mountains and get rosy
cheeks again."
"Capital!" exclaimed Harry. "Won't you like that, girls?"
"I shall be delighted," said Florence.
"And you, Margaret and Leonard, will you like it too, or is there any
other place you like better?" said Myra kindly.
"I didn't suppose you meant us," said Margaret. "Harry and Florence are
your brother and sister, we are nothing to you."
"But you are to them,—brother and sister, and through them to me; so
let us all be one family, unless Mr. Haynes has something better to
arrange for you. Come, dear Margaret, try to own me, and let us all
love each other, sharing everything that God has given to us. Let me
share your sorrow, and comfort you if I may, and you share my love and
sympathy, and everything in my power to give. If you will, I cannot be
thankful enough to God for bringing me to you."
Poor Margaret broke down a little, and suffered a kiss to close upon
Myra's lips.
"Myra, what's the reason you have got plenty of money, and we have
none?" bluntly asked Harry. "Florence and I are Sherwoods as well as
you."
It was a hard question, and lay at the root of all the estrangement, as
Myra had been obliged to learn; yet the wisdom that had so decreed her
inheritance was never so fully appreciated as now.
"Don't you know?" demanded Harry again.
"Yes, I believe I know, but it is not, perhaps, wise for you and me to
talk about it," said Myra.
"But I can understand if you tell me, and I want to know," persisted
the boy. "I like to think right about things, and there must be right
or wrong in it."
"There is nothing wrong in it, Harry. If you have anything entirely
your own, you do what you please with it, don't you? And whether others
think you do wisely or not, they have no right to interfere."
"No, of course not."
"This is the reason that I have property of my own, but it has nothing
at all to do with your not having any. My dear mother died when I was a
baby, and the money which her father had intended for her, he desired
to be kept for her child. Is there anything wrong in that?"
"No, to be sure not," said Harry; "I don't know how anybody could say a
word against it. If Florrie and I had been your mother's children, he
would have had some kept for us. I wonder why our own papa didn't do
the same."
"That is not for us to inquire about, dear Harry, but I hope you will
thank God with me that my grandfather's plan has made up for it, by
enabling me to share with you all now that which his wisdom and care
provided. Are you satisfied?"
Harry did not look perfectly satisfied, and sat for some time in deep
thought.
And Myra, changing the subject, began to tell Elsie some little story
of Italian children whom she had taught to read the Bible.
Presently Harry burst out again with one of his plain questions, thus
betraying the subject of his reverie.
"Myra, what made you come?"
Every eye was fixed upon Myra's face, and the words were re-echoed.
"Ah, what was it? You have not been for so long, we thought you had
forgotten us; what made you come?"
Myra looked grave, and felt glad that the question was not, What made
you stay away so long? But,—What made you come now?
With those young eyes fixed upon her, with impressions, probably for
life, hanging on this trying crisis of their history, she must not
evade that question, but tell the simple truth, whether they could
understand it or not.
"You pitied us, didn't you, sister?" said Florence, seeing that Myra
paused.
"Yes, but it was not that. I could pity you at a distance."
"You wanted us to have some of your money, I suppose; was that it?"
said Margaret.
"I could have sent that," said Myra.
"Then what was it? I can't guess," said Harry.
"It was—yes, I believe, I am sure it was—the religion of Jesus," said
Myra softly. "There is a sentence in the Bible which says of 'pure
religion' that one of its features is 'to visit the fatherless in their
affliction.' And another bids us 'be followers,' or imitators, 'of God,
as dear children.' When the Lord saw the sorrows and wants of men, He
was not content with pitying them at a distance, or with sending to
them, 'He came Himself;' for He knew that man needed a Friend as well
as a Saviour. And I thought perhaps it might happen that you, dear
brothers and sisters, might need a friend, and be as glad of a heart to
love you as of a hand to help you."
Myra's voice sank very low over little Elsie's head, and her tears
mingled with the shining curls. There was dead silence, interrupted by
two or three little sobs, while Elsie's wondering face was upturned to
kiss her, and Florence held fast round her waist.
Harry felt as if something stuck in his throat, but he looked straight
down at his boots, and even Margaret and Leonard drew closer to their
new-found friend. It was a moment fraught with many issues for the
future, though, after the immediate spell of its strange influence
passed away, all did not consider it alike.
Beneath the window of the room assigned to Myra were the children's
gardens. She had dressed, and was reading by the open window, when the
sound of several voices was heard below.
"Here, let us gather them all; it doesn't matter about keeping them
now, you know."
"Stop. I want a little bouquet for Myra, just one of your beat sprigs,
Harry, and my prettiest rose; there, you may do what you like with the
rest."
"What a fuss you make, Florence! Perhaps she doesn't care for your
flowers. I remember very well that papa said she was a Methodist, and
thought herself better than other people, and so did her aunt. And
mamma said she meant well, only she was foolish and strange, and we
were not to be like her, so she didn't ask her often to visit us."
"I say, Florrie—" and Myra had no difficulty in recognising the voice
of Harry,—"I am glad she didn't say last night that she came because
she loved us, for I shouldn't have believed her; and if I had, I
should be pretty sure she wouldn't love us always. Where are all the
fine people who used to call us clever and pretty, and such stuff, and
invite us to their houses? Not one has been here since our trouble."
"Do you know, Harry," answered Florence, confidentially it seemed, as
they busied over their plants, "she made me think of that text of his
sermon that Dr. Walker said over so many times last Sunday; do you
remember it?"
"No, stop, yes, I see,—
"'Jesus Christ the same yesterday, and to-day, and for ever.'
"Wasn't that it?"
"Yes, and perhaps as He is always the same, and Myra's religion is the
religion of Jesus, she is always the same too; she won't love us one
day, and care nothing about us the next."
"We'll watch and see what this religion is like," said Harry. "I feel
as if I shall love her out and out if she goes on like last night,
but, you see, she is quite different from anybody we know, and I don't
exactly know what to make of it yet."
"I love her already," said Florence, "and I shall ask her to teach me
the religion of Jesus. I expect it makes people good."
"I hate people that think themselves good," said Harry. "She doesn't
seem like that, but we'll watch her."
Myra did not wait to hear more, but, kneeling down, she fervently
implored the grace that is ready for every time of need.
"O my Lord," she cried, "let me not misrepresent Thee and Thine, keep
me stedfast, make me act from principle, let me adorn Thy religion so
that they shall learn to love it and Theo. Keep me from yielding to
excited feeling, or temper, or disappointment. Give me victory over
self, and give the honour of it to Jesus. Help me to be consistent,
patient, forbearing, the same all day long, as I desire to be when
before Thee."
"My grace is sufficient for thee," was the word which seemed floated
on the breath of love into her mind, and Myra was comforted and
strengthened.
The morning post brought to the children the intelligence that Mr.
Haynes would be with them that evening. And the day was enlivened by a
kind, long visit from Dr. and Mrs. Walker, who entered with interest
into the circumstances of Myra's position, and, having known her
father, they were at once welcomed as friends. But, better still, they
knew Myra's heavenly Father, and rejoiced over His work in her heart
and character.
They remained until Mr. Haynes's arrival. He came with slackened
step and depressed appearance, deeply conscious of a responsibility
concerning his brother's children, and bowed down with a painful
conviction of inability to fulfil it to their advantage. He had a
large family of his own, and his means were now very limited. How,
then, could he burden them with the education and maintenance of five
children?
The young party clustered round him, introducing Myra in bewildering
terms. And it was not until after a quiet conversation with the good
pastor in the library that Mr. Haynes was enabled to comprehend the
immense relief which her presence was intended to afford in his
difficulty.
"And am I to understand, my dear Miss Sherwood, that you are willing to
take charge of my brother's children as well as of his step-children?"
he asked, when they again met.
"Unless you and they prefer otherwise, and you have some better place
arranged for them, sir."
"Better! All I can do is to let them share my roof, until they are
old enough to get their own living. And, in consequence of a heavy
loss through my late brother, that will no longer be what it has been.
We have to begin life again, as it were; and they can but share my
poverty."
"I have enough, with economy," said Myra, "to make a home for them all;
and in case you approve, Dr. Walker advises me to reside near a good
public school, where the boys can be thoroughly educated. My sisters
will, I hope, be content with my instruction."
"Margaret should be prepared for taking a situation as governess, that
she may not burden you too long," said Mr. Haynes doubtfully.
"And you think I may not accomplish that," said Myra, smiling. "Allow
me to try."
"My dear young lady, I am thinking of your interest also," he replied,
gazing with fatherly kindness on the young bright face and youthful
figure of this girl of one-and-twenty, about to overwhelm herself with
such a charge.
"You must not estimate the cost by money only," he continued. "Your
beauty will fade, your health will fail, your spirit will weary under
years of care and exertion, and toil and anxiety, such as the bringing
up of all these children will entail. I am not sure that I am justified
in permitting it."
"Dear sir, let me try," said Myra earnestly. "I could easily devote
a portion to their maintenance, and save myself what you think will
be troublesome, but I do not feel that to be the way in which best
to benefit them. If I can give them home and love and watchful care,
should I not do it, in grateful remembrance of all that has been done
for me, and try so to form their characters that they may fill some
honourable post of duty in their turn?"
"God bless you, my dear young friend. Most thankfully I yield to your
decision, and beg to take off your hands all the trouble of the needful
arrangements."
"I shall be very grateful for that," said Myra; "and while we are
staying in the country, I will try to decide on our future residence.
At present, it seems desirable to leave this house as soon as possible."
Mr. Haynes agreed, and proceeded to settle with the remaining servants,
who were to leave when the family removed.
But there was a meeting in the kitchen.
"I suppose Miss will want servants," said Peggy, the bad-tempered
kitchenmaid; "I shall just say I'm willing to go with her—I like her."
And away went Peggy to settle the matter with Myra.
"She's an awful temper," said the housemaid, "else I'd offer too. And
yet she's a right good worker, and there may be worse to live with."
"If I wished you ill, Janet, I couldn't do it better than wishing you
to stop with them," said Mrs. Dinah scornfully. "But if Miss Sherwood
thinks she has seen the last of me, she is mistaken. 'Tis my duty to
look after my poor dear missis's children, and I shall do it. I can see
how she is going to tyrannise over them, poor dears."
"Aren't you going to stay with them?" asked Janet in surprise, having
heard this intention so often declared.
"No, not as 'her' servant, indeed! I shouldn't demean myself to such a
thing."
Whereupon Janet, thinking it decidedly an improvement on the state of
the new household, went and offered her services to Myra. Thus, one
of the first perplexities was removed, and two willing servants would
be ready to proceed to the new house when it should be taken, Janet
accompanying her mistress on the short tour into Wales in the meantime.
Mr. Haynes took his own young relatives apart, and explained to them,
as simply as he could, the exact position of their affairs, impressing
them with the assurance that nothing in his power to do for them
could approach the benefit they would in every way derive from Myra's
generous offer.
"At the same time, my children," said he, "if either of you prefer to
go and share my frugal home, you shall be kindly received, and taught
to provide for yourself in due time. For Elsie, I decidedly give her up
to Miss Sherwood's care."
"Oh, uncle, we must go where Elsie is," said Margaret complainingly,
"and I don't know that I shall like Myra. She's very odd indeed."
"Very," said Mr. Haynes; "I don't know one to match her, who would
give up a home and friends like hers, to come and care for five orphan
children, three of them having no claim upon her but the one she has
found in her own kind heart."
"She says it was the religion of Jesus that made her come," said
Margaret. "And you know, uncle, that mamma didn't want us to have much
to do with her, because she thinks herself so good."
"Margaret," said Mr. Haynes almost sternly, "if it be possible for your
mother to know what is passing here now, Myra is the one person in all
the world to whom she would entrust you, and whom she would desire you
to obey and imitate. Any mistake about her is cleared up now. If you
are not happy with her, look first for any cause in yourself; and if
you cannot find it, then come to me, my house will always be open to
you. As for you, Leonard, nothing can be better for you than to share
Harry's advantages: are you content?"
Leonard did not care much about it any way; he would go with Margaret,
and when he was a man, he would take her and Elsie to live with him.
"Very well; the sooner the better," said his uncle, smiling; "and a
good education is the first step to your plan."
CHAPTER V.
HARRY'S LESSONS
AND A CHANGE OF SCENE.
THE packing was going on briskly, amidst Mrs. Dinah's mischievous
lamentations and insinuations, and Harry was taking his farewell of his
favourite haunts, when a visitor was announced, demanding an interview
with Myra.
"Oh, Myra!" cried Harry, rushing into the library, where she sat
writing. "Here's somebody wants you, and yet you don't know any one
about here. I am afraid it is one of those horrid people that papa owed
money to."
"Hush, Harry! Do not speak so; it is very wrong, and you grieve me."
Myra looked up and saw that the "somebody" had been shown into the
room, and must have overheard the boy's rude speech.
Harry was about to slink away, but a firm hand was laid upon his
shoulder, and he was compelled to remain.
The visitor was a gentlemanly-looking man, beyond middle age, well
dressed, and of upright, frank, and easy bearing, though the ungloved
hand that grasped Harry's shoulder was like that of a man who had known
something of manual labour.
"Madam," said he, "excuse this freedom, but I should like this young
gentleman to hear what I have to say to you, if you will permit. I
'am,' unfortunately, one of those horrid people just described; the
whole of the drawing-room furniture came now from my warehouse last
summer. I do not for a moment suppose that Mr. Haynes did not wish and
intend to pay for it, and, but for this young gentleman's sake, I would
not have mentioned my share of the losses."
"He spoke thoughtlessly, sir; may I not beg you to pardon it?" said
Myra, seeing Harry wriggling himself out of the hand that held him.
"I do freely pardon it, but let him learn better while he has
opportunity."
"Harry dear, sit down quietly, and try to help me in all our
difficulties; it comforts me, Harry, to have you near me," said Myra
affectionately.
The boy looked in her truthful face, and sat down by her side, but he
did not feel much mollified towards the peremptory visitor, who quickly
hurried through his business.
"I come," he said, "from a meeting of the creditors, who have
commissioned me with their sincere and respectful sympathy for the
orphan family. They have heard also of you, madam, and in proof of
their admiration and respect, they request that you will accept such of
the useful articles of furniture as you may immediately need; the young
people's beds, perhaps; also the contents of their study and playroom.
There are two good pianos, one is to accompany you; and I shall send
men to pack and remove the things wherever you desire them to be
placed."
The good man looked anywhere rather than at the surprised young faces
before him. He wanted no thanks; he, and they who acted with him, had
reward enough in their own kind hearts.
"Dear sir," said Myra at last, "though deeply appreciating this
unexpected and generous act, it is right that you should know exactly
how we are situated. I have an income at my disposal which I trust
will be sufficient for our reasonable wants; and would it be fair to
subtract anything from those whose losses I fear must be very heavy?"
The visitor looked at her kindly, and then counted on his fingers
deliberately.
"Five children to feed, clothe, educate,—two of them boys to be put
out in life,—rent, taxes, servants, expenses that a young lady living
as you have lived ought not to be denied. Excuse me, dear young lady,
but you must agree to our little plan. It happens that I know more than
you are aware. I was one of the witnesses to your good grandfather's
will when he settled on you that which enables you now to help these
children. I was doing some work for him, and was called into his study
to see him sign his name. He gave me the first teaching that made me
wish and strive to love and please God; and if I can do anything to
serve you, I shall esteem it an honour."
Myra frankly put her hand into that large firm one which had held
Harry, and felt its warm and kindly pressure as he continued:
"When your grandfather died, I heard all about the circumstances, and
so it happens that I know what your resources are; and I understand
enough of respectable housekeeping, and of the requirements of a
family, to know that you will have nothing to spare. Yes, it must be as
we have arranged. And now, young sir, may I ask how old you are?"
"Just thirteen," said Harry.
"Time to be about the business of a heavenly Father who has said
what He will be to the orphan. You are too young to understand fully
the state of things around you, but remember this,—and I say it in
faithful kindness, hard as you may think it now,—remember if you would
be independent, free, and happy, so far as your way through this life
is concerned, you must shun debt. Never have anything that you do not
know when and how you can pay for; and pay all before you take pleasure
or indulgence. Peace of mind, and even life itself, may depend upon
obedience to these rules. Let us shake hands, and may our Lord and
Saviour bless and help you."
Harry gave his hand, and thought he should not forget.
"Sir," said he, "I am sorry for what I said about you, but I didn't
know that you had the religion of Jesus, and I thought all the people
must be angry and disagreeable who have—have—bills—that—"
"Never mind, my dear boy; you will not judge people another time
until you know something about them. I am thinking, Miss Sherwood,"
he resumed to Myra, "that your things might go to one of my warerooms
until you have settled where to put them. Would that save you any
trouble?"
"Indeed it would," said Myra gratefully, for the kind thoughtfulness
relieved her of a difficulty,—she not knowing yet where their future
residence might be.
"God, our loving Father, who sees all you and your friends are doing,
will reward you, sir," said she, as this real friend took his leave.
"And what for you?" he asked. "Our part is small and poor,—a mere
nothing compared with yours."
"When we have done that which is our duty to do, we are but
unprofitable servants," said Myra.
"Well, I can only hope if ever my children come to need a friend, some
such unprofitable servant may care for them."
"He may be sure of that, Harry," said Myra cheerfully, as they looked
after the good man down the walk. "It is written,—
"'With whatsoever measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again.'
"Oh, Harry, shall we not be thankful for this generous consideration?"
"It would be a great deal better not to need it," said Harry.
"My dear brother, it is good for us to meet this kindness in people
from whom we had no right to expect it. I am greatly pleased, for
though I could buy the useful things, perhaps, I could not replace the
valuable books on your shelves, nor the contents of your playroom. We
must not be proud, Harry; perhaps some day it may please God to put it
into your power to do a similar kindness to others."
"Is it pride? I wouldn't let you do all you are going to do if I could
help it, only I don't see any way to help it; unless, indeed, you would
let me go off to sea at once. They don't want much grand education, you
know, at sea. Would you let me, Myra?"
"I could not consent to it, Harry. But if you are quite sure you cannot
be happy with me, I will not hinder you, and I will ask Mr. Haynes to
provide for this choice of your occupation in life in the best way
possible."
"But if I go to sea at last, won't it be waste of time and money to
keep me at school now?"
"We, that is, Mr. Haynes, Dr. and Mrs. Walker, and I, all think that in
three or four years more you may not think as you do now. Four years
of persevering study and opportunity to know your own mind will not be
thrown away. What do you know of astronomy and magnetism?"
"Nothing at all," said Harry, staring at his sister.
"What of geography, the ocean, the tides?"
"Very little, I'm afraid."
"What of machinery, the engine, the laws of motion?"
"Nothing at all of any consequence."
"What foreign languages can you speak? Our ships, you know, are in
the ports of all nations; and a sailor who can speak French, Spanish,
Italian, German, one or all, has a great advantage over those who
cannot."
"You are joking now, Myra. Sailors do not know all these things."
"It is very much to their advantage when they do, though. I fancy
your idea of being a sailor is just climbing up and down the rigging,
leaping with your good ship over the foaming billows, catching a shark
perhaps, and wearing a blue jacket, and singing 'Britannia rules the
waves.' Isn't it, now?"
Harry laughed, and felt that Myra really was a very wonderful person to
know a boy's thoughts so well.
"But, Harry," she continued, more seriously, "whatever you decide
to be, I want you to be the best of the kind. If you choose to be
a sailor, you must aim at the highest rank and most responsible
appointments; and therefore a good education is the starting-point. Go
to school for two years more, without deciding what you will be, then
another year or two with a special aim and suitable preparation. And if
my brother Harry feels it burdensome to owe the means to his sister's
love, Captain Sherwood can repay her at his leisure."
"Myra, Myra, you will always get your way," cried Harry, half laughing,
half crying.
But Myra made it end in a hearty laugh, and so that affair was settled.
While the young party proceeded on their trip to Wales, Mr. Haynes
and Dr. Walker undertook the selection of the school, and a suitable
residence near it. And Mr. Haynes especially, in his earnest gratitude
for the part Myra had chosen, was resolved to spare no trouble in
making such arrangements as he thought would be acceptable.
Mrs. Walker's taste and counsels were put in requisition. And Myra,
having stated her views concerning the simple style in which she wished
to live, was quite content to trust to their discretion.
The pleasant change from the late scene of sorrow, mortification, and
suspense, soon told upon the health and spirits of all the young party.
Myra would not take them to the sea, which would present such painful
remembrances to their minds, and which they were accustomed to visit.
But she chose a lovely inland village, surrounded by all kinds of
accessible beauty and scenes of historic interest, and with the rich
stores of information she had gathered, and the ample resources of a
refined and highly cultivated mind, the pleasure and improvement of her
companions were very effectually provided for.
The sight of some daring young trout in the river which wound through
the valley inspired some of the young people with a fancy for fishing;
and not fearing that their skill would greatly damage the happiness of
the finny families, Myra one day indulged them by providing fishing
tackle. And, with well-filled baskets of provisions, they sallied forth
for the trout stream.
Feeling no particular interest in the result beyond the exercise and
enjoyment of the children, who baited their hooks with paste and
watched with delight every movement of the float, declaring that, if
they caught nothing, they could count plenty of nibbles, Myra seated
herself with a book under a shady bank, where she could safely allow
little Elsie her share of the glee, with her fishing-rod extemporised
out of a switch cut from the hedge, a piece of string, and a crooked
pin.
Harry, declaring that the noise and laughter of the others hindered all
possibility of success to any real fisherman, walked farther on, and
after a great deal of patience, and considerable excitement over the
hooking of a water weed, was throwing in his line again, when footsteps
among the bushes and grass behind him caused him to look round.
A gentleman approached him, and, with an amused air, asked what success
he had met with.
"None at all yet," said Harry, with dignity; "but I shall try another
place, for I want to catch a good dish of trout for their tea."
"Is there an inn at the village?" asked the stranger, apparently
wishing to prolong the conversation.
"Yes, but we are not staying there; we have a cottage to ourselves.
It's very nice being here."
"I should think it is. May I presume to ask who the 'we' consist of?"
asked the stranger, taking up a handsome pocket-knife which Harry had
thrown upon the grass, and seeing the initials "H. S." engraved upon
the handle.
"We!—Oh, my sisters and brother; we have only come for a week or two,
because we are going to a new home."
"And your name is Sherwood, is it not?"
Harry looked up in surprise: How could the stranger know that?—Who
could he be?
He was a tall, gentlemanly-looking young man, with a satchel at his
back and a stout stick in his hand; and his broad fair brow, as he
pushed back his Glengarry cap, and his frank pleasant smile as he
offered his hand, prepossessed the young fisherman in his favour.
"I see I am right," he said; "and you and I must be friends, if you
please. Will you introduce me to your brother and sisters?"
"Not till I know who you are," said Harry, with the air of a protector.
"Right, my young friend; here is my card. Miss Sherwood will know my
name. I have just returned from Italy, and have some messages from her
friends there."
"Oh, how glad Myra will be!" exclaimed Harry. "Wait till I wind up my
line, and I'll find her for you. I left them about a quarter of a mile
off, by the side of the stream. How funny that you should happen to
find us out!"
The stranger gravely remarked that curious adventures often happen to
travellers, and they walked away together.
Leonard was still devoted to his float, but the others were busy
spreading out the feast, which Myra handed to them from the various
little baskets.
As they came in sight of the pretty group, Harry bounded forward.
"Myra, sister Myra, here is a gentleman from Italy; here is his
card—Ralph Penwald is the name—you'll have to give him some dinner; he
may have my share if you haven't enough. And he has promised to tell me
all about his ascent of Mont Blanc."
With very blooming cheeks, and some surprise, Myra came forward to
receive the traveller. And with the young party, he was soon quite at
home. There happened to be dinner enough, and he greatly added to the
entertainment by the tact and grace with which he managed everybody
and everything there was to do. For Myra, he had brought notes from
her young cousins, and endless messages from Frank, protesting that
he could not enjoy himself without her, and insisting that she should
return as soon as she had settled about her brothers and sisters.
"But he cannot have her," cried Florence; "she has got a house, and we
are all going to live with her."
Mr. Penwald was busy peeling an apple for Elsie, and made no reply.
But, after a while, he asked Myra if she would trust him with the boys
for a longer ramble in the afternoon than the rest of the party could
take, and he would help them to accomplish their design of bringing
fish for their tea.
"Oh yes, that will be capital!" cried Harry. "And you will give Mr.
Penwald his tea, Myra. And if he is going to stay all night at the inn,
wouldn't it be nice if he would come with us to the ruins to-morrow?"
"I am not fond of ruins, Master Harry," said Ralph; "I prefer building
up just now."
"Oh, but you like to see a fine old castle, don't you? Myra does, and
she has promised to take us to-morrow, if the day is fine, to the
ruined castle of B—. Now, if you would come with us, Myra would have
no fears for Leonard and me; and we could run about and scramble where
girls can't, you know."
"If your sister permit, nothing could be more pleasant for me," said
Mr. Penwald.
Myra could scarcely refuse, though she tried to put in some objection
on the ground of intruding on Mr. Penwald's time. But the proposition
was carried by acclamation.
The boys then begged to escort their new friend to the inn, to secure
lodging for the night.
"How long are you going to stay?" asked they.
"It depends on circumstances," he said; "I shall certainly not go until
we return from the castle."
The afternoon was spent delightfully to them; they brought fish and
Mr. Penwald home to tea, and all was arranged for the excursion of the
following day.
Harry had listened particularly to the conversation, and, after a happy
evening, he accompanied Mr. Penwald to the inn, lingering in the soft
twilight as if he wished to say something, and had not wrought up his
courage to the point.
"Now I shall see you back again until your cottage is in sight," said
Ralph; "lest your sister be uneasy."
"I would not make Myra unhappy for the world," said the boy; "she is
first-rate. When she came, we didn't know how much we should love her."
"She is worthy of your love, my dear boy; she is a consistent follower
of Him who came to manifest the God whose name is 'Love.'"
"Mr. Penwald, please, you won't think me rude, will you? I want to ask
you, do you know the religion of Jesus?"
"Something of it, I trust, dear Harry," replied Mr. Penwald in
surprise; "I hope you will know it too."
"Myra is teaching me," said the boy, with a last clasp of the hand he
held, and was at the cottage in a few moments.
Mr. Penwald retired to read his evening chapter, and consider how much
he really knew of the religion of Jesus, and if it were as practical
and influential a reality as it ought to be.
Harry meanwhile determined to think over something which troubled his
mind, but as soon as his head rested on the pillow, he knew nothing
more till morning.
———————
CHAPTER VI.
A SECRET.
THE morning shone out with the promise of a lovely day; the whole of
the party could walk excepting Elsie, for whose accommodation a docile,
sleepy donkey was provided, which also carried the provision baskets
slung on either side of her saddle.
All the younger members were as merry as if the warm sun never rose
upon anything but enjoyment. Already, the late terrible calamity was
becoming a thing of the past; and sanguine hearts were accommodating
themselves to new circumstances, with the happy elasticity so
mercifully characteristic of youth.
The two elder, however, could not so entirely yield to the pleasure of
the moment. Myra was not at ease, and Ralph Penwald had decided to make
this day, so far as his own control over it extended, the turning-point
of his life.
They spent the morning as they intended, viewing the stately ruin from
many points in the landscape, and examining all the odd corners, and
crumbling towers, and ivied windows, imagining, the while, all manner
of events and scenes that might have occurred in long-past ages.
Then the delightful spread of refreshments on the grass which covered
what had been the courtyard of the castle; after which, Myra selected
a spot commanding a view of the picturesque tower and battlements, and
prepared to sketch, while the rest, untired and eager, led off the
donkey and its delighted rider with Janet to walk beside her, round
the outside of the walls and down to the pebbly bed of the river, now
nearly dry, and entirely safe.
Mr. Penwald saw them fairly engaged in picking up the worn white stones
which shone temptingly there, and then returned to Myra's side.
He then candidly told her of the object of his visit, how truly he
respected and loved her, and desired her companionship and help in the
event of his becoming the pastor of a parish, the charge of which had
been offered to him.
Myra would have interrupted him at once, but he begged her to hear him;
when, however, he looked for some encouragement in her troubled face,
there was nothing to cheer him with hope.
"Oh, Mr. Penwald," she said, "do you not know that I have devoted
myself and all I possess to my orphan brothers and sisters?"
"Devote your property and welcome, but not yourself, Miss Sherwood;
they cannot appreciate that gift as I should."
"Nothing can alter my purpose, Mr. Penwald. I sought, with many an
earnest prayer, the guidance of my heavenly Father in the step I have
taken; I thought I saw clearly the indications of His will; and where
would be my Christian consistency, my faith and obedience, if, for
any selfish ends, I were to retract my promised and already accepted
service?"
"But, dear Miss Sherwood, if I might presume to think that, this cause
removed, you would, in time, have yielded some return of regard, may I
not suggest for a moment that a man's, an elder brother's, protection
and friendship would be in the same scale with all your affectionate
efforts on their behalf, and might be useful, at least to those dear
boys? Will you consider it, and not decide against me at once?"
"No, Mr. Penwald; I am fully convinced of my duty. These orphans are
suddenly deprived of their best and dearest friends; they will need,
for years, a home, and love, and a watchful, tender monitor ever at
hand. I could not fulfil other duties to you and your people, and be
mother, sister, friend to these friendless ones. Your way to serve me
and them must be in earnest prayer for God's blessing upon us all."
"Is there not some other objection?" he urged. "It seems hard to see
you devote youth and talents that are suited to a wider sphere, in
which God would honour your service for His sake, to these children who
some day will follow their own wills, and perhaps grieve and disappoint
you."
"It may indeed be so," replied Myra, "but I shall have the
consciousness of having done my best while I could; and that to no
wilful neglect or indifference of mine, the sorrowful end will have to
be traced. But, indeed," she added, looking up more cheerfully, "'I
hope for better things."
"But you have not answered my question, Miss Sherwood. I have sometimes
thought, or feared, that your cousin Frank—"
"Oh, Mr. Penwald," cried Myra, interrupting him, "can you think me so
mean, so cowardly, as to cloak a real reason under an assumed one, and
such an one? No, I love Frank dearly, as another brother, and was about
to ask you to continue your kind watchfulness over him for his own and
my dear aunt's sake; for she is often anxious about him. If there were
any such objection, I would in sincerity and candour have told you, as
only due to you for the honour you have done me. Please let us forget
all that has now passed."
"Forgive me, Miss Sherwood," he said, as she rose and began to put away
her sketch-book; "I was unjust in my bitter disappointment. Yet the
more I contemplate this decision, and envy the lot of these favoured
children, the more I feel how difficult may be your path, young as you
are, to burden yourself, unaided, with such a charge."
"Look here, Mr. Penwald," said Myra, taking a little book from her
satchel, and pointing to a passage in it; "this is my help, strength,
comfort, and confidence; and this also."
The paragraphs ran thus:
"'Fear thou not, for I am with thee; be not dismayed, for I am thy God:
I will strengthen thee, yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee
with the right hand of My righteousness.'
"'Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on Thee,
because he trusteth in Thee. Trust ye in the Lord for ever; for in the
Lord Jehovah is everlasting strength.'"
"Thank you for this lesson, Miss Sherwood; it may do me good service
through many an hour of solitude and duty. I shall not accept the
charge that has been offered to me; for, only helped and blessed with a
true-hearted Christian wife, could any man fulfil its requirements and
sustain its responsibilities."
"Will you not then be a minister of Christ's gospel?" asked Myra
anxiously.
"I do not say that," he replied, gratified at the proof of interest
in his future; "there are other fields of usefulness, and as it has
pleased God to give me some facility in acquiring languages, I may
devote myself to the claims of our Indian fellow-subjects. I will try
to put all into our Lord's hands as you have done, and accept my work
as He may see fit to appoint it. Will you care to hear what becomes of
me?"
"Always, Mr. Penwald," said Myra frankly; "your friendship for me is
not thrown away. I shall hear of you as an honoured servant of the Lord
Jesus; and it will stimulate me to try and keep up with you in the
Christian race."
Mr. Penwald saw the party to their cottage, and then took a hasty
leave, to the great regret of the children.
Myra went to her room, and sat down to try and calmly review the events
of the last few hours.
A happy path of usefulness and interest had been opened before her,
and she had refused to walk in it. Just the friend with the strong
manly arm she needed had come to her, and she had rejected its support.
She had turned from affection and sympathy, with much that makes life
attractive to a young, warm, womanly heart, to toil, and endure, and
walk alone. Oh, why had the knowledge of this come too late? Could not
the Lord, who "makes all things work together for good to them that
love Him," have caused Mr. Penwald to declare his wish before she left
Italy, or rather, before the terrible news from England came? She might
then have been honourably and religiously bound to him by an earlier
promise.
Assuredly, the wise, omniscient God could have done so, but He did
not. Was she His only care? Had He not pointed out to her, in His
providence, the way in which she was to serve Him?
Oh yes; it was all right, quite right. And she was glad that she had
not known Mr. Penwald longer, and that he would always be her friend.
"This," she thought, "is not providence! This is a temptation to turn
out of the way of providence; and I thank Thee, O God, for 'grace to
help in time of need.' With Thee to watch over and care for me, I shall
be safe and happy in Thy way. What endless perplexity and care may be
avoided by conscientious obedience to a judgment formed in faith and
prayer before Thee, desiring only to honour Jesus and His truth! All
is right and well, and now no more 'ifs,' no weak regrets, no foolish
sentimentality."
Noble and true principle! How few act up to even their own standard!
How many, accepting the decisions of selfishness, call tempting
circumstances providences, and when time or events reveal the error,
blame God for not having compelled them to act wisely!
Surely we too frequently forget that Satan and our own hearts have a
bond of union against all real providences that lie in the path of
anything self-denying and disagreeable. And if heavenly wisdom were
prayerfully sought, we should oftener detect the imposture and avoid a
temptation, instead of bemoan a "providence."
Myra soon succeeded in amusing the children from their regret at the
departure of such an agreeable playfellow, excepting only Harry, who
was unusually restless and dull. Once, he suddenly threw his arms round
his sister, and kissed her passionately, and then ran away. At another
time, he would sit gazing at her with a dreamy look in his eyes, and
speak absently if the others claimed his attention.
Myra was perplexed with his manner, until by degrees it wore off, and
gave place to a gentle, thoughtful attention to her wants or wishes,
which was very winning, and, from the rather rough, boisterous boy,
extremely surprising.
But Harry's pent-up feelings made to themselves a safety-valve, before
subsiding thus:
"I say, Florrie, I want you to come a long walk with me. Ask Myra if we
may go to that old castle."
Leave being given, and pockets filled with biscuits, they set off, Myra
promising to bring the other children to meet them on their return.
"I want to tell you something, Florrie, if you'll promise me that you
will never tell any one again, not Myra, nor Margaret, nor anybody;"
and Harry looked very mysterious and solemn.
Florence was nearly two years older than her brother, but delighted
to be his chief companion and friend, and was usually in all his
confidences. To his surprise, therefore, she hesitated now.
"I like to tell Myra everything," she said; "I don't want any secrets
from Myra."
"Well, but you won't want to tell her this. Promise, Florrie; I can't
keep it any longer to myself. I want somebody to talk to about it, and
it is as much to you as to me."
"Well, Harry, I promise, only on condition that it is no harm, and that
there is no need to tell any one."
"Well, Florrie, do you know that Mr. Penwald—did you like him very
much?"
"Very much, indeed," said Florrie; "I never saw any one so nice."
"So did I like him very much, but what do you think of his wanting to
take away Myra to live in some grand parish, and help him to do good?"
"Did he, Harry? How do you know?" asked his sister, in great
astonishment.
"Never mind that. I know it is true; and she wouldn't go because of
us. She said she had devoted herself to the care of her brothers
and sisters, and nothing could make her alter, or leave us. Then I
remembered what you said about that text, you know—'the same yesterday,
to-day, and for ever.' So, if the religion of Jesus made her come to
us, it is making her stay with us, you see; and she wants to be like
Him."
"That she does," said Florence; "but, Harry dear, how did you come
to know this? Neither of them would tell you; and perhaps you may be
mistaken."
"I am not mistaken. Look here, Florrie; they were sitting under that
old tower, and I—" poor Harry's face grew very red—"I was inside it. I
got in from the other side, and there's a big hole, where some stones
have tumbled out, and so I heard what they said."
[Illustration: "I HEARD WHAT THEY SAID."]
"Oh, Harry!" exclaimed Florence, with wide open eyes and flushed face.
"I am so ashamed of you. How could you do such a thing? What would Myra
say?"
"She will never know, unless you tell her; and you won't do that. And
it has made me love her dearly."
"I shall not tell her, of course, but I do think it is a wrong
thing that you did; mean, shameful. You will listen some day and
hear something about yourself that you won't like," said Florrie
contemptuously.
"I don't care; I am not sorry, so I shall not pretend to be. I took it
into my head that he wanted to take her away, and I was determined to
find out for myself; so I came back to the castle, while you all went
to the river, and I found that hole made on purpose for me."
"I can't bear to think of you doing such a thing, Harry; don't you know
that there is nothing so mean and low as—"
"There, that is enough about it," said Harry impatiently, "but this is
the bad part of it to me,—what if she would have liked to go with him,
and yet for our sakes refused to do it?"
"Perhaps she would like," said Florence thoughtfully; "he is so nice, I
think she ought to like."
"Very well, then, don't you see that it is just what we read this
morning,—
"'Whosoever will come after Me, let him deny himself, and take up his
cross and follow Me'?
"She is denying herself, and we are her cross, depend upon it, and
that's horrid; I can't bear it. Let us beg her to send us to a
boarding-school, or anything."
"Did Mr. Penwald try to persuade her?"
"Yes, for a little while, but he is a manly fellow, and wouldn't go on
begging her to do what she thought would be wrong."
"And do you think she would let us persuade her, when he couldn't,
Harry? Oh, I am very sorry if we are a cross, but what should we do
without her? Ever since she came, I have felt so different; she cares
for us, and we can trust her. Oh, Harry, don't try to alter it now."
"I would if I thought it would be of any use," said Harry, "but I
suppose you are right, she will do what the Lord Jesus has given her to
do for Him; and perhaps she wouldn't be happy any other way."
"And we may prevent ourselves from being a very hard cross, you know,
Harry, by trying to please her and help her, and by loving her more
than even Mr. Penwald could. You know she is not 'his' sister."
"Well, I am sure I shall do all I can for her, but, Florrie, do you see
how disagreeable and rude Margaret and Leonard are sometimes? It makes
me all in a boil to hear them. Elsie is very good, that's a comfort."
"Let us set them a good example about everything, Harry; and perhaps
you can be of some use to Leonard. We must all make Myra as happy as we
can. I almost wish Margaret could know what you told me, it might make
her better."
"Not for the world, Florrie; don't you dare to tell her, because of
course he, Mr. Penwald, wouldn't like—"
"No, of course he wouldn't," said Florence. "I am glad you are a little
ashamed of yourself, Harry; so now never do such a thing again."
"I shan't want to," said Harry; "we shall never see Mr. Penwald again,
Florence. If Myra doesn't mind, I'll try not to mind too."
Whether Myra "minded" they never knew, for her gentle, loving ways and
cheerful spirit betrayed no sign to them.
———————
CHAPTER VII.
A HAPPY SUNDAY.
"HERE'S Sunday come again," said Leonard, yawning, as he left the
breakfast-table; "I hate Sunday."
"So do I," said Harry, catching the infection, and stretching himself
out lazily.
"I scarcely wonder at that, my dear boys," said Myra gently, "if you
always spend it as you did the last one. I made no remark, because I
had so lately come, but I felt sorry for you."
"What a curious thing! I thought you would be vexed with us for hating
Sunday," said Leonard, looking inquisitively at her.
"I am not pleased, of course, but I hope to see you love it some time.
Come, Elsie, let me hear something about it, darling."
Elsie jumped from her chair, and standing with her little hands clasped
behind her, she began:
"'Happy, happy Sunday,
We will not toil to-day,
But leave till busy Monday
Lessons, work, and play.
"'It is our happy holy day,
It tells of God and heaven;
Oh, let us give up one day
To Him who gave us seven.'"
"Who taught you that? When did you learn that?" exclaimed several
voices at once.
"Sister Myra taught me. She knows everything," said the little maiden
triumphantly.
"What does it mean about giving it up, I wonder? I am always more tired
on Sunday than any day in the week," said Harry.
"Tired of yourself, tired of doing nothing, are you not, Harry?"
"I daresay that is it; and Sunday must be made for something better
than that, of course."
"Sunday belongs to the religion of Jesus, doesn't it, Myra? So I am
sure we ought to like it if we could," said Florence.
"If you should love the religion of Jesus, you will soon love and enjoy
His day, 'the Lord's day,' as His disciples called it. For you may
imagine what it would be, after they had seen Him murdered and buried,
and were mourning for Him in secret as one loved and lost, and whose
death had crushed all the bright hopes they had indulged about Him,
to hear that on the first day of the next week He was alive again,
had sent them a loving message, and was ready to meet and bless them
again as soon as they could come to Him. Then they knew that all He had
said was true, that all He had promised He could perform, and they met
astonished friends with the joyful shout, 'He is risen, He is risen
from the dead!' Well might they celebrate that wonderful day with songs
of praise and deep thanksgiving."
"I daresay they might," said Margaret, "but what does it matter to us
all this long time after?"
"Everything, dear Margaret. The rising again of the Son of God from the
grave shows Him to be the Holy One who died to save His people from
their sins; you and me, Margaret, if we believe in Him. And it is the
pledge of our resurrection in due time, for He said to His trusting
servants,—
"'Because I live, ye shall live also.'
"And when we feel that all Jesus did, and is, and will yet do, is
for us, that we may be forgiven and saved, and made partakers of His
glory, we gladly hail our Christian right to one day of the seven, on
which to give Him special honour, to worship Him, read and hear His
word, and learn more and more how best to serve and please Him. You
see, our pleasure in His day depends entirely on our love to Himself.
The observance of it is good for every one, for every family and
every nation, because God has said so; but the happiness of it is the
enjoyment of those only who value His work, and desire to be His, now
and for ever."
"I thought religion meant going to church, and reading good books on a
Sunday."
"Religion, dear sister, is really the reuniting to the Lord God of that
which sin separated from Him; only He could plan the way to do it; for
poor sinful creatures would never have even wished, of themselves,
reunion with the holy God. So He sent His dear Son to tell us of His
love and pity for us, to die instead of us, suffering what we deserved,
and taking our human nature up with Him into the presence of His Father
and our Father, His God and our God, there to feel for our sorrows, to
pardon our sins when we are grieved about them ourselves, to hear our
prayers, to intercede for our benefit, to give His Holy Spirit, and to
make everything that happens work for our good. That glorified divine
and human Saviour is the link that reunites God and man; and faith is
the link that unites the sinner to Christ. Do you understand me, dears?"
"I think I see it," said Harry; "believing in Him, what you call faith,
unites to Jesus, and Jesus unites to God. He is in the middle, between
us."
"Yes, in His human nature dwells the loving, gracious God who planned
it all: as it is written,—
"'God was in Christ, reconciling the world unto Himself, not imputing
their trespasses unto them.'
"Faith is the gift of God, and the union thus formed influences the
affections of our hearts and the conduct of our lives, so as to
produce what the Bible calls 'fruits of the Spirit; love, joy, peace,
longsuffering, gentleness, goodness, faith, meekness, temperance,' and
such like. Are they not lovely fruits and sweet flowers? And shall we
not like to have them growing up beautifully among us? This is real
religion."
"I am sure we shall," said Florence; "but we have not many of them yet."
"Oh, we will have patience, dear Florrie; 'with God all things are
possible;' and He is very patient and longsuffering."
"I should like to please Him, Myra," said Florence softly. "I will try
to remember and do what is right always, and then perhaps He will love
me."
"Dear Florrie, you have not caught yet the meaning of what I have
said. God does not want us to buy His love, nor to try and do what is
impossible.
"'Herein is love, not that we loved God, but that He loved us, and sent
His Son to be the propitiation for our sins.'
"That is, to be the offering, the atonement, through which the loving
Father could honourably and justly receive back to favour those who
have rebelled against and grieved Him. The religion of Jesus is a
religion of love.
"'God so loved the world that He gave His Son.'
"Christ proved His love by His work for us; and when, by the gift and
grace of His Holy Spirit, we are so impressed with it as to love Him
because He first loved us, it is like seed cast upon good ground,
springing up in every sweet fair thing that thoughts, words, and deeds
can accomplish for Him. This, you see, is not doing things to make God
love us, which is a gloomy, hard mistake, and keeps one in a constant
fret and uncertainty about succeeding at last,—but a free and happy
life of loving obedience. It is the most miserable thing possible to
displease one whom we dearly love and who we know loves us,—is it not?"
"I am sure it ought to be," said Harry; "and is this the sort of love
that makes people choose to deny themselves and take up crosses of
their own accord?"
"Yes, when the cross lies in the path of duty, as we find God's will
taught in His word, but not that cross or that sort of self-denial that
some people invent for themselves, and claim merit and reward for."
"Does anybody do that?" asked Margaret.
"Yes, many do make that sad mistake, and distress themselves with what
they call penances, and charities, and rounds of devotional services,
thinking that the pure, loving God will favour them and save them for
it, though He has distinctly said that we are redeemed only by the
blood of Christ, and that we can add nothing to its value."
"Why, Myra, I do believe those crusaders that we read about thought
that going to get Jerusalem from the Turks was to please God and win
heaven for themselves."
"You are right, Harry. They were taught so by the priests and monks;
and the pope proclaimed pardon of all sins to those who drew their
swords against infidels. It is a dreadful mockery of poor anxious
hearts, and a great blasphemy of the grace of God, so to deform
Christianity and misrepresent salvation. Oh, Harry, if you could see
the shocking ignorance of God, and of everything good and true, among
the poor Italian people, where nothing but the religion, as they call
it, of popery has ever been taught for hundreds of years, and where
the pope himself has lived and reigned, you would shrink with pain
and indignation from a system that makes bargains of human souls, and
leaves the heart and character worse than it finds them."
"Some people go into convents and monasteries to got made good, don't
they?"
"I am afraid many are deceived by that fancy, and find out too late
that no walls, not even the most beautiful, no chanted prayers, the
most incessant, no penances, the most austere,—can touch the root of
sin, nor keep the unruly wills and affections in order for half an
hour. In fact, they are more rampant and unruly and troublesome than
when scope is given for their use and exercise in the world they were
made for while in a mortal body. God does not grudge our love for
friends, and pleasant things, and personal enjoyments, while we receive
them thankfully from Him, and do not forget Him in His kind gifts. We
are to try and be like our dear Saviour, who never shut Himself up from
human society, and even met Satan himself in the wilderness when His
duty required it.
"'We need not bid, for cloistered cell,
Our neighbour and our work farewell,
Nor strive to wind ourselves too high
For mortal man beneath the sky;
"'The trivial round, the common task,
Would furnish all we ought to ask;—
Room to deny ourselves, a road
To bring us daily nearer God.'"
"But," said Margaret, in a dissatisfied tone, "everybody is not
religious in this way, Myra, or if they are, nobody knows it."
"Christianity—the religion of the Bible, of Jesus—always speaks in
some way, dear Margaret; if the lips are silent, the life declares it.
'Every tree is known by its fruit,' you know."
"But if people do not think much about—about what you have been telling
us, what are they to do?"
"Make haste to think about it, and learn what the Lord God has done for
them as soon as possible," said Myra.
"It seems to me," said Margaret gloomily, "you mean to say that papa
and mamma and Helen are not gone to heaven."
"Oh, Margaret, for shame!" cried Harry and Florence. "She said nothing
of the sort."
"But she means that."
"I assure you, Margaret, that they have not once been in my thoughts
during our conversation, until you have brought them there now."
"Well?" said Margaret inquiringly.
"'Neither is there salvation in any other; for there is none other name
under heaven given among men, whereby we must be saved.'
"That is, the name of Jesus," said Myra, in a firm and gentle voice.
"'And this is the record, that God hath given to us eternal life, and
this life is in His Son. He that hath the Son hath life; and he that
hath not the Son of God hath not life.'"
"If that's in the Bible, I don't like it," cried Margaret.
"There is more than that in the Bible, dear sister," added Myra; "but
those are true statements, nevertheless. Now listen to this."
And she read the story of Jesus walking on the water to His disciples
in the tempest-tossed ship.
"What I want you to notice is Peter's cry, and the Lord's instant
answer. Peter was sinking; he felt he should be lost; there was no
power in himself to stand upon those rocking waves. In his agony, he
cried, 'Lord, save me!' and immediately Jesus stretched forth His hand
and caught him."
The children all gazed upon Myra with intense interest and attention as
she continued,—"Now, the miracles of our Lord were not only proofs of
His power, but they were also emblems of His truth, and illustrations,
in natural things, of His power and grace in spiritual things. Peter's
condition when sinking in the sea is like that of a sinner sinking
to everlasting destruction, if no hand is near to save. Peter's cry
brought the hand of Jesus instantly to his help; the sinner's cry of
real belief in His power and pity brings the arm of Jesus around the
sinner's soul, snatching from eternal death, and raising to eternal
life.
"'Call upon Me,' He says, 'in the day of trouble: I will deliver thee.'"
"Oh, Margaret, let us hope and think they called," whispered Florence
in Margaret's ear.
"But we don't know," persisted Margaret.
"Listen again," said Myra.
And she read the story of the dying thief on the cross by the side of
the Lord Jesus.
"Now it is not likely that the people who were moving about and looking
on, during that awful scene, knew what was passing between the Lord and
the penitent thief. And when the soldiers came to see that they were
dead, they little thought that the soul of one of those poor convicts
was gone with Jesus to Paradise. History would never have recorded
it; the friends of the man—if he had any—did not know it, but the
wise, kind Lord bade His servant afterwards relate it, for the comfort
of—yes, even of such as we are."
"But, Myra, suppose there was no time to think or speak, no power,
perhaps."
"Well, listen yet again, dear Margaret."
And Myra read the story of the brazen serpent.
"Just imagine the utter helplessness of those bitten, dying creatures;
they had no power to do a single thing to save themselves from the
poisonous fangs of the deadly reptiles; and it would have mocked
their agony to bid them perform some act of devotion. They were
bidden to look, only to look, at the brazen serpent which Moses held
up; and whoever looked was healed. Oh, fancy the eager uplifting of
the drooping eyelid, the sudden animation of hope that could not be
disappointed. And,—
"'As Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, even so must the
Son of Man be lifted up: that whosoever believeth in Him should not
perish, but have eternal life.'
"The look now is the look of faith that no other eye can see, and only
God can know, until either on earth or in heaven the happy news is
told. Dear Margaret, these things—
"'. . . were written for our learning, that we . . . might have hope.'—
"Hope for our dear ones whose end we did not see, hope for ourselves in
dark and helpless days. But not one word of hope or promise is given to
delay, to unbelief, while we live to choose between God and sin, faith
and unbelief. Now is our opportunity, to-morrow may be too late. The
religion of Jesus is to teach us how to live and serve, as well as to
give peace when we come to die."
"It is a wonderful book, this Bible," said Harry; "I never thought
there were such interesting things in it. Why, there is nothing we can
say or think that you cannot answer out of it."
"Just look at the time," cried Florence; "why, we shall only just get
to church in time for the English service at twelve. We have talked
ever since breakfast."
"And about religion too, and we are not tired!"
After dinner, they all took a walk as far as little Elsie's power
allowed, and Myra sat down on the grassy bank while the children filled
her lap with the lovely autumnal wild flowers.
"Why, Myra, what are you doing?" cried Harry, coming to her with a
second handful. "You have spoiled that pretty flower that I asked you
the name of. What made you open it so wide?"
"I am sorry if you wanted it again," said Myra, "but I never saw one
like it before; and the exquisite shading of colour in its delicate
leaves, and the soft lines diverging from the centre both inside and
out, beguiled me into destructiveness even in my admiration. Besides
that, I was thinking."
"What about, Myra? I like to know your thoughts."
"I was thinking of a great difference between man's works and God's
works. The closer we look into man's doings of all kinds, the more
we detect imperfection, and our appreciation is either diminished
or exhausted; but the more minutely we examine into everything God
makes or does, the more we are obliged to admire and wonder. This
pretty flower under the microscope would reveal infinite perfection in
form and colour, beyond what we see with the naked eye; but put the
finest painting that the greatest artist ever executed under the same
scrutiny, and what coarseness, what daubing it would display! Man aims
at effect; God produces perfection."
"Myra, are you always thinking religion?" asked Harry earnestly.
"Can we help thinking of what we love?" said Myra, smiling.
"I want to ask you something, may I?"
"Surely you may, dear brother; and I will answer if I can."
"Are we your cross? Are you denying yourself to stay with us?"
Myra looked surprised, and the colour rose over her face, but she
answered frankly,—
"At first I felt something like it, Harry, for you all seemed not
to want me, but now I am feeling it less every day. And if there is
any self-denial in it, I am glad to prove that I can deny myself for
Christ's sake and yours."
"But do not crosses and self-denials make people unhappy? I can't bear
you to be unhappy."
"Do not fear it, darling brother," said Myra; "I am just where I like
to be, and where I think my Lord wishes me to be. Anything else would
make me unhappy. Now kiss me, and promise that you will put such
fancies out of your head from this minute."
Harry gave her one of his bouncing kisses.
"Suppose God should wish you to go away, how would you know, Myra?"
"If it should please Him to do something better for you all, and show
me that I am not needed, then I should go."
"But suppose He had something better for 'you,' Myra?" queried the
persevering boy.
"That cannot be, Harry," she replied, after another feeling of surprise
at the question. "Nothing can be better for any one than the path of
duty, in which only we find peace and blessing."
Harry seemed satisfied at last, and after tea they read and talked
over the subject of it. And Myra sang, in her best style, English and
Italian hymns, to their great delight, and all joined in regret when
bed-time came to end the shortest Sunday they had ever spent.
———————
CHAPTER VIII.
A NEW HOME
AND SOME VARIATIONS OF TEMPER IN IT.
IN less than a month, Myra and her family were the pleased occupants of
their new home,—a pretty white house, simply and tastefully furnished,
and surrounded by a small garden containing several handsome trees,
which screened it somewhat from the high-road. It was situated at
the outskirt of one of those clean, respectable county towns, where
an excellent and well-conducted public school attracts the residence
of many persons out of business, retired officers, widow ladies with
large families and small incomes; and from which honourably earned
scholarships and exhibitions have transferred ornaments to British
universities.
Harry and Leonard were entered according to their respective ages, and
soon found their level. The former had for several years been a boarder
at an expensive school, and was quite prepared for all a schoolboy's
troubles and adventures, but Leonard, though proud of his new position,
was too selfish and contentious to become a favourite, and his
mortification were ill endured.
His sisters did their best to patch up sundry wounds, mend battered
books, and sympathise with black eyes, incurred by pride and wilfulness
in the playground, and which, of course, the masters could not prevent.
And Harry, perhaps, was not so quick to the rescue as he might have
been, for he often thought that Leonard deserved the treatment bestowed
on him. However it might be, Margaret was the chief "confidante" of
his feelings, and instead of soothing, she too often irritated him. In
fact, they sometimes made themselves out to be the two most unfortunate
children in the world, from the strong magnifying power through which
they viewed their grievances.
One day Harry burst in at home, after school, exclaiming,—
"Oh, Myra, who do you think I've seen? Actually nurse Dinah! She
stopped us in the road; and when I wouldn't wait any longer, she kept
Leonard talking on. She says she has come to live near us, and we must
often go and see her."
"Dear Harry, I wish you had waited for Leonard," said Myra. "None of
you are to have any communication with Dinah, and I am sorry to hear
that she has come here."
"I shall speak to her, and go and see her, too," said Margaret. "How
can you, Myra, be so ill-natured to her, when poor mamma liked her so
much?"
"Mamma did not know her, Margaret, or she would not have allowed her
to be with you so long. But I am serious in what I say. You are not to
visit Dinah, and she is not to come to see you."
"It's shameful!" cried Margaret passionately. "Do you call that
religion?"
"It is part of it, dear sister, as my duty to you. Dinah did her best
to make you disobedient to me, and dissatisfied with God's dealings
with you; and I ought to guard against the same evil for the future."
While Margaret was uttering some rude reply, Leonard made his
appearance, with his mouth and hands full of sweets, mumbling out the
news of Dinah's arrival in the neighbourhood, and the nice things
she had got in her new shop. Myra gently repeated her decision, that
Leonard might fully understand, and then turned the attention of them
all from the subject.
On the following day, the sisters were walking into the town on some
errand, when suddenly Margaret darted into a small shop, where fancy
confectionery and small wares appeared for sale; and the others
immediately following, found her in nurse Dinah's arms, receiving her
caresses and welcomes.
Myra permitted her to kiss Elsie also, and Florence shook hands coldly.
"Bless you all, my darlings!" cried Dinah. "Come as often as ever
you can; I shall always be delighted to see my charge that my dear
mistress, poor lady, left to me. There, I see your governess doesn't
like to be kept waiting, but I'll soon see you again."
"I am sorry to disappoint you, nurse."
"Mrs. Jonson, if you please, miss. I'm married, and I came to settle
here for the sake of the children, that they may have one old friend
near them, at least."
"It is a great pity you took such an important step on their account,
Mrs. Jonson, for I must beg you to understand that they do not go
anywhere without me, and that I hope you will not press for any further
acquaintance with them. Come, Margaret."
"Run down whenever you can, my dear, and take this," whispered Mrs.
Jonson, as Margaret yet lingered behind, and thrusting a paper of
toffee into her hand; "I daresay you don't get much of treats now. I
wonder how she has managed to win over your little sister?"
"Oh, she is very kind to her," said Margaret, running off at last.
"My dear Margaret, you must promise me not to do this again," said Myra
gravely.
"You are jealous of her, I suppose?" said Margaret.
"I am jealous for you, dear sister. I wish you to have friends who will
do you no harm at least. Will you promise?"
"What if I don't promise?" asked Margaret pertly.
"I shall have the sorrow of finding that I have a rebel in my little
household, and must consult with your uncle upon the proper means to
put down mutiny. But you will not drive me to do that, I trust. I will
leave it for the present with your sense of honour and propriety. You
know very well the worth of Dinah's professions of attachment to you,
and should not permit her to come between us who are sisters."
"You are not my sister; I don't like to be ordered about by you. I
ought to do as I please."
"Well, dear, let me at least help you to be fit to do as you please,
and to guide you until you are. I only ask your obedience, and the good
example of it until that time, for Leonard's sake as well as your own.
Dinah is ignorant, and perhaps thinks she means to do you a kindness,
but you know better what is suitable and right."
"It's very hard," grumbled Margaret.
"I will make it as easy as I can," said Myra kindly, "but it is right,
or indeed I would not insist. I love to please you, Margaret, but no
true friend would prefer to please for the moment, by the infliction of
a lasting injury."
Nothing more was said on the disagreeable subject for several days.
But Mrs. Jonson being resolved to test her power to win the children
and oppose Myra, walked to the house, astonishing Peggy by her
unexpected appearance in the kitchen, and desiring her to announce her
arrival to the young ladies.
"Please, here's Dinah," said Peggy, in a cross voice; "she wants to see
the children."
"Tell her they are all engaged," said Myra calmly.
"I told her they was at lessons, ma'am, but she says she will wait till
they've done. You had best come and speak to her yourself, please,
ma'am, for I feel all boiling up. And if she don't go, I'm afraid I
shall be doing something I had better not, maybe. I can't abide her
mischief, not I."
Myra immediately went to the kitchen, told Mrs. Jonson, in a few words,
her reason for refusing what, under different circumstances, she would
willingly have encouraged, and, requesting her to desist from all
future attentions to the children, she bade her good-morning.
Mrs. Jonson was not to be silenced, if she could not be welcomed, and
broke into abusive speeches against tyranny, cruelty, and injustice,
until Peggy, unable to control herself any longer, seized her mop and a
pail of water, and began such a slushing deluge in all directions over
the floor, that the enemy beat a retreat rather speedily at last.
[Illustration: THE ENEMY BEAT A RETREAT RATHER SPEEDILY.]
"I am glad you've taken to hold your tongue, Peggy," she remarked
sneeringly; "it is a great improvement."
"She would improve anybody that would let her," cried Peggy, pointing
her thumb after Myra, "but you had best keep away till you want to be
good." And she shut the door with a disrespectful bang and the sound of
a bolt.
Peggy didn't pretend to be good yet, she said to herself; "and when
story-tellers and mischief-makers would put themselves in her way, she
wasn't against using her mop instead of her tongue; it made a deal less
noise, and did the work quickest when the kitchen wanted cleaning and
getting shut of rubbidge."
But, unhappily, Peggy did not easily recover from the ill effects of
this disagreeable visit. One of her crooked tempers had been roused and
indulged, and now mastered her good resolutions. She became reckless,
and dashed about until she broke and damaged several useful things. A
word from her fellow-servant provoked her further, and Peggy was soon
past management.
She rose late, breakfast was not ready, boots were not cleaned, the
kitchen looked like a sale-room. At dinner, the gravy was black with
cinders, and the potatoes, usually done to a nicety, were either hard
or burned. In fact, poor Peggy's evil temper intruded into everything,
and her young mistress's gentle remonstrances produced no impression.
At last, provoked by some fresh proof of carelessness, Myra, without
waiting to consider any further, went hastily into the kitchen, and
spoke with such angry decision that Peggy stared with astonishment,
threw down a box full of coals, and finally launched upon her mistress
a torrent of insolence such as poor Myra had never heard before, ending
with an announcement that she would leave the house that very day.
"You will not do that. You shall wait until I fill your place,
impertinent, ungrateful girl!" said Myra, repeating some of the
vexations that Peggy had lately perpetrated, amidst violent disclaimers
on the part of the culprit, until, feeling that her position was
getting extremely undignified, she turned away, but not before Peggy,
with a scornful tone, and as though speaking to herself, exclaimed,—
"There, it's all come out now. If that's her religion, it ain't worth
nothing, and I'm not going to bother my head any more about it. She
teach other people, indeed! She'd better begin again herself!"
The taunt stung deep. Instantly the apostle's words rushed into Myra's
mind:
"The servant of the Lord must not strive; but be gentle unto all men,
apt to teach, patient (or forbearing), in meekness instructing those
that oppose themselves; if God peradventure will give them repentance
to the acknowledging of the truth; and that they may recover themselves
(or awake) out of the snare of the devil, who are taken captive by him
at his will."
Myra went to her own room, and, with a beating heart and burning cheek,
knelt down and burst into tears. There was a storm now within. Ashamed,
humbled, disgusted with herself, she forgot Peggy's insolence, in
humiliation and self-reproach; and the loss of influence for Peggy's
moral and spiritual welfare was no small portion of her sorrow.
"Oh, how I have forgotten the charity that is not easily provoked! I am
well taught, and know the mind of Christ, while she is an ignorant girl
whom no one has ever instructed at all, and is only just beginning to
be willing to learn from me! What a wrong I have done to the religion
of Jesus! What injury to the poor girl herself!"
But Myra knew where to find pardon and peace, and the value of the
blood that "cleanseth from all sin," and by degrees she grew calm and
able to seek earnestly for wisdom and grace to try and undo in Peggy's
mind the mischief she had done.
Once more, she bent her steps to the kitchen, with traces of tears on
her face, but the soft light of peace and Christian love in her eyes.
Peggy was violently clearing away some of her neglected work, and
started with surprise at the sight of her young mistress.
"Peggy," said Myra, advancing to her, "you were quite right. I do need
to begin again myself, and I am truly sorry for the anger and passion
with which I spoke to you. I will not prevent you from going to-day if
you wish it, but you must bear in mind that I have 'not' shown you the
religion of Jesus in this unhappy dispute; and I pray that some one may
teach it to you who may never disgrace it in your eyes—"
"There, there, do stop, please do stop. Dear heart alive! To think of
her coming to tell me this! What a fool, what a wicked girl I am!" And,
throwing down her broom, and gathering up her apron over her face,
Peggy began to sob passionately.
"We have both been wrong, Peggy; we will forgive each other, and may
God forgive us both."
"Oh don't, please don't, dear missis," sobbed Peggy; "it's me, it's
all me, with my nasty temper, that's enough to frighten the wicked one
hisself; I know it. But if you'll forgive me, indeed I'll try, that I
will, and I'll do better. I did put the blacking on the kid, and messed
them boots all over; and I did slop the milk about, more shame for me.
And all the other things you said, I did them all and more too; and it
was enough to vex an angel. But I'll never do it again as long as my
name's Peggy, you see if I do."
"Then, Peggy, we will try and be a comfort to each other. I value a
great deal in you, and have no wish to part."
"Bless you, miss!" cried Peggy, seizing Myra's hand and kissing it.
"You can do me good, and nobody else ever did, nor never will."
Peggy could not forget it; and as she went lightly and gently about her
work, she murmured to herself, "To think of her coming like that, she
that oughtn't to have a hard word from man, woman, or child! Yes, yes,
that's the sort; that's better nor pulpit, nor class, nor anything else
that's talking and not doing. She wrong indeed! When I've been enough
to vex all the saints that ever were; Job hisself at the head of 'em.
Well, see if I don't work my fingers to the bone for her, for ever and
ever, Amen."
In former days Peggy had been sent by her mother to a Sunday school,
but she had not been prepossessed in favour of her teacher, and boldly
announced that she "wouldn't be drove, not even to heaven; and if
the way wasn't nice, she didn't want to go along it." But now that
her interest was awakened, and she began to feel the need of some
restraining power to guard her from the fierceness "of tempers that
would bring her some day to the gallows," she said, she felt sorry for
opportunities neglected.
"Myra dear," said Florence one day, "do you know that Peggy is wishing
she could go to school on Sunday afternoon, somewhere that you would be
teacher, and she might be in your class?"
"I have been thinking about her," said Myra; "and perhaps we might
invite her and Janet to come in while we are reading together."
"I thought you would suggest that, sister, and I asked her if she would
like it. She made me laugh, for she answered in her blunt, odd way,
'No, for sure I'd be going to sleep, because you are all so clever,
and you know words, but I want everything told to me out and out, like
a booby that I am. Then I proposed that she should go to the Sunday
school belonging to our church, for I was sure you would give her
leave. But she said that 'nobody knows how to teach her but you, and
you are real, with a spirit in you that came from nowheres but heaven
itself.'"
Myra inwardly thanked God for this result of her confession to Peggy,
but she was perplexed how best to provide for her instruction on a
Sunday afternoon, "sermons" not being at present in Peggy's favour, for
she invariably went to sleep before the sermon began, and her disgust
at her own misbehaviour was only partially mitigated by the conviction
that she should not have understood it if she had kept awake.
"Suppose we all went to the Sunday school, Myra," suggested Florence;
"you could have a class of young women, you know, and Margaret and I
could teach some little ones."
"I should be delighted to think that you love the Lord Jesus
sufficiently to wish to 'feed His lambs,' dear Florrie; for nothing
else, I think, can keep one's interest and patience from failing, or
really do much good. It must be from heart to heart if we would really
influence. But, you know, even if we did this, Harry and Leonard would
miss us, and little Elsie is beginning to love our Sunday afternoons.
No, home is the place for our first efforts, dear Florrie; think again."
"Would you be too tired, Myra, to give Peggy that time before tea which
you have given to me when you are afraid of Harry and Leonard getting
weary, and you send them for a run in the garden, or give them one of
your illustration books to look at?"
"No, dear Florrie; it is a very precious half-hour to us both, but if
you are willing to give it up for Peggy's sake, I will go to her in the
study and do my best to help her on."
"It is self-denial to me, Myra," said Florence, smiling, and kissing
her sister, "but it will be a great help to her."
So it was arranged, and Peggy was highly gratified with what she
considered "beat all the schools in England." She knew that Miss
Florrie gave up something, and she said, "Ah, Miss Florrie is learning
the religion of Jesus."
———————
CHAPTER IX.
HOLIDAYS ANTICIPATED.
MR. HAYNES paid a short visit at the end of three months, being anxious
to transact for the young housekeeper any business which might perplex
or be distasteful to one so inexperienced in the ways of English life,
and feeling that his deep debt of gratitude could only be repaid by
such acts of thoughtful kindness.
He could not but observe the frequent rudeness and petulance of
his niece's manner, and the provoking interference with which she
encouraged her brother to resist authority, and cause trouble to their
friend and protectress.
His own affairs were in course of settlement, but he kept silence on
the subject, and determined to give what help he could in making the
children more contented and submissive in their present position.
He therefore invited Margaret and Leonard to spend the winter vacation
with his family, and found his proposal received with unbounded delight.
"But remember, my dear children," said he, "that I cannot promise you
much pleasure. A change of scene and society is all I can ensure."
"Oh, but we know we shall like it," cried Leonard; "if snow comes, we
will have such games!"
"And we shall see my aunt and cousins, and drive the ponies, you know,"
said Margaret. "Oh, Elsie, wouldn't you like to be going too?"
Elsie liked snowballs and ponies extremely, but she only looked up at
Myra with a smile, which said, "I am quite contented here."
Her uncle patted her curly head, and said that if Margaret and Leonard
gave her a nice account of their visit, she might go another time.
The children talked of little excepting this visit for some weeks
before the holidays, and were prepared to start on their journey within
twenty-four hours of the "breaking-up."
Florence suggested that Margaret should take with her some of her
French and German books, just to keep up with her when they should
resume study. But Margaret laughed, and asked whether she supposed
there would be any time for reading in the gay parties and treats which
were always going on at Uncle Haynes's? To music she made no objection,
and expected to surprise her cousins with the proficiency she was
attaining under Myra's instruction.
"Leonard has a theme to prepare during the vacation, you know,
Margaret. You must not let him forget it."
"Oh, of course Leonard will do what must be done, but a choice, you
know, is another thing."
"I say, Maggie, uncle doesn't live now where he used to live; I wonder
what the new place is like," remarked Leonard.
"Nicer than the old one, of course," said Margaret; "people don't move
without getting better houses than they had before; it will all be
delightfully new to us."
"I wonder Harry and Florence are not asked," observed Leonard
confidentially, when they were not within hearing.
"Why should they be asked?" said Margaret sharply. "He is our own
uncle, not theirs at all. I like much better to go without them."
"Well, I don't. Harry can do so many things, and I wanted him to help
me with that nasty theme."
"Oh, I'll help you, but you needn't think about it until we come back
again, you know."
Presently Leonard disturbed his sister's meditations again.
"I say, Mag, do you know that uncle travelled third-class when he came
here?"
"Yes, I heard him say it; and it made me feel so hot."
"And he carried his bag himself, and wouldn't even get into the omnibus
at the station. Isn't it very queer?"
"I don't know why he should do such a strange thing, but perhaps he
likes to keep his money. You know he didn't give us any, as he used to
do."
"'Don't' I know? 'Wasn't' I disappointed? Why, if it hadn't been for
Myra, I should have had no pocket-money this half. Do you think she
will want us to travel third-class?"
"If she does, I shall not go at all," said Margaret indignantly. "To
think of aunt and Edith and Lilian seeing us get out of a third-class
carriage! Oh, Leonard, I wish you wouldn't think of such things."
If Myra had heard this silly talk, she might have wondered at the
children's conceptions; for, if she made any difference at all,
Margaret and Leonard were usually considered before her own brother and
sister, though they showed little gratitude for the fact.
The children were to travel alone. Myra, Florence, and Harry
accompanied them to the station, and placed them in a first-class
carriage under the care of the guard. Nothing could be more
satisfactory; they were liberally supplied with pocket-money, and
some little presents for their cousins, and rolled away in the gayest
possible spirits.
After thus parting, and after home was again reached, Harry began
to consider how he should employ his time, and drive out of his
recollection the pleasant look of a railway train full of travellers,
boys going journeys, bustling stations, puffing engines, busy porters,
and all the excitement of something new to see.
"Myra, shall I set about my theme at once?" he asked.
"And I must have something to do for you, Myra," said Florence; "what
shall it be?"
It was a very unusual thing, but Myra seemed in deep thought, and, if
she heard, remained silent. Then she made a few figures on her tablet,
and mused again.
Harry yawned a little, went out and looked about the garden and down
the road, and, finding nothing attractive, came in again, picked some
dead leaves off the plants on the stand in the hall, and again wondered
how he should get through the holidays if Mr. Frost did not come to the
rescue, and make the most charming of all varieties.
Girls could always do plenty of things to amuse themselves, he
imagined, but boys in the house were only nuisances to themselves and
everybody else; and, thus concluding, he encountered Elsie.
"Come, Harry," she cried, "come to Mr. Sawyer; he wants to show you how
nice it is,—that thing that he has been doing for you."
Away rushed Harry to a spare room which he and Leonard had called their
den, and where he knew Mr. Sawyer sometimes did a little carpentry for
the house.
There stood a fresh proof of his sister's thoughtful love. A lathe with
all its appurtenances was fitted up for his amusement; and Mr. Sawyer,
a respectable joiner and carpenter, was ready to give him a little
instruction on its management.
How delightful!—How the time would fly! And then the sisters came to
peep and enjoy the young workman's animated bursts of satisfaction. In
a moment, he had forgotten the half-envied travellers, and Blake and
Simpson and Wallace, his favourite schoolfellows, whom Myra frequently
permitted him to bring home on holiday afternoons, and was deep in the
mysterious operations of this useful and instructive machine.
In the evening, as they sat round the fire waiting until lamps were
lighted and curtains drawn, and Harry was examining by firelight the
chessmen with which he and Florence were being taught the game by Myra,
and wondering when he should be able to turn ivory with his lathe, Myra
suddenly interrupted him.
"Harry dear, what is the subject of your theme?"
"Our class has to give a short epitome of English history, and the
chief changes that have been made in the British Constitution since the
Conquest. Dry enough, isn't it? And to improve it, I suppose, Dr. B—
said that any boys who would put it into good Latin would gratify him
very much."
"Can you do that?"
"I don't know. I ought, though, for I've been drilled in Latin ever
since I was seven, but I don't think I'm willing to try it."
"Would not Dr. B—'s gratification be a sufficient inducement?"
Harry laughed.
"I don't think any of our fellows will take that into consideration.
None of us are so fond of him as to volunteer Latin essays in holiday
time for his sake, I'm afraid."
"It has to be put into English first, I conclude; and I should so like
you to do it well, Harry. Now, suppose you make notes of your subject
while you have books of reference at hand,—only notes, not the theme
itself,—and put them away for a time, say until the last week of the
vacation."
"Very well," said Harry, a little surprised, for Myra usually advised
what sage people call "duty first and pleasure after." "I will begin
to-morrow, and work for an hour before I touch the lathe; shall I?"
"I think that will be wise. Now, Florence, a task for you," continued
Myra, smiling at the eager face.
"Do you think that you and I could take the entire charge of Elsie
without Janet for a little time? Elsie is getting a very independent
little maiden," she said, stooping to kiss the little one, who had
sprung from the floor and her building toys as soon as her name was
mentioned.
"Yes, I am quite sure that I can take charge of her without troubling
you at all," said Florence eagerly; "but why, Myra? Are you going to
give Janet a holiday too?"
"No, indeed; nothing so disinterested," replied Myra gaily. "I was
thinking that if we were to go away for a little time, Janet must stay
to bear Peggy company, so we must try to do without her services."
Harry hereupon assumed his favourite attitude when contemplating his
sister and her arrangements, namely, elbows on knees or table, chin in
hands, and eyes fixed upon her face, while Florence asked:
"Do you think of taking us somewhere, sister?"
"Yes, I should like it very much, but every place is not pleasant in
winter; and I want to go where it might help Harry with his theme."
"Where could that possibly be?" exclaimed Harry, releasing his chin.
"We have always gone to the seaside in summer, and have never been
anywhere in the winter."
"Have you ever been to London?"
"To London,—to London! Would you really take us to London? Are you in
earnest,—are you not joking, Myra?"
"London would be a great joke, would it not?" said Myra, laughing, and
enjoying the evident pleasure and surprise that the thought had given.
"Would you like it?"
"Oh, shouldn't we! Of all things in the whole world, nothing should we
like better. Once we drove through part of London, from one railway to
another, when we went to Brighton; and it just tantalised us beyond
patience to be almost in sight of everything, and yet see nothing. But,
dear Myra, can you really mean to give us such a treat?"
"I do mean it, dear, if it please God to prosper my little plan. I did
not quite see how I could manage to take our whole party, but this
visit of Margaret and Leonard, by their own and their uncle's wish,
lessens both the expense and the responsibility. I have friends who
will secure suitable and central lodgings for us, and provide means
for seeing much that will interest and instruct. Two things you must
promise: first, not to grumble at wet days, if such occur; second, to
be content to go only where Elsie can accompany us, as I should never
leave her with strangers, nor go out in the evening. Our expeditions
must therefore be during the day, and we will not risk over-fatigue for
any of us."
"Oh, thank you, dear, kind sister," said Elsie, clasping her arms round
Myra, "not to leave me behind; and I will be so good?" And the fair
face flushed with grateful love.
"But, Myra," said Harry dubiously, "how will it help me to write my
theme? I'm afraid it will drive it all out of my head."
"I hope it will expand your mind, and give form and reality to many
things that at present are only misty conceptions. For example, would
you not have a clearer idea of the administration of British law if you
saw the judges sitting in the courts, and heard a cause tried before
them, in Westminster Hall? Would you not realise our British Parliament
better after seeing the Houses of Lords and Commons, and understanding
how debates are conducted and votes taken? Then, in the grand old Abbey
there are the monuments to worth, valour, art, and genius, of which you
read in history and biography; and old Father Thames, with his forest
of masts bearing the flags of all nations, and giving new interest to
your ideas of commerce and enterprise; and the sad old Tower, and—"
"Oh, Myra, Myra, you put me in a perfect ecstasy!"
"Well, put it into your theme when you come back, and I am sure Dr.
B— will not be ashamed of you. The powers of observation will be
exercised, reflection will concentrate and arrange ideas so acquired,
and improve the judgment, so that you will select your points more
carefully and treat them more judiciously. That is all I mean, so
far as your theme is concerned. Then, you have been obedient and
industrious, and stand well in the school report; and I want to give
you pleasure as well as improvement."
"And when shall we go, Myra?"
"I think the first week in the new year, after we have done our little
part in providing for the wants of others, and the enjoyments of the
schools, where, you know, we are involved with the Christmas-tree."
"Florrie," said Harry, when he and his sister talked over their
happiness together, "do you remember old Dinah saying that Myra is a
Methodist, and would never allow us any pleasure, or fun, or treats of
any kind? Much she knew about it, didn't she?"
"Ah, Harry, we did not know anything, either, about Bible religion.
I was afraid of it; I thought it was hard and terrible, and that God
was always angry. But Myra shows us more and more that the religion of
Jesus is love, and kindness, and pity, and pardon; and that, in knowing
it so, we hate more and more everything that displeases and dishonours
such a loving Saviour. I hope you and I shall try to live His religion
always, Harry."
"I hope so," said Harry seriously, "but it is easy to be good with
Myra, because we love her. I'm often thinking that we can't quite tell
how it would be among bad people. I get in awful trouble sometimes,
even among boys, I can tell you."
"But, Harry, if we love the Lord Jesus, won't it get easier to try and
please Him? And, you know, He is always with us, to love and help us if
we are determined to be His disciples."
"Yes, that's it, I daresay, but you are better than I, Florrie."
Florence did not agree to this, but she commended to her brother the
remedy she had found true in many of her little struggles, namely,
"prayer."
And Harry promised to try it oftener.
When Peggy, whose accomplishments in her department quite justified
the title of cook, heard of the arrangements, she vigorously protested
against her young mistress's intentions of going into lodgings in
London without her own servant.
"Dear me!" said she. "I can do very well by myself here; only let me
have my mop and a bucket of water, and I'll warrant nobody comes twice
that isn't wanted."
But Myra had decided, and, while thanking Peggy for her heroism,
convinced her of the propriety of retaining Janet as well as the mop.
———————
CHAPTER X.
THEY THAT WILL BE RICH.
IN the meantime, Margaret and Leonard made a pleasant journey, in high
hope and expectation, and were received by their uncle at the railway
terminus. The cab was driven through several handsome streets, and past
many fine terraces, at one of which the young travellers expected it to
stop, but not so. On they went to the heart of the city, and drew up
before a large respectable-looking shop in a spacious thoroughfare. The
great bay-windows were filled with woollen goods, one exhibiting costly
carpets and rugs, the other piled with rolls of flannel of all colours
and qualities.
While the children were wondering what they were stopping for, Mr.
Haynes assisted them to alight, and saw the luggage deposited inside
the shop. Then Mrs. Haynes and her three daughters came forward, and
gave them a warm, affectionate welcome, not seeming to notice the
wonder and sudden reserve plainly marked in their countenances.
Leonard was taken to a neat little room opening from the first flight
of stairs, and Margaret was led higher, to share a large double-bedded
room with her cousins. Everything was neat, but plain; and there were
few traces of the former expensively furnished and luxurious home.
Margaret's astonishment and mortification were unbounded. What could it
mean? Who would have thought of such a thing? To bring them, Margaret
and Leonard Haynes, his brother's children, to a shop! And without
telling them of such a change! How superior now seemed Myra's pretty
white villa, with its curtained windows, and trees and shrubs, its
tasteful rooms and well-lighted stairs! Oh to get back there by the
next train, if it were but possible!
"Maggie, do you recollect third-class?" whispered Leonard, as they met
to go down to tea.
"I do indeed," returned Margaret, in a whisper. "I wish we had never
come. I shan't show my face out of doors here, I know; it is a shameful
trick to serve us."
And it was hard to repress her tears of vexation by the time they
reached the tea-table.
The sitting-room was very large, ascending by two long carpeted
steps from the end of the shop, from which it was screened by
half-glass doors and crimson curtains. The furniture comprised many
of the handsome and luxurious articles of Mrs. Haynes's former
sitting-room,—couch, easy-chairs, work-table, piano, and other things
to which eye and hand had been accustomed; the table was liberally
spread, the fire burned brightly, and a cheerful home aspect pervaded
the well-lighted apartment.
Of Mr. Haynes's three daughters, one was older than Margaret, one
younger, and one about the same age. They did their best to break
through Margaret's coldness and induce her to eat. But she had no
appetite, pleaded headache, and left Leonard to do justice to their
hospitality, and afterwards to explore the premises with his playmate
Jessy, while she begged permission to retire to bed.
"Did you explain to the children where you were bringing them,
Herbert?" asked Mrs. Haynes when they were alone.
"No, my dear, I did not," he replied; "I preferred to give them a
surprise."
"I am afraid it has been a very painful one," she remarked.
"I have no doubt of it, Ellinor, but I hope the effect will be
salutary, after all. Edith and Lilian will probably be able to
reconcile things by-and-by. Do not distress yourself, and let all go on
as usual. My niece has no right to complain on her own behalf, for what
could she expect to find in my home, when I was unable to provide one
for her and the others?"
At breakfast the next morning Margaret was not more agreeable, and
sat scornfully observant of all proceedings, while her cousins went
upstairs to make beds and dust rooms, and her aunt washed the china on
the tray, and replaced it in the large closet at the end of the room,—a
young girl with bare arms, short skirt, and nimble step, carrying away
what was not accommodated there.
Mr. Haynes was in the shop, where two or three assistants and
apprentices formed the working staff; and Leonard was peeping and
prying about everywhere, asking questions, and gradually reconciling
himself to a state of things so utterly unexpected, and so evidently
irremediable for the time.
Towards dinner-time, two fine boys made their appearance, having been
paying a visit of a few days to their grandfather, who resided at a
little distance from town, and who, they said, had brought them home in
the carriage, but could not just then come in.
They and Leonard soon became friendly, for it was not in the boy's
nature to continue long on stilts of pride before frank and genial
efforts to amuse and please. And when "grandpapa's" carriage came to
take all who would go for drives, he began to think he should make
himself tolerably comfortable.
There was a gentle dignity in Mrs. Haynes's manner and appearance
which could not escape observation; and, though attired in a plain
morning dress suitable for household activity, she moved about
her humble occupations as gracefully as she had ever done in her
stylish drawing-room. And had Margaret been in a mood for drawing
more favourable comparisons than those with which her young heart
was swelling, she would have observed that a far sweeter and more
interesting expression now adorned her aunt's always handsome face
than when she spent her time and fretted her temper in maintaining a
fashionable establishment conformed to the capricious fancies of the
world and its ways.
It was true that she was not accustomed to household—drudgery, must it
be called, for want of a better word? But life requires many menial
duties which are no disgrace to any hand, and are often the better for
one of neatness and delicacy. And Mrs. Haynes had learned to think
nothing beneath her attention which contributed to the comfort of her
family, especially in their altered circumstances.
Yet often might be heard in the house the quick exclamation:
"Mamma, mamma! You are not to do that;" or, "Please, dear mamma, let me
do it; you know you showed me how;" "Now, mamma, you must just sit down
and rest, and we will do it all so nicely."
And the happy mother would smile on her willing daughters; and if a
little sigh struggled in her bosom, and a rebel tear threatened to come
to light, she repressed them until she could be alone, and mingle with
them thanks to God for dutiful children, and prayer for His blessing
on all life's troubles. And well was it for her husband and her family
that the sorrows and trials of so great a change in her position in
life had not been "the sorrow of the world, working death," but the
"godly sorrow" which is the blessed seed-time of a harvest of peace,
humility, and holiness.
Mr. Haynes had been a manufacturer, and the possessor of extensive
mills; and when a tide of prosperity floated him into affluence, he
had seemed to think—as hundreds of successful men besides himself have
thought—that his mountain stood strong, and he should never be moved.
While thus forgetful of God, he was induced to join his brother in a
speculation which was to enable them both to retire from business with
splendid fortunes in a short space of time. So, at least, they fancied,
but the result proved how mistaken were their calculations, and foolish
their schemes.
Both indeed retired, but not as they anticipated. One, foreseeing the
coming shock, broken in health and spirit by overwhelming anxiety,
tried to put off the pressure in amusement and change of scene; and
what might have been the real destination of the yacht when she met the
squall which capsized her, none could tell. The other, left to breast
the storm of trouble as best he could, struggled manfully, shook off
the spray, clung to the rock, rallied to do all the justice in his
power to those who suffered by his fault, and to learn a lesson, the
benefit of which might descend to his children's children.
The father of Mrs. Haynes was also a manufacturer of the hereditary
and substantial class, never suffering himself to be allured from his
line of caution and foresight by any of the brilliant schemes which
keep so many of the commercial community oftentimes up and down in
the world like a skiff among the breakers, and which might possibly
out-dance them, or more likely be broken a wreck upon the reefs. He
was not what people called a rich man, but exceedingly "comfortable,"
able to maintain the same position and style as his father before him,
and to leave something to the children who should succeed him. But he
had his "notions" and "crotchets," the world said. And as he did not
care in the least what it said so long as it could say nothing true to
dishonour him, the "notions" and "crotchets" went for very little.
When the blow fell, and Mr. Haynes was pronounced "a ruined man," Mr.
Fairfield, who had been somewhat slighted by his fashionable children
because of his disapproval of certain of their proceedings, came
forward and offered substantial assistance, if it should be accepted on
his own terms.
Mr. Haynes thankfully expressed his readiness to accept any terms that
would enable him to pay his debts and maintain his family. He had given
up everything to his creditors, and they had acted kindly, but there
yet remained a large deficiency, which he earnestly hoped some day to
repay.
"Will you all really submit to some very great and important changes?"
asked the old gentleman seriously.
"My dear sir, there is no choice in the matter; it is already
inevitable," said Mr. Haynes somewhat bitterly.
"Yes, there is a choice yet," said Mr. Fairfield. "There are two ways
in which a man in your present circumstances may act, and I have seen
both tried. One is for him to be resolved to keep in his former rank
in life, a sort of broken-down gentleman, sensitive to every slight,
going about looking for some miraculous piece of good fortune that is
to reinstate him, hunting up advertisements for lucrative situations,
wasting time and energy, and feeling the miserable heart-sickness of
hope deferred; wife and children struggling to keep up their lost
dignity in gradually meaner lodgings, seeking secretly to do something
'not degrading' in the way of supplying the scanty meal, or cheering
the poor husband and father when he comes in weary and disappointed.
The end of all this is sometimes emigration for pride's sake, or
wasting sickness and death in want and despair, while the helpless ones
are thrown at last upon the world, to do as they may for themselves. I
have seen this, I say, sir, and can give you names and dates for it."
"You shall not add mine to the list!" exclaimed Mr. Haynes, rising from
his seat, and walking up and down the room in much excitement.
"Good," said Mr. Fairfield calmly; "now look at the other picture,
which I can equally prove. It is to yield to the circumstances in
which you find yourself, from causes which you know too well, but of
which I do not now speak. To give up all useless struggle to maintain
a position of empty gentility, to go to the bottom of the ladder and
begin again as an honest, respectable, tradesman who is not ashamed of
work."
"My dear sir, only show me the way to—"
"Very well, but hear me out. To go into a retail business in that
department of trade which you understand, and which you managed
well until you fell 'into a snare,' and 'pierced yourself with many
sorrows'; strive and work with hope and energy; support a home on a
frugal scale; be ashamed of nothing but wrong-doing; win the respect of
all whose respect is worth having; and in time pay everybody what you
now owe, and become honourably independent. If you will do this, I am
prepared to stand by you, and give all the help in my power."
"A retail business, you said, sir?"
"I did. My means and my will are agreed on that matter. I have seen
the purchaser of your property, and he is ready to supply you with
goods sufficient to stock a respectable shop on the usual terms, for
which I will give them security. Willis & Co., in — Street, have just
given up business, having made two fortunes in this same line, and on
those premises. The situation is very good, the house is spacious and
commodious, and the landlord will accept you as a tenant, and make it a
suitable residence for your family."
"They all wish to be doing something to help," said the father
despondingly.
"Quite right, provided they decide on the right thing," rejoined Mr.
Fairfield. "But my advice is, keep together; your daughters are too
young to leave home yet. I do not incline to keep them at fashionable
schools, and I hope they will be ready to help their mother, if she
has the good sense to let them. I bought a good many of your things at
the sale, for Ellinor and the children; and you can have them when you
please. But I do not want to take you by surprise. Think of it, talk it
over with Ellinor, and say that I charge her to help you in a course
which involves the sacrifice of pride and pretension, and the triumph
of right principle."
"But," suggested Mr. Haynes, "could we not do all this in some other
neighbourhood, away from former friends and acquaintances who—"
"I have thought of that too," said Mr. Fairfield kindly, "and at
first I hesitated, but on deeper consideration,—here, where you are
known, offers the best prospect of business. Elsewhere you are one
of the competing many; here you step into an old-established and
well-conducted business at once, amidst people who know us all, you and
me and Ellinor. And while the idle and worldly who petted her for her
fine house and pleasant parties fall off, the worthy and honourable
who respect and feel for her, will prove the value of their real
friendship. My love to her and the children. Let me hear your decision
to-morrow."
And the old gentleman hurried out to his carriage, which waited at
the door of the lodging to which the family had retreated in their
troubles. Before he could drive off, however, Mr. Haynes was at his
side.
"One word, sir; could I not let the house, and take one for Ellinor and
the children in a more—more healthy, airy situation, retaining only
just what I require for myself at the—the shop?"
"And die yourself of neglect and home-sickness," jerked out the old
gentleman testily. "Well, sir, ask Ellinor; let us hear her view of
it.—Drive on, Harris."
———————
CHAPTER XI.
PEACEABLE FRUITS.
MRS. HAYNES was sitting in her bedroom, hoping to be called into the
council which she knew was being held on the subject of ways and means.
But no summons came, and she heard the carriage driven away, and her
husband's step languidly returning upstairs. Then she joined him,
anxious and troubled at the expression of his countenance.
"Dear Herbert, my father will help us?" she said inquiringly.
"Yes, he will help us, Ellinor, if—"
"Oh, let us thank God for that! All will be well again now. And he
makes conditions; perhaps he wants you to do something you don't like.
But never mind, dear; it will be nothing wrong, I am sure."
Mr. Haynes walked up and down the room while he detailed to his wife
the conversation he had just held with her father.
She sat down, and as he went on with the old gentleman's scheme, she
covered her face with her hands, and besought of her Father in heaven,
humility and submission to what she saw to be His will. Pride and
natural feeling revolted terribly for a brief space, but she knew the
need, she saw the wisdom, and resolved in the strength of God what her
course should be.
Mr. Haynes said he could not see his way to anything better. True, he
might go abroad, and try his fortune in another land; and he could
struggle alone, but it might end in disappointment for years, and he
might die away from all he loved, who would be no better off for all
his struggles.
"For myself I do not care, it will only be selling yards instead of
bales, but for you and our children I feel the change. If I accept
this plan, you must have a small house out of town, where I will come
when I can; and I will just keep one room, and let all the rest of the
premises."
Mrs. Haynes had fought her battle with the first shock of this new
idea; and with a face of cheerful resolution she rose, and, putting her
arm within that of her husband, paced up and down with him.
"No, Herbert," she said affectionately; "we will share alike, whatever
it is to be. There is nothing in my father's offer which need distress
us so much. We have lost our house, furniture, position, it is true;
but here we are ourselves, safe and well, able and willing to help each
other. Do you not think you could endure this—this shop for all our
sakes, dear husband?"
"I can bear anything for your sakes, except to see you humbled and
slighted and pained, and—"
"Hush, dearest! I am humbled before God for all my wicked extravagance
and selfishness in time past; slights, if they come, I can bear and
smile at, and the only pain I shall feel will be caused by your
regrets. Now let us talk of our new way of life to our children, not
as if it were to be deplored, but as a proof of God's goodness and
care, in giving us an opportunity to redeem our credit, permitting us
to keep together, and enabling us to prove, as we shall prove, that a
wife and daughters are not helpless burdens on your hands, but loving,
industrious sharers of your toils and cares."
Never did Herbert Haynes feel so rich and proud as at that moment.
Never had he known the heroic spirit that slept beneath the soft
indolence and fashionable frivolity in which he had indulged his wife.
Half his load of trouble and vexation seemed removed already, and only
the hand of a gentle, delicate woman had touched it for him.
"My Ellinor," he said, "we have our best portion left still. I will be
content, and you shall teach me your precious secret. We will cease to
care for appearances, except to 'avoid the appearance of evil'; and we
will go at once, as your father advises, to the foot of the ladder, and
begin life afresh."
"And I will go and tell my father our decision; I shall like to talk it
over with him, so I will follow him at once."
But not until she had knelt to bless God, and lay again at her
Saviour's feet the offering of a heart to be moulded to His will, and
consecrated to His service.
"Well, Ellinor," said Mr. Fairfield, "are you come to bid the old man
mind his own business?"
"No, dear father; I am come to thank you for minding ours, and to
assure you of my readiness to carry out any plan you propose for our
benefit."
"Good, my dear; I rejoice to hear it. So much for the letter of it, but
what of the spirit? Is it a hard, imperative necessity, or is there
a willing mind?" And, glancing down at a book on which his arm was
resting, he continued, "Once I used to teach you out of this good Book,
Nelly, and I hoped you knew something of its principle, but you have
lost sight of them in the world."
"I think they are coming back to me now, father. I have been very
sinful and rebellious, and in some measure am only reaping the fruit
of my own ways, but I do believe it is forgiven, and the Lord whom I
have shamefully neglected is going to teach me how to live to better
purpose."
"My dear child, my precious Nelly," said the old man, smoothing her
brow and kissing her as in childhood, as she knelt beside him with
tearful eyes and faltering voice, "have I lived to hear this from thee
after years of disappointment? Verily, it is good for thee to have been
afflicted."
Then he calmed her and himself with some of the sweet words of that
holy Book, and tenderly commended her and hers to the loving care and
wise providence of Him who "doeth all things well," and who, when trial
comes to His children, "will with the temptation also make a way to
escape," that they "may be able to bear it."
"Then you don't think my conditions too hard, my dear?"
"Oh no, father; you have a right to order all as you think best."
"I have prayed and pondered on it, Nelly, and even if I could afford
it, it would defeat the blessing that I trust is to spring out of your
trouble, were you replaced at once in the position lost by (I don't
mean to grieve you, my child, but things ought to be called by right
names) covetous speculation and reckless expenditure. Your children
will get a truer view of right principle, and a worthy object in life;
and they are not quite old enough to feel the change as they would have
done a year or two hence. I think your trial decidedly the greatest,
but if you seek grace to bear it well, you will come out of it refined
and strengthened, and feeling that you would not have had it ordered
otherwise. Anywhere with our God and Saviour, dear Nelly; without Him,
nowhere."
"I am beginning to understand it, dear father; and I feel that I cannot
count up the mercies that are clustering round our trouble."
"That's the way, my darling; come, we shall soon have back all the
sunshine. I was going to say that the plan I propose is the best I can
think of after mature deliberation; and if any one were to say that
the old man might have come out more liberally, you will know my means
and motives, and it does not matter to anybody else. To help people to
help themselves is, in my view, the truest help of all. But what about
Herbert's proposal of living by himself at this shop, while you—"
"Oh, father, do not give it another thought. You do not believe that I
could be so mean and selfish? No, we will strive and work together, and
without a visiting list, I shall have time for everything."
"Right again, my dear. Get a good strong servant, and let your children
help you in your household duties. It will do them good, and we will
see that education in other things is not forgotten, when Herbert
sees how he is going to get on. At present, the boys must continue at
day school, for I suppose they would be no particular help among the
household goods. They can come here, you know, on holidays, and kick up
their heels with old Captain in the paddock. That's right, my Nelly;
I'm glad to see you smile again. Now go and look at the house, which is
really a very good one, and we'll make it as comfortable as we can."
Mr. Fairfield was true to his word, and scarcely was everything settled
with Mrs. Haynes and her children in their new abode when two or three
ladies, not the gay butterflies who had helped her to go shopping when
she wanted nothing, and gossip in the idle chat of the day for precious
hours that could never be recalled, but women who knew the real value
of time and the real worth or worthlessness of the world's opinion,
came to offer a friendship where they had felt no inducement to respect
before.
One was a former schoolfellow of Mrs. Haynes, in the same rank of
life, but who had ceased their early intimacy from the extreme gaiety
and style in which Mrs. Haynes had latterly indulged. She came in her
carriage, and moved through the shop, and between rolls of carpet as
though she saw nothing of them. And when the door of the sitting-room
closed behind her, and she sat down by Mrs. Haynes on the sofa, she put
her arms affectionately round her, gave her a loving kiss, and said, "I
am proved a true discerner of spirits, Ellinor; I always said you were
fitted for something better than fashion and folly."
Mrs. Haynes burst into tears at this unexpected view of her case,
and soon found in this wise, kind Christian friend, one of those
sweeteners of some of life's bitter draughts, whose blessed province
it is to go about like sunbeams, warming and gladdening wherever they
find admittance. Mrs. Haynes wanted no pity, no sentimental sighing
over "misfortunes," nor ostentatious favours from self-satisfied
superiors, but it was good for her to have sympathy, and society, and
encouragement from one who arrogated nothing, and met her on the common
ground of Christian fellowship and self-surrender to God's righteous
will.
And very useful as well as pleasant this true friendship proved on both
sides.
Another visitor, and soon a welcome one, was the wife of the clergyman
in whose district they now lived, and who, without intrusiveness, or
the smallest tincture of condescension in word or manner, contrived
to break down any barrier of pride that might remain in the chastened
heart, and give and receive confidence and affection.
Mr. Haynes observed his wife appreciated by such friends as these
with deep gratification and thankfulness; and as he saw her devote
herself with a cheerful face and willing hand to duties until recently
performed for her by servants, and felt the comfort and propriety
of her personal exertions, he looked beyond the gift to the great
Giver, and began not only to bless God for a religion so practical and
beautiful in its manifestation, but to covet for himself "like precious
faith," which could produce such precious fruits.
The children, seeing the submission of their parents to the great
change which had occurred, ceased all murmurs and complaints, and began
to take an interest in rendering assistance, selecting each her special
department in which to become useful, and striving which should most
effectually save trouble and exertion to mamma.
After a few months, and seeing all going on so far better than he had
ventured to anticipate, Mr. Fairfield proposed that certain studies
should be resumed which it was desirable to acquire early, but which
should not be allowed to interfere with the regularity and order of
domestic engagements. And, three times a week, a certain portion of the
day was devoted to the best instructors the town afforded. Thus affairs
were progressing when the young cousins were invited for the holidays.
Margaret's manners were so offensive that even Leonard sometimes felt
ashamed, and gladly got away with the boys whenever it was possible.
Mrs. Haynes, feeling that she must be unhappy, determined to speak
to her on the subject, and to try and win her to a better view of
circumstances.
"My dear Margaret," she said, "I am sorry to think that you do not
enjoy your visit. Your cousins are at a loss to find any way of
interesting or pleasing you."
"Oh, they need not trouble themselves about me," said Margaret. "I
don't need any amusement, as if I were a baby."
"I should not think them hospitable or courteous, to say nothing of
being kind, if they were not anxious to please you, Margaret. Will you
tell me, dear girl, why you reject all our efforts, and sit so silent
and absorbed?"
Margaret did not speak, but looked very foolish; she had not expected
such a point-blank attack.
"My dear," said her aunt, drawing her to sit down by her side, "you are
ashamed to tell me; and therefore I hope, when I show you the reason,
that you will see its unreasonableness, and discard it at once. You
think we have disgraced ourselves and our connexions by coming to keep
this shop; and you are afraid of being in any way identified with it,
or with us."
Margaret hung her head and kept silence.
"Now, dear Margaret, I would not touch upon a sad subject wantonly to
grieve you, but what do you suppose would have been your dear father's
position, had he lived to know and feel that he had lost everything he
possessed?"
"He would have done something else," said Margaret slowly.
"Nothing that could have restored you all to comfort and
respectability, Margaret, so soon, so peacefully, as accepting my
father's offer has restored us. I want to tell you how it all happened,
and how, in the goodness of God, we were enabled to trample on all
such pride as that which is tormenting you now, and to resolve to be
industrious and happy in a humbler sphere, rather than be poor and
miserable in a struggle to maintain our former rank."
"But," said Margaret bitterly, "you can never be a lady again. People
will always know that you kept a shop."
Mrs. Haynes smiled, and simply said,—
"What is a lady, Margaret?"
Had Margaret looked up at the sweet, intelligent countenance and
dignified form beside her, she would have been at no loss to answer the
question; and not "'you were,'" but "'you are' a lady," must have been
her conviction.
"I suspect I can define her for you according to your present idea,
Margaret. She is made up of a fine house, plenty of servants, a
carriage, gay company, handsome dress, the world's attention, and
she never keeps a shop. She may be in debt, her dress unpaid for,
her servants wanting their wages, her table wasteful, her husband
struggling to keep up appearances, but she is a lady still, and does
not keep a shop. I have known such, but where the ladyship really was I
do not know."
"What do you call a lady?" asked Margaret.
"One who to a cultivated mind, refined manner, Christian principle, and
a loving heart, adds faith in God's providence and submission to His
will," replied the aunt.
"Ay, even though her husband keeps a shop," said a cheery voice. And
Mr. Fairfield, who had entered the room unperceived, and heard the
conversation as he stood concealed by the large damask curtain, came
forward with a warm greeting for his daughter.
"Not what I am, Margaret, but what I wish to be, and am striving to
be," Mrs. Haynes gently interposed.
And then Mr. Fairfield, addressing himself to the niece, added—"Know,
young lady (I merely use the term as the conventional expression for
all young things, whether in shops or out of them), that I never knew
my daughter's worth in any of the departments of female duty until I
proposed this method of retrieving credit and honour. I care not, and
she now agrees with me, for a term so abused, so misapplied, but we
have the genuine thing now, a true lady of the court of the King of
kings."
"Margaret will now understand us better, I hope," said Mrs. Haynes,
"and prove her own right to the title she prizes so highly."
"My dear child," said the old gentleman kindly, "take your point of
view for all things and circumstances through life from Him who is at
God's right hand for sinners. 'Looking unto Jesus,' you will imbibe His
principles, and sympathise in His purposes, and learn to honour those
whom He approves. He detests the paltry pride of this world's little
people; and, knowing man's great snare, has chosen some of the most
despised to be the instruments of His grandest deeds. I do not mean
that your aunt should associate with all the shopkeepers in the town,
or adopt their ways, and give up the refinement and delicacy which are
congenial to her habits and character, but I do say that she must not
look down on any, nor heed the senseless pride that looks down on her.
May she think very lightly of 'the honour that cometh from man,' and
prize very highly that 'which cometh from God only.' You do the same,
and you will be a wiser, happier child than you seem to be at present."
"I declare they talk like Myra," thought poor Margaret. "Have they got
the religion of Jesus too?"
———————
CHAPTER XII.
AFTER A TIME.
MYRA SHERWOOD'S kind friends in London had greatly facilitated her
wishes in procuring ready access to places of interest which Harry and
Florence desired to see. The end of the month approached, and they were
expecting to hear the day fixed for their return home.
"Harry," said Myra one evening, as they sat discussing the enjoyments
of the day, "do you think you could manage to prepare your theme in
London?"
"Oh yes, I am sure I could, if I were to shut myself up out of
everybody's way. But why? Are we not going home yet? Do you want to
stay longer, Myra?"
"I suppose you have not done anything towards it yet?" she added
thoughtfully.
"Ah, but I have, though! Don't you remember missing me that wet day
when we were disappointed of our visit to Greenwich? Well, I settled
how I should treat my subject, and made up a lot of Latin stuff quite
respectably. The pelting rain vexed me so; and, to get rid of hearing
it, I dived into my notes, and fished out the best part of them, and
wrote away hard, ever so much, all ready for copying out. I forgot the
rain, and never knew how the time went till Florrie called me to meals."
"Well done, my dear Harry. Then I may venture to tell you that I decide
on remaining a little longer. The theme must be finished entirely this
week, and, if you like, can be sent to Dr. B—. The school does not open
until the seventh, and—"
Myra paused, and looked at her brother and sister, who eagerly started
up and stood before her.
"And what then, Myra? Oh, do go on! I can guess. Yes, I know why."
"What do you guess?" asked Myra archly.
"The Queen, the Queen! She comes up to Buckingham Palace at the
beginning of the week, with Prince Albert, to open Parliament, and you
mean to let us see them! Now, isn't that it, dear Myra? The only thing
I have missed, the one thing worth all. Yes, I am sure that is it."
"And where shall we stand? In the park, or the road, or where?"
"You are settling it all with wonderful speed," said Myra, laughing;
"but your stand in park or road would be too cold for me. No, think
again; we must do better than that."
"Ah, perhaps you have got leave to go to some balcony to see the
procession."
"Well, to end your suspense, look here. Our kind friends have obtained
tickets for us for the House of Lords, and we shall see and hear Queen
Victoria open Parliament as no one can do it for her."
The pleasure was too deep for scream or shout. The loyalty that
seems hereditary in warm English hearts was touched, and a thrill of
unutterable delight that almost brought tears to their eyes, was the
only acknowledgment for a moment. But Myra was quite satisfied with
such appreciation.
And, after attempting to express his feeling, and lavishing kisses upon
his sister, Harry went off to his room, and gave no time nor attention
to anything else until the theme was completed, sealed up, and sent
off to meet Dr. B— on the day appointed, as he wished to examine them
before the school re-opened.
Then the approaching event furnished ample topic for thought and
conversation and expectation.
Elsie went to spend the day with Myra's friends; and the brother and
his two sisters found themselves in their appointed places, in a scene
not to be surpassed on similar occasions in any nation of the earth.
Still, dazzled as they were by the gorgeous spectacle before them,—the
splendid hall, the flashing jewels, the magnificent array of the
highest and noblest in the land,—it was the figure of the Queen
herself, and of Albert the Good, that stamped indelibly on the minds
and hearts of the young visitors the grand charm of that memorable day.
They heard, amidst profound stillness, the silvery tones of a voice
they could never forget, and gazed at the sight until the royal party
retired, and the brilliant throng seemed to rouse to life and motion
again.
Early the next morning, Myra and her party were on the way home, and
Harry set forth manfully on the opening term.
The mysterious silence concerning their visit preserved by Margaret and
Leonard perplexed Myra not a little, and obliged her to feel that the
London party must have had all the enjoyment to themselves.
Margaret had charged her brother to tell of nothing that had occurred.
"You know, Leonard," she said, "it would be just like Myra to invite
our cousins here, and I don't want them; and I shouldn't wonder a bit
if she went straight off to visit uncle and aunt herself, and pretended
she liked the shop and everything."
"Well, it wasn't so very bad after all, Meg," said Leonard, fumbling
in his pockets for string to set off a new top that Mr. Fairfield had
given him. "I wouldn't mind going again, if you hadn't been so cross."
"It was enough to make anybody cross," said Margaret. "I shall take
care never to go again as long as I live. And wasn't it a shame of them
to go to London without us? I've no patience to hear them talk about
it."
"Ah, but Myra says it may be our turn some day, and she couldn't have
taken us all at once."
"Some day is no day at all," said Margaret. "I don't believe it, nor
expect it. I only wish I knew everything we have got to learn, that I
might be independent."
"Why, what would you do, Maggie?"
"Of course I should earn money and do as I please."
"Ah, that would be just the same as keeping a shop," said Leonard,
gravely shaking his head, and spinning his top. "You would be a long
time earning new frocks and getting jam puddings. I shan't want to live
with you, Miss Meg."
"You think of nothing but eating, you disagreeable boy," said Margaret
contemptuously; "but if you talk about things that I tell you not to
talk of, I'll tell about your going to see Dinah so often."
Leonard laughed lightly.
And better it had been if Margaret had indeed "told" of his
disobedience, though of the increasing extent of it she herself was not
aware.
Time passed on rapidly in the quiet routine of duty, varied by many
pleasures. Each year Mr. and Mrs. Somers spent some months in the
neighbourhood, cheering and comforting their niece in her patient,
self-denying work; or she and her party joined them at some pleasant
place of resort during the summer holidays. Frank's visits were not
unfrequent, and were always acceptable to the whole family. Sometimes
he would read letters from his friend Ralph Penwald, who had qualified
himself for a missionary station in India, and was hard at work, Frank
said, among the native tribes, living like a barbarian, and losing all
respect for polite society.
"No, no, that is impossible," Harry would exclaim. "Mr. Penwald would
be a gentleman wherever he is. Don't you know, Mr. Somers, that he has
the religion of Jesus, and must always like whatever is pure and lovely
and of good report?"
"Well, I shall tell him he has one champion here, at any rate," said
Frank in surprise; "and if ever he comes back, of course you will
venture to associate with him."
"Yes, I have a good right to be his champion," said Harry meditatively.
"Perhaps I shall go and look after him some day;" and he stole a glance
at Myra, who was grave and silent, but evidently she enjoyed the
letters as much as the others did.
In due time, after a sufficient test of taste and bias, Harry chose to
devote himself to the profession of an engineer, and by the interest
of Mr. Somers was received into one of the best establishments in the
country.
Myra would gladly have removed to the same locality that Harry might
still have his home with her, but Leonard's education had yet to be
completed, and it was deemed, on his account, undesirable to make any
change until he also should decide on his future course.
Harry often came home from Saturday until Monday, and, though greatly
missing the love and sympathy of his sisters, he was bent upon doing
them credit, and deserving the confidence and good opinion of the
family into whose hands he had been received as a boarder.
He liked his employment, grew tall and strong, and Myra delighted to
think of him as the protector and friend of herself and his other
sisters, when he should be at liberty to take a position in life for
himself.
Leonard, in the meantime, dragged but idly through his educational
course; and being entirely free from his brother's surveillance, paid
longer and more frequent visits to Dinah Jonson's shop. There he made
acquaintance with her seafaring husband and some of his random friends,
intercourse with whom did not improve the boy's manner or character.
When he at last decided on mercantile life, it was in his uncle's power
to assist him, and he was placed in the office of a merchant in the
same town, where Mr. Haynes's house would be a safe and comfortable
home.
Notwithstanding Margaret's indignant opposition, visits had been
exchanged, and happy friendship had sprung up between Mrs. Haynes and
Myra, and also between Edith and Lilian and Florence. And seldom did
many months pass without one or other of the delighted girls being
invited to come and share with Florence and Margaret the instructions
and society of their loving sister and protectress.
Of Myra Sherwood's inner life it need only be said that it was, to the
outer and visible life, what the fountain is to the stream, the root
to the flower. She sometimes marvelled at the sweet peace she enjoyed,
and the unvarying interest she felt in the duties she had undertaken.
Her Bible was her constant guide, and prayer her constant refuge in all
difficulties and trials; and He who promised "I will never leave thee
nor forsake thee," abundantly proved to her the tender faithfulness of
His love and care.
Some of the most excellent and intelligent in the society of the
neighbourhood sought her friendship, and as much of pleasant communion
and social intercourse as suited her tastes and engagements was always
at her command.
Harry and Florence, whilst sincerely delighted to see her so admired
and courted, felt a secret satisfaction in the discouragement of all
rivals in her affections, until—and some imaginary event in the mists
of the future seemed to blend with all their wishes for this dearly
loved sister.
When they met Mrs. Somers, each time the first question eagerly asked
by Florence was her opinion of Myra's appearance.
"Does she look as well as ever, Mrs. Somers? Do you think she seems
tired or anxious?" she would ask.
"I see very little change in her, dear Florence. Perhaps she may seem
a little anxious sometimes about Margaret and Leonard. They do not
fulfil her hopes like you and Harry. She tells me that Mr. Haynes is
not satisfied with Leonard's conduct; and it is very distressing to see
Margaret's jealous, ungracious temper."
"It is indeed," said Florence. "We have all tried to win her to be one
of us; and Myra has never made any difference between us. We dress
alike, visit together, and Margaret is clever, and can be very pleasing
when she will. She does far more credit to Myra's instructions than I
do."
"She needs a higher Teacher yet, dear Florence, and we must not cease
to pray that the Spirit of God may take up the work within her, and
make her yet a dear child of God, and a blessing among you. Nothing is
too hard for His patient, resolute power."
"Margaret wishes to stay in Germany to study when we come to you
next winter, and Myra has at last consented to her wish to become a
governess."
"I think that is right, Florence; and I only wish poor Margaret's
motives were purer in her desire for independence."
"If Margaret is right in wishing to relieve Myra of all responsibility
for her, surely, dear Mrs. Somers, I ought to be earning my own living
also. Dear Myra has Elsie yet to provide for."
"Have you suggested your idea to her, Florence?" asked Mrs. Somers,
with a smile.
"Not exactly," said Florence, blushing; "I have been afraid to pain
her."
"Retain your fear then, my dear girl, at least until after next winter.
At present, I do not think the idea would please any of us."
Mrs. Somers knew that if all went favourably in his affairs, it was
her son's wish to provide for the gentle girl a home as happy as that
from which he would take her; and no one who loved him could do other
than approve his choice. At the same time, it was desirable that the
young people should thoroughly understand each other's characters, both
in virtues and failings, before deciding on a step involving their
happiness in this life, and perhaps their hope for the life to come.
Both her brothers being now for the present away from home, Myra was
indulging the hope of spending the following winter with her friends
on the Continent, and even Margaret condescended to manifest some
pleasure in the prospect. She had, as Florence said, done credit to
the instructions and advantages bestowed upon her, in an intellectual
point of view, and now only needed facility of speech in several
languages, which can best be acquired by mingling with the native
speakers in their own lands. She played music admirably, and her piano
accompaniments to Myra's harp afforded a treat to which many delighted
to listen.
Margaret proudly disdained praise. She had an object in view beyond
that of pleasing others. She meant to please herself, and be what she
called independent; and every accomplishment she required, and every
success her perseverance attained, were to her mind so many more pounds
in the salary she should have a right to demand.
But, all the time, a rebellious will remained unsubdued, an ungrateful
heart untouched, and an immortal soul unsaved.
She watched for inconsistencies in those who professed to be followers
of Jesus, and treasured the recollection of them as so many proofs
against the truth of their religion, instead of painful evidences of
their own weakness.
She could not but observe the improvement in every respect of Harry and
Florence, but she persisted in attributing it to what she called their
idolatry of Myra. And, removed from her influence, she was sure they
would be just what they were before Myra came.
She was jealous, too, of the love of Elsie, who had at once adopted
Myra into the place of Helen, to whom she had been fondly attached. And
as Elsie began sometimes to open her eyes very wide, and stare, or part
her rosy lips with a remonstrance at some ungracious temper, Margaret
declared that all affection had been cruelly weaned from her, and she
stood alone, isolated, estranged, in the midst of her own family.
"Margaret, my child," her uncle had said, when he last visited the
cottage, "take care what you are doing. You are resisting love, and
kindness, and tender indulgence. God has hitherto dealt in wondrous
forbearance with you, but it may be that He will try other methods. If
a child rebels persistently against gentle words and patient warnings,
a blow must come to rouse and chasten. I speak from my own experience,
Margaret. Be wise in time, and be happy while you may. 'Pride, and
arrogancy, and the evil way, and the froward mouth, do I hate,' saith
the Lord.
"'God resisteth the proud, and giveth grace to the humble.'"
"You cannot know anything of my feelings towards God, uncle," answered
Margaret. "You all say that the religion of Jesus Christ is a religion
of love, and yet you talk to me of judgment and anger."
"My dear Margaret, you know it is written,—
"'Every tree is known by its own fruit.'
"If your feelings towards God were those of a loving, pardoned,
grateful child, yielding to the instructions of His word and the
influence of His Spirit, you would feel union with those who so love
and are so taught, and—
"'We know that we have passed from death unto life because we love the
brethren.'
"I quoted to you God's own estimate of the spirit you indulge; and
the judgment, or anger as you consider it, which may deal with your
sin, is that of a father whose chastisement is for the profit of his
child, who, if not like wax that melts and yields to the model, must be
treated like the rock and broken with the hammer. I do not judge you. I
ask you to go to the standard that God has given, and judge yourself.
If we would accept His rebuke, He would not proceed to chasten, for—
"'He doth not afflict willingly nor grieve the children of men.'
"How much less willingly His own whom He loves with an everlasting love
that must and shall triumph over all opposition! You are the child of
many prayers, Margaret; and we wait for you until, by some means, you
are brought to share our blessings. Fain would I see you drawn 'with
cords of love,' and listening to the sweet whisper of the still small
voice. Think of what I have said, my dear niece, and see if it be not
according to the mind of Christ and His religion of love."
———————
CHAPTER XIII.
THE BROTHERS—A CONTRAST.
THE plans of the sisters for the coming winter were suddenly
interrupted by a visit from Harry.
"You know, dear Myra," he said, "that you told me to be open and candid
with you in all my affairs, and I need not conceal from you now what
would be for my advantage. Our people have some important business to
transact in India, and are sending out a staff of our best workmen.
They have offered to send me also, and I may be away two or three
years, or perhaps more. I know that at first I must be an expense to
you, sister, but—"
"Would you like to go, Harry? And do you feel sure of your fitness for
the duties you will undertake?"
"Yes, Myra, I 'should' like to go; and I can be fully qualified for all
I shall have to do before I reach the scene of action."
"Then, Harry, it is settled, and we will at once see about your outfit.
We shall miss you sadly, Harry, but we shall know that you are doing
your best in life for yourself and others."
Poor Florence was very near upsetting Harry's self-control with a flood
of tears, but she bravely drove them back, for she knew that sisters
should help and not hinder their brothers in life's battlefield, and
she bravely assisted Myra in making preparations for the Indian voyage.
In order to provide suitably for the outfit and voyage, Myra found
it necessary to obtain a sum of money by a reduction of her regular
income, but for such a purpose she had no hesitation in taking this
step.
Everything was ready, and Harry, full of gratitude and affection, was
at home for the final farewell. Leonard had been invited, and a holiday
obtained, that they might all be together for the last day or two.
"Now, Leonard, you see how it is," Harry said; "you are a great fellow
now, and our sisters will only have you to take care of them until I
come back. Of course I know that you can't be with them much, but you
can make them happy by getting on in your business, and making ready to
be their protector and friend whenever they need one. I know Myra has
some nice treats in store for you, though she does not talk about them
yet. Will you promise to be a comfort to her, Leonard?"
"I can't see why you don't stay and do it yourself, Harry, if you think
so much about her. Pray, why shouldn't I go out into the world to make
my fortune like you?"
"So you will, my dear fellow, when the right time comes. Myra is
not the sister to tie us to her apron-string. But you have your
apprenticeship to serve yet. You have not been six months at it, you
know, and I calculate that by the time you are ready for a start, I
shall be at home again. You like your work, I hope, Leonard?"
"I don't care much about it," replied Leonard. "I wish I was in
lodgings as you were: for I hate to be overlooked and fidgeted by Uncle
Haynes. He is so particular about keeping hours, and all that."
"Oh, never mind about that, Leonard, it is only right. I had to keep
proper hours, I assure you; and I see that if employers hear that
young men are not careful in those things, they begin to doubt them in
others."
"Do you think Myra pays Uncle Haynes for having me, Harry?" asked
Leonard thoughtfully.
"I never asked," replied Harry; "but you know Uncle Haynes is not rich,
and I think it is very likely she does, thinking it a little help to
him and very comfortable for you. She said that if you did not live
with him, she would move her home that you might still share it. Oh,
Leonard, I sometimes fear she is anxious about you; don't give her
cause for it, there's a dear, good brother."
The last evening came; the others had all retired, and Myra and Harry
were alone together.
"Dear Harry," said the loving sister, gazing at the fine manly face and
well-grown form of this brother of twenty years, "I want to ask you
one question before we part. You know I have not urged the subject of
religion upon you as perhaps I might have done—"
"Yes, you have, Myra," interrupted Harry; "you have lived religion
among us. We must have been dunces indeed if we could not see it and
feel it always. But if you mean you have not bored us with talking
about it, I agree. You have answered our questions and taught us God's
word in the letter, and quietly shown us its spirit in your own life.
That has been the best way, dear Myra."
"Well, dearest brother, if I have not erred in leaving you too much
unquestioned concerning your own personal interest in it, and as we
perhaps may not meet again on earth, shall we, dear Harry, shall we
meet in heaven?"
"Myra, it is not in me to talk about it, for I know how
good-for-nothing I am; but to comfort you, and myself too, I will say
that I do believe we shall."
"And how, why, on what do you ground that belief?"
"On nothing but the word and work of the Lord Jesus Christ. He said,—
"'Him that cometh to Me I will in no wise cast out'—"
replied Harry, reverently;
"'He suffered, the just for the unjust, to bring us to God.'"
"And having come to Him, and in Him found forgiveness and peace and a
Father's blessing, what then, my brother?"
"Then I am trying, poorly and feebly I know, but still trying, by the
help of His good Spirit, to show in action and practice whose I am and
whom I desire to serve. I have never forgotten, Myra, that it was the
religion of Jesus that brought you to us, kept you with us, and made
you all you are. From love to you I have done many a thing I didn't
like, and given up many a thing I did like; and if such can be the
influence of a dear sister, how much more that of a dear Saviour who
died for me?"
"God bless and keep you, my darling brother!" cried Myra. "This is the
happiest moment of my life. Oh, may you be stedfast, and triumph and
overcome in that dear Saviour's strength and name!"
Then they knelt together, and the sister commended her brother with
faltering voice and tearful eyes to Him whom he had chosen to be "the
guide of his youth."
"Only one thing more, Harry," she said, smiling through her tears as
they were parting for the night; "this for my last gift that you may
feel able to do anything you may wish without distressing yourself for
the expense." And she pressed some bank-notes into his hand and left
him.
Harry stood some time thinking; he was alone now, and needed no longer
to choke himself with repressed tears; they flowed for a little while
freely, and then he knelt and prayed. The notes lay on the table,
and when quite calm and peaceful again he looked at them, folded
them, and placed them in his pocket-book, where were also letters of
introduction, if he should need them, and one from Frank Somers to the
Rev. Ralph Penwald, in case he should ever meet with him, because,
as Frank said, he was so changed as to need identification. Then he
went to his room, where Leonard, in a bed in a recess of the same, lay
apparently fast asleep.
The next morning all was bustle and confusion in the household,
for Harry was obliged to go by an early train, and his luggage, he
laughingly declared, outdid that of any young lady with her far-famed
"bandboxes."
Leonard also took it into his head to add to the general commotion by
seizing a scrambling breakfast and going off to catch a still earlier
train that he might be at business before his master should need him in
the afternoon.
"All right, old fellow," said Harry, with a last grasp of his hand at
the door. "Don't forget our little talk yesterday, and write often, and
tell me everything."
Leonard nodded and bounded away, rather to the indignation of Elsie,
who thought he might have stayed to see Harry off first.
At last Harry was off too, and then all the sisters indulged in what
Peggy called "a good cry," and in which she and Janet bore their part
in the kitchen; for Harry was a favourite with most of those who had
anything to do with him, and as they said, "never gave trouble, and
always spoke like a gentleman to everybody."
Three days later a letter arrived, dated from the ship, and posted by
the last person who had come ashore when she was fairly under way.
All clustered round Myra to hear its contents, and she read with
animation until the concluding paragraph, when her bright face suddenly
changed, and she paused.
"Is anything wrong, dear Myra?" asked Florence. "What can be the
matter?"—seeing that Myra became very pale, and seemed thinking of
something very painful.
"Only a little affair between Harry and me, never mind it now; it is
vexatious and perplexing, that's all."
"Oh, I can go away if you don't want me to know," said Margaret
pettishly, gathering up her drawing materials; "as if I had not as much
interest in Harry and his doings as any of you."
"Stay, stay, Margaret; there is no reason why you should not know,
excepting that one does not talk about one's little gifts, you know.
Just read for yourselves."
And they read while Myra sat with her head leaning on her hand in deep
thought.
"You know, dear sister," so ran the paragraph in question, "that after
you gave me that generous present, I stayed downstairs some time. The
notes lay on the table, and before going to bed, I looked at them, took
the numbers, folded them together, and placed them in my pocket-book.
That, with my watch and purse, I put on to the little cedar tray on my
dressing-table, and the next morning put it, as the safest place, into
my breast-pocket. I never touched it again until, about eight hours
after I left you, I went to get some money changed; the twenty-pound
note was gone. What has become of it, I have no more notion than you
have. I was not careless of it, Myra; I know you must have denied
yourself for my sake, and every shilling you have given me is precious.
I have done all I can about it, and it will be stopped at the bank. I
would not let you know until I am out of the country, lest you should
try to replace it, but I feel that it is right to tell you now. Thanks
to your generosity, darling sister, I shall not want it, but why the
other notes did not go with it, I cannot imagine."
"Myra, what can we do?" said Florence, much disturbed.
"Let us go up and search the room, the bed, the drawers, everywhere,"
cried Margaret. "Come at once, Florence."
"Is it possible he can have left it on the table, and it has been
thrown away as waste paper?" suggested Elsie, with a troubled look.
"It is possible, dear Elsie," said Myra, "but I should not like any one
to mention it to the servants."
"Why not?" sharply asked Margaret.
"Because I am certain of their honesty. If either of them had seen it,
I am satisfied it would have been safely produced the next morning."
"Well, if we cannot find it, we must rest satisfied that Harry has
forgotten, or left his pocket-book somewhere, perhaps laid it down in
the railway-carriage, and somebody has helped himself. But come and let
us search the room," again urged Margaret.
And the room, with everything in it, was searched accordingly, but in
vain; and, by mutual consent, the subject dropped.
But from that day Myra was conscious of oppressive anxiety, and her
animated face began to look shaded with care.
Once more, the projected visit to the Continent was the subject of
delighted anticipation, and preparations were again in progress, when
another interruption indefinitely postponed it.
Mr. and Mrs. Haynes arrived late one evening; the pale and distressed
countenance of the husband sufficiently proving the cause of their
unpremeditated visit. Only too soon its object appeared.
"How are my cousins and Leonard?" Margaret asked anxiously, and
anticipating the same question on other lips.
"Your cousins are well, but 'where' is Leonard?" said Mr. Haynes. "Has
he not been here?"
"No. What do you mean? Oh, uncle!"
And every face turned white, and every heart beat with strange terror.
"He told us that he was coming here on Saturday to see you all
before leaving for the Continent. On Monday, he did not appear, and
on Tuesday, I was sent for to Mr. M—'s office, to hear that he had
absconded with money which he had been entrusted to carry to the bank.
Mr. M— had been to the bank, asked to see the entries there, and found
that two separate sums given to Leonard in sealed envelopes had never
been lodged there at all. Mr. M— said that if I were prepared to
return the money, or give security for its repayment, he would take no
further steps in the matter; but if not, the law must take its course.
Leonard must, however, be found, if possible; and whatever he has not
squandered must be recovered at once."
Margaret was the first to rally from this crushing shock. She tried to
show that there might be some mistake, that Leonard ought not to be
condemned unheard.
"Margaret, it is of no use to seek such hollow comfort," said Myra,
trying to be calm. "When we heard of the loss of Harry's note, I wrote
with loving earnestness to Leonard, beseeching him so to act that no
shadow of suspicion should ever fall upon him, and begging that if he
required at any time more money than his usual allowance, he would not
hesitate to tell me. I did not mention the twenty pounds at all, but he
replied as if I had accused him of dishonesty, and indignantly denied
anything I wished to lay to his charge. The letter was sufficient to
confirm my fears, but I wrote again enclosing a five-pound note, to
convince him of my sisterly interest and care. No acknowledgment has
come, and yet nearly a fortnight has passed since."
"And so you give him up coolly to his fate," cried Margaret
passionately, "but I will not. He shall have one sister at least to
stand by him, and believe he is innocent until he is proved guilty."
"My dear niece, the bare hope that he could clear himself would put new
life into us all. But we must find him. Is there any one about here,
do you think, who could tell us anything of his movements? We found
a piece of a letter in his room, but the signature is torn away. It
seems to be an account of some ship, and a pleasant captain who would
take—and there the paper is torn through, yet it may possibly supply
some clue."
Margaret's lip quivered, and her cheek changed from angry red to the
paleness of fear. She looked towards her sister.
"Can Dinah Jonson know anything?" she said. "I will go instantly and
ask her."
"Stay, Margaret," said Mr. Haynes; "nothing must be done rashly. Any
hint might drive him farther away. A detective is already at work, and
I must communicate with him first."
A detective! Seeking their brother! Tracing Leonard! Oh, how horribly
it sounded on every ear!
This officer was at hand; and after consultation with him, it was
agreed that the little party of anxious relatives should call and make
inquiries of Mrs. Jonson.
It was night, and the darkness suited Margaret well. She insisted on
being allowed to speak to Dinah herself, feeling sure that no one else
would be so likely to elicit the truth.
That individual was leaning over her counter, chatting with a neighbour
in her blandest fashion. Her speculation of a shop for sweets and
confectionery near the great school had answered extremely well, and
as she was not very much troubled with her husband's company, she was
entirely mistress of her little domain and all its proceeds.
Very much astonished she seemed to be when Margaret rushed to her, and,
seizing her by the arm, dragged her into the little room behind the
shop, and shut the door.
"Oh, Dinah, listen to me!" she cried. "Leonard has disappeared; do you
know anything about him? Tell me faithfully, Dinah. Is he gone away
with your husband?"
"My dear Miss Margaret, whatever ails you? How frightened you look! Sit
down, my dear, and tell me what you mean."
"Tell me where my brother is gone; is he with Mr. Jonson?" repeated
Margaret, seized with a suspicion that Mrs. Dinah was trying to gain
time.
"Dear me, Miss Maggie! How should I know where he is? I've never set
eyes on him since—let me see—since he came to say good-bye to Master
Harry."
"That is little more than a fortnight since. Well, you saw him then.
Did he tell you of anything he had in view? Any journey he wanted to
take?"
"Well, he were always asking about foreign parts, you know. But I can't
say that he's gone to see them."
"But you know whether your husband promised to take him abroad."
"Well, I really didn't mind their talk. All my business was that he
shouldn't get into disgrace at home by stopping too long. 'Master
Leonard,' says I—"
"Never mind that. Do you think he is gone to join Mr. Jonson anywhere?"
"Think! I really don't think anything about it. If he did, he's safe;
and if he didn't, why, he'll turn up when he's had his holiday; so
don't be fretting yourself, my dear."
"Oh, Dinah, Dinah, you distract me! He has taken some money not his
own, they say; and if we cannot save him, he will be for ever ruined
and disgraced."
"Oh, the wicked boy! Oh, the young vagabones!" exclaimed Mrs. Dinah, a
new light suddenly flashing across her mind. "Does he mean to charge my
husband with receiving stolen money?"
"Then he has paid his passage in your husband's ship, and you know it,
Dinah. Tell me the truth; my uncle and a police officer will be with us
in a few minutes."
But Mrs. Dinah was not often caught off her guard, and was again
herself.
"I really must give it up, Miss Margaret, for I can't understand what
you are at; so I'll see you home, and you go and be quiet, and don't
fear but the boy is safe enough."
"What is the name of the ship, Dinah?"
"Last time it was the 'Lady Anne.' This time it may be something else,
but I haven't heard yet. I think it was to be the 'Fairy,' or the 'Sea
Queen,' or some such name, but I never know for sure till they get
fixed with a ship, you see."
In the shop waited Mr. Haynes, who led his niece away, and Mrs. Dinah
was left to more skilful management.
———————
CHAPTER XIV.
SIN BRINGS SORROW.
"AUNT HAYNES," said Margaret, following her aunt to her room, "I see
that uncle believes in Leonard's guilt."
"There is no alternative, my dear girl; the evidence is too decidedly
against him," said Mrs. Haynes kindly.
"Well, I will not believe it until I am obliged," said Margaret
impetuously. "There is nothing to be done, then, but to pay the money."
"Pay the money, Margaret! It is impossible; your uncle has not the
means. We have just paid the last dividend to our creditors, thanks to
the prospering goodness of God; and we have nothing left at present."
"Then Myra must pay it. She will, of course, rather than suffer this
dreadful disgrace. But is there any way of paying her again?"
"I do not think Myra will pay it, Margaret; I do not think she ought,"
said her aunt gravely.
"Not to save our name, uncle's name, my cousins' name, from such a
shameful blot!" cried Margaret. "She must, and I will know before I
sleep."
Myra and Florence were sitting together after their friends had
retired; and Florence was retracing several acts in which Leonard had
figured unfavourably with regard to money, but which she had tried to
hope might be accounted for, until the loss of Harry's note, when at
once her suspicions fastened upon him. She almost hated herself for the
thought, and had never allowed it to escape in words.
Quietly the door was opened; and Margaret, her eyes bright with
excitement and her cheeks flushed, entered the sitting-room.
Gliding up to Myra, and kneeling by the table at her side, she looked
as if her very life were bound up in what she had to say.
"Myra, I have never asked you a personal favour for years. Will you do
one for me now?"
"Dear Margaret," replied Myra, "you do not know the pleasure it would
give me to please you; but oh, dear sister, ask something of me that I
can and may do."
"I believe you can; I am sure you may. Pay this money back to Mr.
M—, and save us all. Every penny I earn as soon as I can obtain a
situation, shall go to repay you, though it can only be in the course
of several years."
"Margaret, I will not deny that, by great economy and a permanent
reduction of my income, I might pay even this large sum; but you, and
Florence, and Elsie must be sufferers, and—"
"Oh, that kind of suffering or privation is nothing compared with the
agony of the other!" eagerly interrupted Margaret. "You will do it,
then?"
"I do not say so; I seek God's help and teaching. What He shows me to
be right, I will do."
"Then you will do this. Your religion will oblige you to do it, if it
is, as you say, a religion of love."
"But, Margaret, it is not a blind, selfish love that overlooks
everything but the gratification of its object, or the indulgence of
its own feeling. Even the great, wise God, who has a right to do what
He wills, would not pardon and bless unjustly. He did not rob one
creature to save another. He provided for justice while exercising
mercy."
"But you have nothing to do with judging; you have only to forgive and
help."
"If Leonard had robbed me, assuredly I would forgive and pass it by.
But he has not; the whole is subject to the will of the master he has
wronged."
"But you can restore it; you can take the injury upon yourself, and you
can have patience until we can repay it all."
"But suppose, dear sister, that Leonard is so far gone in sin that it
needs a terrible discipline to reach his heart. Suppose years of love
and kindness have failed, and it is God's plan to let him go, like
the prodigal, to eat the fruit of his own doings,—who are we, that we
should try to overthrow that plan so as to defeat the purpose of mercy
that may be hidden behind the punishment, and leave the unhappy boy
to fancy that he may sin with impunity, because of our weak, blind
affection, that cannot bear to see him suffer as he deserves? Do you
not see that if we had pressed to a discovery the first act that
excited suspicion, this greater crime might have been prevented?"
"But you speak as if only Leonard were concerned; you forget that he
drags us with him in his disgrace."
"No, dear Margaret, he cannot do that. But if it were so, we must
submit to the world's false estimates. Forgive me, dear sister, if I
think that you are dwelling more upon the consequences of Leonard's
sin than on the sin itself. Wretched as it is to be involved in those
consequences, it is far worse, far more solemnly important, to think
what must be his condition before God."
"I know that," said Margaret impatiently; "I don't want any preaching
about it. Will you, or will you not, refund the money that Mr. M— has
lost?"
"There is one opinion that I wish for before I decide positively,
sister, but my own impression strengthens that I ought not to
interfere."
"You mean Mr. Fairfield," said Margaret bitterly; "and he is sure to
agree with you. You are all alike when a real dreadful misery comes;
cruel, selfish, mean, insensible to any one's feelings or opinions but
your own."
Saying this, she rushed to her room to lie down and shed tears of
anger, disappointment, and fear of what she saw inevitable.
Suddenly a thought struck her; and, springing up, she flew down again,
and burst open the door where Myra and Florence were just rising from
prayer with the peace of God in their hearts, and its holy influence
shining like light from heaven on their faces.
Margaret stood before them like a tormented spirit that could find no
rest. Her pride in one cause, humbled itself in another; the dread of
the world's opinion induced the painful alternative of asking favours
from Myra, and confessing to a confidence in her power which, under
less trying circumstances, she would have scorned to admit.
"Myra," she said, in a voice tremulous with contending feelings, "there
is one thing you can certainly do. You have often spoken of the power
of prayer. Pray, then, that Leonard may not be found."
Myra came towards her, put her arms round the excited girl, and softly
whispered,—
"Margaret, I dare not."
"Dare not!" cried Margaret, pushing her away. "Then are you daring to
pray that he may be taken and dragged like a felon to justice?"
"No, no, no, assuredly not," replied Myra, clasping her hands in deep
distress.
"Then what are you praying for?" demanded the proud girl haughtily.
"That God's will be done, and that ours may be conformed to it,"
replied Myra. "He knows what is best for us all; I do not."
"Oh, if I could pray, but I cannot!" murmured Margaret despairingly;
and she turned away.
"Oh, Margaret, try, do try; it will calm and comfort you," said
Florence tenderly and caressingly.
But the unhappy girl was not to be persuaded or consoled; she would
not even be followed. And when she reached her chamber, she locked her
door, and brooded over her sorrow alone.
On the next day, she requested to accompany Myra with Mr. and Mrs.
Haynes on their return home, and in her anxiety for the first
information, forgot the degradation of the despised shop.
A few miserable days passed away, and the dreaded message came at last.
Leonard was traced to a low lodging in the neighbourhood of the docks
of a seaport town, waiting, he said, until a ship in which he had taken
his passage should be ready to sail. On inquiring the name of the ship,
it was found that she had sailed without him, and great was his rage at
the deception which he declared had been practised upon him. There was
nothing to be done but to submit to the restraint now imposed, and he
was taken back to the scene of his crime, lodged in a strong room, and
his friends were apprised of his arrival.
When his uncle and sisters entered the room, he sat sulky and silent,
and seemed resolved to give no attention to any of them.
"Leonard," said Mr. Haynes, "I am desired by Mr. M— to tell you that
if you will enable him to recover his money, he will stop proceedings
against you, and you may return home with us. We will help you to
redeem your character, and all may yet be well."
"It's of no use talking," replied the boy sullenly. "I can't find what
I haven't got. I have nobody's money, and no one can prove anything
against me."
"Not even your own conscience, Leonard?"
"I am not going to trouble it. I have nothing to confess, so you may as
well leave me."
"Leonard, will you confess to God, and see how He will pity and help
you, and put a right spirit within you?" said Myra softly.
"I hate cant. I'm not going to pretend anything."
"Oh, brother," sobbed Margaret, "how can we leave you? If you did
not take the money, say so boldly; don't leave us in this dreadful
suspense. If you did, oh, confess it! And ask them to pay it back for
you this once, only this once. You never did such a thing before. Those
bad people tempted you. Say so, Leonard."
"Don't you talk to me!" almost shouted Leonard, angrily. "Why didn't
you tell me before that Dinah and her husband were false? Why did you
give me messages to take where I was forbidden to go? Don't 'you' talk,
I say. You helped me into mischief; you never said a word to keep me
from doing anything I liked; and now your pride is touched, you can't
bear the consequence of your own folly and mine; you can't endure to be
the sister of a suspected thief, of course."
"Oh, Leonard, Leonard!" cried poor Margaret, in bitter agony. "How dare
you taunt me so? You know—"
"Hush, dear sister!" said Myra. "It is useless to talk so. Leonard, you
see something of the sorrow you have inflicted, as well as feel the
ruin coming on yourself. Will you do anything to save us all, and help
us to serve you? Or must we leave you to stand your trial and be judged
by the law you have offended?"
"You can pay the money to Mr. M—, of course, if you like, until he
finds the right person. I have no objection to be set free."
"I am a steward for God in all He has bestowed upon me, Leonard, and
I dare not abuse my trust by saving you from the penalty of sin, in
impenitence and falsehood."
"Oh yes, of course; your money is to make grand presents, for good boys
to go to India with," said Leonard sneeringly.
"How do you know that, sir?" said Mr. Haynes quickly.
Leonard's eyes fell.
"Unhappy boy! Your sin is not on the surface; it is deep and strongly
rooted. You must suffer, and may God overrule in mercy all that is
coming upon you!"
"I'm not afraid; there's no evidence to disprove my word," said Leonard
doggedly.
And they left him, hopeless of making any good impression in his
present state of mind.
On reaching Mr. Haynes's house, they found Mr. Fairfield waiting to
learn the result of the interview. He shook his head as the boy's
condition was stated.
"It is plain he must be left to reap as he has sown," he said; "it
would be no mercy to avert punishment, and the motive would not stand.
It would be only to save ourselves from fancied disgrace, and a
respectable name from reproach. But Herbert has sufficiently vindicated
his own honesty and honour, and it will not touch him or his children."
"They bear the same name," said Margaret bitterly; "it will be said
that the sin belongs to the family, and no one will trust any of us
again."
"We will leave that to our God and Saviour, my poor child," said Mr.
Fairfield pitifully; "He will judge justly and order wisely, and of
such as dare to bring a needless reproach against any of His children,
He says,—
"'It were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck,
and he were cast into the sea.'
"Let us only be His, by faith in Jesus His Son, and fear nothing that
the devil or man can do or say against us. He who raises his puny hand,
or sounds his flippant tongue, against Christ's redeemed ones, will
find to his confusion, some day, that he has rushed upon the shield of
the Almighty, and aimed at that which He guards as 'the apple of His
eye.' Oh that we could all live more by faith and less by sight—more on
God and His record of Himself in His Son and His word, and less on the
smile of man and appearances in the world! Margaret, my dear child, you
must get a juster view of your position as an immortal creature, or you
will live a life of self-inflicted martyrdom to your own pride and its
mistakes."
But Leonard's words had put the climax to Margaret's anguish, and she
writhed under his reproach, and the shame of his guilt and punishment,
until the tempest-tossed spirit could bear no more. And brain fever
with wild delirium succeeded, which kept her friends in deep anxiety
for her life during a long season of watchful care.
In that house which she had despised, she lay helpless and insensible,
under the most devoted and sympathising attention from all within it,
and earnest incessant prayer that she might be restored, to learn the
secret of a better and happier life.
The care availed, the prayer was heard and answered; Margaret's
delirium passed away, and her mind recovered its power, but her body
was feeble as an infant.
No one pressed conversation upon her, but sometimes the sweet voice of
Myra sang a hymn softly beside her, or read a few appropriate verses
from the Scriptures, or whispered a short prayer by her pillow. And as
all nourishment was administered by strict rule, there was no need for
questions or answers until, of her own accord, she chose to speak.
One day, feeling somewhat stronger, she drew aside the curtain between
herself and the silent watcher who sat by the bed, and her eyes met
those of Myra.
"I hoped it was you," she whispered, with an effort to move nearer.
Myra knelt down to listen to the feeble voice that wanted to speak to
her.
And Margaret, clasping one arm round her neck, laid her head upon
Myra's shoulder, and burst into tears.
Myra was not frightened, but, deeply touched with such an unexpected
change, caressed and soothed her back to calmness like a very child.
"It is all coming back to me, Myra, all the terrible past. Is the trial
over? What have they done to him?"
"Nothing yet; Mr. Haynes visits him often, and so does Mr. Fairfield."
"And you, Myra?"
"I have not left you since you were taken ill, dear Margaret. I have
written several times from your bedside, but he sends no message. Now
you must not exhaust this little return of strength, nor distress
yourself, but try to get well, and comfort us all."
"I comfort you! Oh, Myra, make me fit to die, and then pray God to take
me. I can never be happy again. Don't you remember he said I had helped
to ruin him?"
"Leave it, dearest, for the present; we will talk about it and face it
when you are better. Now rest again."
"Myra, draw up that blind, and let me look at you, do please indulge
me," for Myra hesitated.
But, seeing the old wilful look, and fearing to excite her by
opposition, she complied.
"Oh, Myra, dear kind sister, how pale you look, and so thin! You are
making yourself ill to cure me. Oh, go away, and tell them to take care
of you, or I shall have more on my conscience yet."
"Who shall I send to you, dear?" asked Myra. "You must not be left just
yet."
"Florence,—yet no; my aunt, if she will come. I have slighted and
grieved her often. Oh, how everybody ought to hate me!"
"Nobody does, though," said Myra, smiling and kissing the poor faded
face.
"Now, don't come near me again to-day," said Margaret. "Make that old
gentleman take you for a drive, then go to sleep,—do anything to make
yourself look yourself again. What would Harry say to see you now? Yet
I wish he were here for your sake."
"I do not; I am glad he is away," said Myra, and she went joyfully to
tell Mrs. Haynes of Margaret's wish to see her.
The gentle, motherly arms of her aunt were soon drawn round the
repentant girl, and signs of a change of heart and feeling kept pace
with reviving strength and returning health.
That evening, thanks were offered at family worship for the hope of a
young life spared and a lost soul saved.
———————
CHAPTER XV.
IN THE SCHOOL OF CHRIST.
FOR several days previous to her conversation with Myra, Margaret had
been conscious and cognisant of all that occurred in her room, but
extreme weakness, together with many thoughts and feelings, good and
bad, had held her silent.
She heard the soft music and sweet words of the hymns; she heard the
one or two or three verses of Scripture read, and the short, earnest,
loving prayers offered at her bedside by her aunt and Myra, and
sometimes by her uncle, and had shown no sign of appreciation. But all
the while, her conscience was at work, and at last, she gave up the
weary contest with the truth it told of her great need, and surrendered
herself a helpless sinner into the arms of a helpful Saviour.
The barriers of pride and rebellion broken down, the reaction was
as strong as the opposition had been. Deeply she pondered on the
forbearance and generosity with which she had been treated by Myra;
and she was obliged to trace them to the ruling principle of Christian
faith. No human temper, she felt sure, could have endured so long,
without bursts of indignant anger and many hard words, the persistent
coldness and rudeness, and frequent disobedience with which she had
resisted and repelled the gentle sister. Only the constraining love of
the Divine Master she followed could so have triumphed.
And now, could the power which had ruled Myra bring her, a proud,
passionate, headstrong girl, beneath the same influences, and produce
in her the same practical results?
"It must be tried, if I am to live," thought Margaret. "I must be a
Christian. What shall I do to become a Christian?"
Then she remembered the first conversation she had held on the subject
of salvation, and nothing more perfectly met her sense of helpless
need than the picture her mind had conceived of the bitten Israelites
and the serpent of brass. From type to antitype she transferred the
look of faith, and beheld "the Lamb of God who taketh away the sin of
the world." Within that ample proclamation she felt the hand of mercy
leading, and from the border of the eternal world the poor stricken one
came back to life, "a new creature," humbled, gentle, self-renouncing;
long, indeed, fluttering over her place of rest, afraid to set foot
firmly on the "'sure' foundation," but teachable, hopeful, her choice
made, her resolution taken. If the Lord Jesus would be her Saviour, she
would be His servant.
Margaret's dread of the impending trial of the poor culprit taxed
her returning strength of body, and very pitiable it was to see the
struggle for patience and submission; the pale, wan face and tearful
eyes trying to bring up a smile of grateful appreciation of the tender
care that watched over her.
At last, the day came, and Leonard Haynes stood at the bar, charged
with theft. Among the witnesses against him appeared Mrs. Dinah Jonson,
very unwillingly compelled to testify to the payment of certain sums
to her absent husband, with which he was to secure for the youth a
passage, and kind treatment, and nautical instruction during a voyage
nearly round the world, which money, Mrs. Dinah protested, she and her
said husband believed to be honestly his own.
Leonard had nothing to say, no reason to give for his possession of so
large a sum as that which he had stolen, nor would he give account of
any of it. So that beyond the amounts traced, no clue could be found to
the remainder; the probability being that Mr. Jonson had kindly "taken
care" of it, for his use when safe in some foreign land. Perhaps Jonson
himself was in his turn the dupe of others, but Leonard declined either
to admit his own guilt or to publicly accuse any one.
His defiant look, however, left him when he saw Dinah, and heard her
deposition, and his hopes then broke down.
The sentence of two years' imprisonment was the lightest that the
circumstances admitted, but even this seemed to overwhelm him.
His uncle was present at the trial, and had any defence been honest or
right, it would have been made; but there was no ground for it against
evidence that spoke for itself, and only his youth saved Leonard from a
heavier punishment.
When poor Margaret was made acquainted with all that could be told, she
almost sank under the sad intelligence.
"Dearest Margaret," said Myra, whose sorrow was as great as hers, "you
once asked me to pray about Leonard. We all did so, and we prayed that
God's will should be done; for we knew not what else to ask. Now let us
all unite to pray that these two years of discipline may be overruled
for his good, and that he may come back to us penitent, and for ever
renouncing the wretched course of covetousness and dishonesty."
"Come back to us, Myra! Surely you will not disgrace your home by
allowing him ever to return to it?"
"Would you, Margaret?"
"I! Oh, but that would be different! I must share his lot, but you—"
"Whatever is then thought best for Leonard, we shall all do, dear
Margaret; so we will leave it for the present. He will not want for
friends and opportunities if he will only use them."
"Then we may pray without reserve for his reformation and salvation,
you think, Myra?"
"Yes, because the Lord Jesus came to seek and to save the lost. He
would that all should come to repentance, and is exalted a Prince and
a Saviour to give it. We will ask Him to give it to Leonard, to soften
and subdue his spirit, and make him a good man yet."
"Yours is a very hopeful religion, sister," said Margaret. "You never
despair about anything."
"We have such great and precious promises, dear Margaret. Despair is
sin in a child of God. Only think how free our access to His presence,
how welcome when there, how indulged and cherished! Oh, He cannot
withhold any good thing from them that ask in the dear name He loves,
'the Name that is above every name' in heaven or earth. It is only when
we set up our own opinion of what is good and wise that we may well
hesitate how we carry it into His presence. 'Thy will be done,' you
know, is one of our Lord's merciful provisions against selfishness and
mistakes. To petition for our own way might cause us to be chastened
with a self-made rod, which meek and willing deference to God's better
way would have spared us."
"That is just what I want, Myra,—to give up my own way; but it is so
hard for me."
"Not harder than for us all, dear Margaret. We naturally love our own
way, and nothing but trust in the wisdom and love of Him to whom is
committed all power can bring our will into subjection to His; but even
on the low ground of mere common sense, see how rational and right it
is. We cannot foresee five minutes of our history; 'we know not what
shall be on the morrow.' Our Father knows the end from the beginning.
He has a plan, of which we are a part. It were easy for Him to drop us
(as you do a crooked pin, if it does not go into your work when you
want it held together, and take up another); it were easy to put a
more willing one into our place. But there is happiness, honour, and
blessing for us if we can be made to fit into it; and He will not let
our restive ignorance deprive us of the promised portion. Oh, let us
try to attain the sweet attitude of childlike trust, and say—
"'O Lord my God, do Thou Thy holy will;
I will lie still.
I will not stir, lest I forsake Thine arm,
And break the charm
Which lulls me, leaning on my Father's breast
In perfect rest!'"
"I will try," sobbed Margaret, "but oh, Leonard, Leonard you have
struck a blow that must be sore as long as my life shall last."
"I hope not, Margaret," said Myra tenderly; "it is a blow indeed, but
it may be one that Leonard himself may be the instrument to heal. Had
he been still a wanderer, flying from justice, I should have lived
in dread of some greater crime, some intenser misery. But, taken and
punished so soon, I cannot but hope that it is to save him, and to
be a future safeguard; while it sheds on us by the way a chastening
blessing, to humble our pride, and to turn us from the honour that
cometh from man, in order that we may seek that which cometh from God
only. We find in the deep humility of Christ's religion, the loftiest
elevation above the opinions and littlenesses of the world that
despises Him."
"Myra, I have often intended to ask you why you said that the 'religion
of Jesus' brought you to us those many years ago? I never forgot it,
and I wondered why you did not say 'God,' or 'the Divine Being,' or
'Christianity,' or some other of those expressions which are more
frequently used."
"Because all those expressions, true and full of meaning as they
are, have become so vague through misuse and abuse, that they often
fail to convey the idea of a real practical power. But when the name
of the Lord Jesus, the Representative to sinful man of the Divine
character and will, is uttered by the lip of reverence and affection,
I feel at once that it means something more, and I expect to find a
heart touched by the Holy Spirit, bound by the tenderest love, and
constrained by the deepest obligation. It implies something definite
and trustworthy, something that cannot be exhausted in a correct creed,
or any inoperative sentiment. I believe my object was to invite your
confidence, and make you feel that I had come not to profess, but to
act."
"And instead of that, it awakened enmity and suspicion."
"Only for a little while; that is all over now, you know. Yet I am
tempted to ask, if you can tell me, suspicion of what?"
"Ah, I was just thinking, suspicion of what? And I do believe it was
the very same feeling as the enemies of the Lord Jesus had when they
cavilled at and questioned all He said. They were afraid He wanted them
to be good, and they didn't want to be good; they thought themselves
good enough. It is just the same in Margaret Haynes and a Jewish
Pharisee."
"Yes, dear Margaret; the name of Jesus brings God, the Holy One, closer
to us. Men can talk and write about 'the Divine Being,' 'the Deity,'
'the Great Creator,' and feel nothing anxious or disturbing; He is some
'unknown God' whom they are content to admire at a distance. But when
'God was manifest in the flesh,' when 'God was in Christ, reconciling
the world unto Himself,' when One who 'was with God and was God' 'was
made flesh, and dwelt among us,' there came unavoidable contact, an
irresistible claim to attention, and men could no longer hide from
themselves that the opposition to truth and goodness was in their own
hearts, and that if they were not made happy and holy, and at one with
God, the fault was entirely and for ever their own.
"Many kind, pleasant people will talk with you of 'divine goodness,'
and 'a gracious Providence,' and a 'bountiful Creator,' and
conversation flows calmly; but speak of Jesus and His love, the
cleansing power of His 'precious blood,' the peace-giving consciousness
of His pardon and His presence, the joy of His service, and hope of
His glory, then what a chill, what a check! Often a dead silence, and
the courtesy of society will scarcely hide the sneer or the alarm at
your fanaticism, or the pity that anything should be pushed to such an
extreme."
"I have seen it," said Margaret; "and I have noticed that the shock
has survived the occasion, and kept the sensitive individuals from
venturing near the electric wire again. And yet it is Jesus the
Saviour, 'the Son of the Highest,' 'the brightness of God's glory,' and
'the express image of His person,' who is the centre and substance of
all true religion. How can any one suppose himself the friend of God
who does not know, and love, and honour the Son of God?"
"Is it not remarkable, too," said Myra, delighted at the animated
interest with which Margaret spoke, "that the Lord Jesus, in
vindicating His authority to the people who were rejecting Him, said
that—
"'...all should honour the Son, even as they honour the Father. He that
honoureth not the Son honoureth not the Father which hath sent Him.'
"'If God were your Father, ye would love Me.'
"To His own disciple He said,—
"'He that hath seen Me hath seen the Father.'
"John the Baptist said,—
"'He that believeth on the Son hath everlasting life; and he that
believeth not the Son shall not see life, but the wrath of God abideth
on him."
"The Apostle John wrote,—
"'Whosoever denieth the Son, the same hath not the Father;' and 'he
that abideth in the doctrine of Christ, he hath both the Father and the
Son.'
"Surely we need nothing more to show that 'the Son,' 'Jesus Christ,' is
the spirit and substance, the 'God manifest' of salvation!
"Yet we have more still. See how His immediate followers acted. At
Pentecost, Peter and John preached 'Jesus of Nazareth,' baptized in
'the name of Jesus Christ,' healed the sick 'by the name of Jesus
Christ of Nazareth;' Philip preached 'Jesus;' Paul declared that he
would 'know nothing but Jesus Christ and Him crucified.' He tells us
to 'run with patience the race set before us, looking unto Jesus, the
author and finisher of our faith.'
"And our Lord Jesus Himself, when promising 'a Comforter' to His
troubled apostles, described His special mission to be testifying of
Him, guiding them into all truth:
"'He shall take of Mine, and shall show it unto you.'"
"It is a wonderful mystery," said Margaret thoughtfully.
"So said Paul, to whom was committed especially the happy work of
making known to the Gentiles their share in its glorious purpose. But
though beyond human reason to explain, it is not opposed to human
reason to accept. A God whom we could perfectly know and understand
would soon cease to be the object of our adoration. Even the holy
angels are not able to comprehend all He does; for we are told that
they desire 'to look into' the things concerning Christ; and as the
purposes of love to sinners are unfolded in His dealings with His
Church, they find fresh cause to admire and praise His 'manifold
wisdom.'"
Day by day Margaret's interest grew in the truth, and only in her Bible
could she find any comfort for the sorrow which had fallen upon her.
Myra and Florence had no other source of comfort either, excepting that
they did not share in her bitter remorse. They had lovingly sought
to win Leonard to obedience and goodness, and endeavoured to shield
him from evil, but he had evaded and deceived them. Keenly they felt
the shame and sorrow of his conduct, and a pang of anguish that no
words could express accompanied every thought of his present degraded
condition; but having "fellowship with God and with His Son," they
were growing into higher sympathy with His views of events and things,
and becoming less sensitively tenacious of the world's thoughts and
opinions.
No friend forsook them for their wretched brother's sake, but Christian
love and sympathy gathered more tenderly round them in their affliction.
As soon as Margaret's strength was sufficiently restored, they went
abroad, and once more the faded cheeks regained their bloom and
the saddened spirits their elasticity, and Margaret seized every
opportunity of improvement, mastered every study she commenced, and
seemed to have set before herself some purpose in life which should, by
God's help and blessing, prove that it had not been spared for nought.
———————
CHAPTER XVI.
"OVERCOME EVIL WITH GOOD."
ABOUT a year passed away. The family were at their English home, where
few changes had occurred, and where they were no longer cheered by
the pleasant visits of Frank Somers. He had gone on business to New
Zealand, and it depended on circumstances, he said, whether he settled
there or returned.
It was with a very sorrowful heart that poor Margaret found out the
true reason; and though the sweet temper and cheerful manner of
Florence betrayed no change, she knew that Frank had been firmly and
decidedly rejected by her, solely because she conceived that her union
with him would, though indirectly, involve him in the disgrace which
Leonard's conduct had brought upon them all.
"My sister, my darling sister," said Margaret, "though I should have
done the same, yet I question whether it is fair to throw away your own
happiness and Frank's in this way, when he and all his family would so
thankfully reverse your decision."
"Hush, dear Margaret!" said Florence. "I have not done it
thoughtlessly. Frank knows all I can tell to human ear about it; and
though we disagree now in our view of our respective positions, the
time may come when even he will judge that I am doing right. Oh,
Margaret, we cannot tell what Leonard may yet do."
"But is it not your duty to hope the best?—For surely you have hope?"
said Margaret.
"Oh yes, I do hope, but at present we have reason to fear also; and if
Leonard should reject every effort to bring him to repentance for the
past, and a right course for the future, I shall feel almost sure—nay,
it would be only right to wish—that further punishment may be the
result to him. His sin has already grieved too many, to risk extending
the shame and sorrow any further."
"Did you know that Frank got leave to see and speak to him in prison?"
asked Margaret.
"No," said Florence, with a flush of surprise.
"He did, before he sailed, and he told Myra that he thought he saw
traces of right feeling in him, but that his own motive in talking with
him was so mixed up with selfishness and anxiety, that he scarcely
dared hope for God's blessing on it."
"Dear, generous Frank!" murmured Florence. "He always judges hardly of
himself."
"And tenderly of others," said Margaret. "He must not be left to suffer
for their faults. Tell me, dear sister, only tell me this. If, by God's
mercy, Leonard should be reformed, and pursue some honest, patient,
industrious course, you will not be afraid, but recall Frank, and
reward his affection."
"We must not be romantic, dear Margaret," said Florence, smiling; "let
us leave all the future in our Father's hands, and pray for His will to
be done."
"Promise," persisted Margaret earnestly.
"You forget that Frank is at liberty to choose again," said Florence
softly.
"Nonsense! I know better. Promise, if you would help me to be happy
ever again," cried the resolute sister; and Florence was subdued at
last.
The only change in the little household was a wedding and a
wedding-breakfast. After eight years of faithful service, Janet,
the housemaid, thought she could in some sense "better herself" by
accepting the offer of an industrious young mechanic in the town. And
her young mistresses were as much interested on the occasion as heart
could desire, Janet declaring that if she should make a good wife, and
prudently manage the new home provided for her, it would be because of
the good lessons she had received in Miss Sherwood's service, and the
religion of peace and love taught and exemplified there.
As for Peggy, though viewing with perfect complacency the happiness
of her fellow-servant, she eschewed all such prospects for herself;
for, said she, "I can't say what vixenish ways I might take to again
if I put myself in the risk of temptation; and then the man would be
disappointed, and say that religion isn't true, or something of the
sort, and I couldn't stand that, for I know it is true; and then I
would either get my head broke for rage or my heart for sorrow; so I'd
best keep out of scrapes that can't be helped when they're once done."
So Peggy decided to keep out of the matrimonial "scrape," at least
until she was better satisfied of her self-control, and more assured of
"the victory that overcometh."
And when kindly reminded of the apostle's words, "I can do all things
through Christ who strengtheneth me,—"
"Ah," she replied in her quaint way, "but I'm no more like Paul than
the old tin kettle is like the silver urn. Do not I often feel like
to burst with badness when anything goes cross?—And I should, too, if
I had no way to blow off the steam. And the only way to do it without
hurting others is to go and scold myself, and ask the Lord to help me
against myself, and then I get better."
And when assured that Paul's safety-valve was very similar, great was
Peggy's wonder that she should have anything in common with Paul,
excepting salvation in Paul's beloved Saviour.
It was, moreover, a fact most gratefully recognised by her mistress,
that no duties were better performed, no dinners better served, no
larder more carefully managed, than those over which Peggy presided.
One day Peggy sauntered slowly home, after executing some errands in
the town. It was not her wont to linger, but now she walked as if for
once she had an idea of trying whether "the grass" would really "grow
under her feet." And her thoughts were in some confusion, needing a
little management before she presented herself at home.
"Shall I tell her or not?" she argued. "Why should I? It is no business
of mine, nor of hers either. I never could abide the woman, not I. Ah,
that is what old Peggy says, and that will not do now. What is it that
new Peggy says, she that Jesus died for, and forgives and helps every
day of her life; 'looking unto Jesus,' what would He like her, His poor
servant, to do? Why, surely I ought to tell her, and so I will, and no
more argufying about it; there is a lost soul as well as a miserable
body to be thought of."
Peggy lingered no longer, but went quickly home, and at once presented
herself at the drawing-room door.
"If you please, ladies," said she, "did you know that Dinah, that is,
Mrs. Jonson, was going away?"
"No," replied Myra; "we went past her shop yesterday, and observed no
change."
"But there is, ma'am, and her sister is keeping on the shop, and they
are very poor. Dinah, they say, is, leastways was, going to join her
husband somewhere, for he is not coming back with the ship he went in."
"Indeed! But what interests you in the matter, Peggy?" For Myra was
sure that the point of the subject was yet behind; and Margaret and
Florence were looking wonderingly at Peggy's excited face.
"Why, ma'am, she cannot go now; she has been nearly killed."
"Killed!" exclaimed the startled listeners.
"Yes; she was moving some heavy things, and a great tall chest of
drawers toppled over upon her, and crushed her dreadfully. Two doctors
are there, and they do not know whether she will live or die."
"Poor Dinah!" said Myra.
"Wretched Dinah!" said Margaret.
"We must see whether we can be of any use to her," said Myra. "Thank
you, Peggy, for telling us."
"Yes, I knew that would be it," said Peggy; "and I just wanted to ask
leave, if anybody is wanted to sit up all night with her, if I may
go and do it for a few nights. I can manage very well, and it won't
interfere with my work. The poor sister has bad health, I believe, and
cannot do much."
"You can go and offer your services, Peggy, if you please, and if you
think of any nice little thing that you would like to make for her, do
so, and carry it with you."
Peggy withdrew, more than satisfied.
"That's the right sort," she said, in the kitchen; "cloak and coat,
mile and twain; it's like the Lord Himself; always gives more and
better than we dare to ask. Now the poor creature will have all done
for her that can be, I know."
"Dear Myra, what a triumph!" said Margaret, with tears in her eyes. "I
have fought hard to forgive that woman for her share in our dreadful
sorrow, and I have never been able to feel that I have really done so.
Peggy has conquered, and so must I."
And, day after day, from that time, one or another of the kind sisters
was by the unhappy woman's bedside, ministering to her wants, soothing
her cries of pain, and providing for her comfort by every means in
their power. Now it was Myra's gentle hand that arranged a clean soft
pillow; now Margaret's that held the cup to her fever-parched lips; now
Florence softly read her to sleep, or Elsie held a sweet flower for her
to admire.
"I don't deserve it," she sighed to Peggy in the night watch, as,
restless and miserable, she would rebel against orders for silence.
"No, for sure you don't," said Peggy; "if we all got our deservings,
we'd be badly off."
"But oh, this pain! I suppose I do deserve that," groaned Dinah.
"Yes, of course you do, and a deal more to it," said straightforward
Peggy; "only it won't be of any use if it doesn't help to bring you to
Him who bore worse pain than you or me can think of, to save our souls.
You see, we often don't think of Him till we come to need a friend. So
He has to make us need."
"Oh, it's very hard to suffer so! Wouldn't anything else do?"
"Seems not, else it wouldn't have come; for be you sure that the Lord
never willingly afflicted anybody but His own blessed self, and that
was for love of poor souls like you and me. Now think of that, and go
to sleep on it."
But Dinah had a conscience too uneasy to find such truths her pillow
yet; and as it became enlightened concerning the sinfulness of her past
life, terror of death and judgment added greatly to the torments of the
suffering body.
The idea of being a cripple for life was very terrible, but it was
endured rather than the alternative of dying as she was, without hope,
without God. And when preparations for the amputation of the shattered
limb were made, and Myra and Margaret knelt beside her bed to pray that
she might be supported under the operation, she drew Margaret towards
her, and with quivering lips whispered,—
"It is just and right; it is to hinder me going to share ill-gotten
gains. Oh, my child, forgive me, forgive me! Your brother did very
wrong, but he was tempted with great prospects, if he could find money
to get at them."
Margaret shuddered for a moment, then she kissed the white lips,
saying,—
"I do forgive—we all forgive. May God be gracious to you, poor Dinah!"
The surgical treatment saved the patient's life, and Mrs. Jonson was
eventually restored to health. She had ceased to despise "Methodists."
She believed in the religion of Jesus, for she had seen something of
its beauty, and experienced something of its results in the care and
sympathy of those she had cruelly wronged. Nothing else, she felt
assured, could have so secured for her the return of good for evil, and
the practical exercise of the "charity that never faileth."
To "seek" until she should "find" the same holy power for herself,
became her first and dearest object. And while she might read that the
Lord Jesus is able to "save to the uttermost all that come unto God by
Him," and "him that cometh to Me I will in no wise cast out," she would
not despair of salvation and peace.
CHAPTER XVII.
"DYING IS BUT GOING HOME."
THE malady from which Mr. Somers had suffered more or less for many
years had latterly gained ground, defying all the efforts of human
skill to cure or even to relieve any longer. He had expressed a wish
that Myra Sherwood could spend a little time as of old in his family,
to mingle again with them as a beloved daughter, and be a comfort to
those so dear to him, over whose heads hung a calamity of which they
tried not to trust themselves to think.
"Take no thought for the morrow," said He who was "touched with a
feeling of all our infirmities," and who knew the temptation to loving,
anxious hearts; and who, Himself under heavy trial, knew what it was to
wish, "If it be possible, let this cup pass from Me."
And because it was not possible that His bitter cup could pass
from Him, we often venture to hope that, through His mercy, ours
may be allowed to pass us by. Doubtless it is often so; the faith,
the humility, the submission, that can go on and say with Him,
"Nevertheless, not as I will, Father, but as Thou wilt," is tested and
approved, and the cup of sorrow is often exchanged for that of grateful
praise. And why? Because for Jesus the cup was penal, propitiatory,
sacrificial; as it is written,—
"Now once in the end of the world hath He appeared, to put away sin by
the sacrifice of Himself." . . . "So Christ was once offered, to bear
the sins of many."
"He was made sin for us, . . . that we might be made the righteousness
of God in Him."
"And He is the propitiation for our sins."
But it was "the cup of salvation" to every penitent sinner of every
clime and tongue and people, and as such He drank, and left not a drop
behind. And because of this, the cup of sorrow in many a trembling
human hand is but that of sanctified affliction, and often is pitifully
withdrawn when its purpose is accomplished.
"Then they cry unto the Lord in their trouble, and He delivered them
out of their distresses."
"He maketh the storm a calm."
Oh, how blessed after all is the tempest of trial that is hushed by the
voice of Jesus!
To Myra's grateful heart, her uncle's wish was the call of duty, and
she lost no time in making such arrangements as seemed suitable to
the position of her sisters during her absence. Then she joined him
in the lovely spot where he had chosen to wait the Master's call, and
where, amidst some of earth's fairest scenes, he might contemplate one
fairer still, even Him who is "chief among ten thousand and altogether
lovely," and say, in prophetic vision, with the Psalmist,—
"I shall be satisfied when I awake with Thy likeness."
For some time things seemed to fall into their old places, and Myra
felt like a child again with those who had supplied to her the place
of parents. She saw and shared the secret anxiety of the devoted wife,
who knew that probably her husband's days were numbered, and though
together they often poured out their full hearts before God in prayer,
no murmur, no gloom, no passion, was suffered to darken the remaining
term of hallowed intercourse with the spirit so cheerily pluming for
the upward flight.
"Myra, my darling," he one day said, as she sat alone with him on the
terrace before his house, where a matchless view of God's beautiful
works in nature supplied a fund of emblems of spiritual truth,—"I
want you to try and be a great comfort to your aunt when I am gone to
sleep. I fear she is sorrowing too much for our short separation, and
I sometimes feel inclined to take up the words of our Lord, when His
course was nearly run, and to say to her and my dear children,—
"'If ye loved Me, ye would rejoice because I said, I go to My Father.'
"Speak to her often of 'the high calling,' the 'inheritance' 'reserved
in heaven,' the 'crown of life' prepared for the children of God. We
have had a very happy and much honoured life on earth together, but
that is nothing to 'the pleasures at God's right hand for evermore,'
which soon we shall enjoy together without fear of another parting."
"I do, I will, dearest uncle," said Myra, gazing with deep and reverent
love on the dear face which already seemed to reflect the light of the
heavenly world. "We will remember that you are but going into another
apartment of our Father's house, closed to us only for a little while."
"That is true, dear girl.
"'Heaven is My throne, and earth is My footstool—'
"And you know 'the throne' and 'the footstool' are both in 'the house.'
Those who are living for Jesus, and those sleeping in Him, are not
so far apart after all. But of all the cheering thoughts and happy
experiences of the soul that reposes its all on Him, nothing, nothing
is to be compared with the peace of assured pardon and acceptance
through His precious blood. Oh Myra, it is becoming unwelcome,
unfashionable, rare, to speak of the true ground of a sinner's
salvation. The perfect work of Christ is ignored by His enemies, and
too often kept out of sight by His friends.
"Oh, beware, and warn others to beware, of this ungrateful neglect of
what is—
"'. . . the power of God unto salvation to every one that believeth.'
"Why shade it with words that may mean something else? When men speak
of the gospel, glad tidings, good news, let not the angelic message be
mutilated—
"'Unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is
Christ the Lord.'
"And when man has attained the condition, through that Saviour, which
is above angels, and he has a right to sing as they cannot, the dear
and chosen theme, of which tongue can never tire, will be,—
"'Unto Him that loved us, and washed us from our sins in His own blood,
and hath made us kings and priests unto God and His Father, be glory
and dominion for ever and ever."
"There is a growing danger of that terrible condemnation which the Lord
Jesus foresaw when He said,—
"'Whosoever shall be ashamed of Me and of My words in this adulterous
and sinful generation, of him also shall the Son of Man be ashamed when
He cometh in the glory of His Father with the holy angels.'
"What a wonderful possibility what a triumph for Satan with worms of
the earth!
"'Ashamed of Jesus! can it be,
A mortal man ashamed of Thee?'
"Yes, it is cruelly possible. God save us from such infamous cowardice!
Many a professing Christian would not object to own Jesus before an
ignorant heathen, who shrinks from showing his colours before the
polite worldling or the sneering sceptic."
No visitor to the dwelling would have supposed that death was hovering
over it, and known to be so by its inmates—the departing one so calm,
so satisfied, so rejoicing!—the watching ones so self-controlled, so
Heaven-sustained! And all thus "more than conquerors through Him who
loved them."
What is it to be more than conqueror? Many a conqueror has fallen in
combat and died on the battlefield, and his country has been able only
to weave chaplets for his tomb; but the conqueror through Christ, the
Captain of his salvation, shall not only vanquish but triumph! He shall
be called from the field of strife to the presence of his King, and,
exchanging the sword for the palm, and the cross for the crown, he
shall share the glories of a triumph at which angels must wonder, and
all creation will rejoice. One with Jesus now by faith, one with Jesus
ever in the fulfilment of the covenant of eternal love and grace. Is
not this to be more than conqueror?
Sometimes it pleases the Lord God to spare His children all sad
leave-taking, and to permit the spirit to take flight at a moment
unwatched by mortal eye, and it seems like a translation. So it was
now. The cage-door was open by insidious disease, and one sunny
afternoon, seated in his easy-chair by the window, with the soft breath
of the summer air playing over his placid face, the summons came, the
messengers of the Most High softly bore away the spirit, leaving to
death and the grave only the toil-worn robe in which its earthly work
had been done, its earthly burden borne, to be "sown" in "dishonour"
and "weakness" now, to be "raised" in "glory" and "power," when shall
"be brought to pass the saying that is written, Death is swallowed up
in victory."
The invalid had desired to be left alone while Mrs. Somers walked out a
while with her children and niece, and when they returned it was Myra's
eye that caught the first impression of the change that had come.
Perfect peace, "the rapture of repose," was on every feature, and the
yet warm hand rested on the large open Bible, at the fourth chapter of
the First Epistle to the Thessalonians, as if, though dead, he would
yet speak a last loving reminder to the dear ones left behind,—
"Sorrow not, as others which have no hope; for if we believe that Jesus
died and rose again, even so them also which sleep in Jesus will God
bring with Him . . . Wherefore, comfort one another with these words."
And so they did, blessing God for the tender love that provides so
sweetly for the need of all His children, both living and dying.
What is there in all man's devisings that can thus confidently look
beyond the grave, and see that which makes death bearable and sorrow
sanctifying? There is nothing—nothing. It is His prerogative alone,
who, out of His infinite wisdom and exhaustless love, gave to lost
sinners the perfect and powerful religion of Jesus.
———————
CHAPTER XVIII.
NEWS FROM AFAR—HARRY'S ADVENTURES.
MYRA having prevailed on her aunt and cousins to take up their abode
with her for a time, they all returned to the cottage, where the
sisters devoted themselves, by every tender and sympathising attention,
to soothe the sorrow of the mourners.
Mrs. Somers meekly and submissively bore her loss as the wise
appointment of One who loved her even more than her husband could love,
and exerted herself in the remaining duties of life with unaltered
firmness and resolution. Her eldest son was still abroad, another was
completing his education, a daughter was soon to leave her for a new
home with one to whom she was willing to entrust her, and a younger one
found in Elsie a most affectionate companion and fellow-student at home.
Thus they were reposing calmly after their sorrowful change, when news
arrived which stirred up fresh and lively anxieties.
Harry Sherwood was a tolerable correspondent for a young man abroad
amidst novelty and change, and his letters were always received
with delight. But now came one which threw all the home party into
consternation, and sent them with an interest not lately felt to the
public organs of information, which were soon full of the frightful
tidings.
Harry's last news of himself had been that, in consequence of some
delay in the business in which he was engaged, he was at liberty to
employ a portion of time as he pleased, and that he was about to start
on a journey to a distant part of the country, where he hoped to find
their friend Mr. Penwald, who was acting as a missionary, and assisting
some laborious brother in his huge district and overwhelming work. He
added that he would be accompanied by a servant and a guide, and that
if he were unable to send a letter by the next mail, they were to feel
no apprehension or uneasiness about his safety.
By the second mail afterwards came the startling letter, written in
evident haste and excitement.
"MY DEAREST SISTERS,—Feel no alarm for me. Thanks to God's mercy, I
am safe; but news will reach England, perhaps ere you receive this,
which will nearly drive the nation mad. The native troops are in open
mutiny almost everywhere in the Punjaub; our brave countrymen are at
their mercy, if they know such a word, and cruel murders are being
perpetrated every day, which thrill every European heart with fear and
horror. The risk is terrible that we, God's witnesses in the land,
should forget our Christianity and turn lawful self-defence into fierce
revenge. Pray that we may 'resist the devil,' who is sorely tempting
us. Twice has Ralph Penwald turned my aim, and sent a bullet into the
air which was intended for skulking wretches who had been taking their
fill of English blood.
"'Harry,' said he sternly, '"Vengeance is Mine, I will repay, saith the
Lord." Retribution will come, but we are not bidden to work it out.
Let us rather snatch every opportunity to sow the seed of that kingdom
whose laws of love and grace shall render such a state of things
impossible for the future.'
"Noble, brave Penwald! Soldier of the cross, and worthy of his Captain
is he! And there are many like him here. We are together for the
present, and safe. No time for more now. The letters are going by a
careful hand to secure transmission, for telegraph wires are cut and
mailbags rifled, and communication is difficult; but troops, British
troops, are coming, and then all will soon be right again."
Alas, how many a tale of horror had to be told before this sanguine
hope could be realised!
A weary month or more must pass before any further news could reach
the cottage, and there, as well as in hundreds, perhaps thousands, of
British homes, daily went up to God the supplications of His people
for help and mercy for India, and deliverance for the besieged and the
wanderers.
At last more letters came, and after the first sense of thankfulness
that the beloved writer was still safe, they could be read and pondered
with absorbing interest. Some extracts will suffice:—
"I did not tell you how I found Mr. Penwald. He was gone to visit a
military station at M—, and the people among whom he had been working
had become extremely anxious about him. They said he was safer with
them, and they wished him to return. Would I go and seek him, and bring
him back, for danger was rising around all the 'feringhi.'
"Taking directions for resuming the journey, and accompanied by my
two companions, I set out for M—, where we arrived in safety, and
where hasty preparations were making for any sudden alarm, bad news
having reached the town, and doubts of the native soldiery having been
entertained by some of their officers.
"As I was dismissing my guide, he advanced rather near, and said
gravely, in a low voice, 'Let the sahib leave here to-night, he is not
safe; so his blood shall not be on my head.'
"'How do you know?' I whispered, stopping him as he was retreating.
'What is there to fear?'
"'Look in every Sepoy face,' he said; 'see there death to every
feringhi on Indian ground, and to me also for warning you'; and,
darting away, I saw him no more.
"I found Mr. Penwald at the house of a missionary, and though our
meeting was mutually pleasant, and he realised my highest expectations,
yet some of the circumstances of it were by no means satisfactory. I
told him the parting words of my guide, and after a short consultation
with his friends, we went together to the officers' quarters.
"The colonel would not believe in the disaffection of his men,
insisting that the danger must be from without, and he would trust to
their fidelity to protect the station. He said he should call them
together, appeal to their honour, and expect them to do their duty.
"Returning to the residence of our host, we met my servant and a man in
attendance on some department at the barracks, but, if a soldier, he
was not in uniform. As we passed, he said quietly, without looking at
us, 'Fly, all of you. Trust no one, but go. It is not missionary, but
European blood they thirst for. The signal is given when the colonel
speaks.'
"As we all understood the language sufficiently to appreciate this
speech, imagine our dismay. What to do it was difficult to tell.
"'You must depart at once, Harry,' said Mr. Penwald; 'and may we soon
meet again in a happier hour.'
"'And you?' I said inquiringly.
"'I cannot leave my friends in their danger,' he said decisively.
"'Then I stay also. I am not going to leave you in danger. But if
everybody goes with us, all right; if not—'
"'But, Harry, your sisters, Miss Sherwood.'
"'My sisters, Myra at the head of them, would be ashamed of me if I
forsook a friend in his hour of need. That is settled, so consider what
is to be done.'
"Our friends were helpless, so far as immediate flight was the
question. There were sick ones who could not be moved in a hurry, and
who ought not to be alarmed while it was possible to avoid it.
"Then Penwald turned round upon the gathering group who followed us,
some European, some native Christians:
"'Friends and brothers,' said he, 'let us not forget our best
Protector. While others are using means, as is their duty, for the
safety of the station, let us strengthen their hands by appealing to
Him who has all at His disposal, for "Except the Lord keep the city,
the watchman waketh but in vain." Come, all who can pray and trust.'
"We went in at once, and all who could crush in followed us. Penwald
read the 121st Psalm in Hindustani and in English, and then we all
knelt down. But oh, what a prayer was that! How we realised at once the
very presence of the Most High God! We asked if it might be His will
that we and the whole inhabitants of the station might be preserved
from all danger of a violent death, and kept from the fear of evil, and
that if such were not His will, He would open His arms of welcome and
receive us all at home in joy and peace. We prayed for the officers in
command, and the poor misguided men; and then, magnifying the mighty
love of the Son of God, through whom we may ask what we will, a spirit
of self-devotion and heroism seemed to inspire the praying band, the
audible 'Amen' was caught up from without, and we might have been a
company of returning victors, instead of a little flock expecting to be
led to slaughter.
"Then we went as near to the parade-ground as we might venture, and
waited in solemn anxiety the result of the colonel's appeal. The men
looked sullen and gloomy while he spoke, and we afterwards learned that
a leader in the mutiny of the regiment was to shoot him down as the
signal for the work of butchery to begin.
"'Now, my men,' said the colonel in conclusion, 'all who are true to
the Queen they have sworn to serve, march to your quarters; all who
wish to renounce her authority, lay down your arms.'
"It was a solemn moment. The colonel stood in the midst, a tempting
target for the intended ball. Not a man moved; irresolution had seized
them; they looked at each other. Suddenly a sergeant throw down his
musket, and pointed to the officer. 'We will not harm you, but we will
not serve you,' he said; whereupon there was a clamour of falling arms,
and in a few minutes the ground was clear, and the British stood alone
in the compound. We were saved for that time, and a large assembly
gathered round the missionary quarter, while the 124th Psalm arose from
the midst in thrilling tones of praise.
"Of course the next thing was to prepare for removal to a safer
place, for we were now without any means of defence, and the
probability was great that the mutineers would join a marching body of
fellow-countrymen and return in strength to destroy the station.
"The next morning we all decamped; horses and carriages of all kinds
were in requisition, and, protected by the officers, their faithful
servants, and some of the friendly natives, we reached this fort in
safety. In two days the whole of the European dwellings, barracks,
school, church, were a heap of ruins, torn to pieces as it were by the
malice which resented the escape of the occupants."
Another extract of later date:—
"I have not time to tell you a tenth part of what is passing here.
Though judgments seem abroad in the land, wonderful are some of the
escapes and deliverances to which many can bear witness. For ourselves,
at one time, in consequence of the withdrawal of our best troops for
points of apparently greater need, we were exposed to the risk of utter
destruction. Refugees came in with news of large bodies of the enemy
marching upon us with savage glee, having learned how slender were our
means of defence. On many a morning we assembled in surprise that our
refuge had survived the night. You may imagine, if you can, how solemn
were our prayers, how fervent our thanksgivings.
"One evening our scouts rushed breathless into our quarters, saying
that they had actually seen a large armed force rapidly advancing, and
that nothing could now save us.
"'God's will be done,' was the calm comment of Ralph Penwald, evidently
mastering the strong rush of feeling as he gazed on the despairing
countenances of many around him. '"He shall deliver thee in six
troubles; yea, in seven there shall no evil touch thee." Let us ask Him
again.'
"Oh, if you had seen the flush of hope that once more sparkled in
tearful eyes, as husbands and fathers, mothers and maidens, knelt down
at once, while the missionary led their prayers! It was another moment
to be remembered for ever. Then so calmly, so trustfully, they rose
and went about the duties allotted to them, no one going to sleep, I
suppose, all through the livelong night.
"But no sound disturbed us, no enemy came upon us. A native teacher in
disguise from a neighbouring village came to tell us that the Sepoy
troops halted to arrange their plan of attack, disputed, hesitated,
received some information which totally changed their purpose, and
were by that time many miles away on some different scheme in their
diabolical plot. May we not sing, 'Oh that men would praise the Lord
for His goodness, and for His wonderful works to the children of men!'?
"Another marked deliverance is reported here, of which I must tell you.
A party of rebels one night suddenly surrounded a number of undefended
bungalows, and shot a lighted arrow into the thatch of one, which of
course caught fire, and the alarmed inmates took refuge in the next
nearest to them. The wind blew the flaming pieces over the other
dwellings, and the savages outside expected the whole to be consumed,
and that the terrified inhabitants must rush out upon their ready
swords. But in that bungalow dwelt children of God, and they also flew
to arms, but their weapon was prayer, their shield was faith; and,
inviting their neighbours in, while shouts and yells rang round them,
they cast themselves on the pity and protection of their God. In a few
minutes the fiery fragments of thatch which had been falling around the
other dwellings were seen to take a different direction—the wind had
changed. Whether the rebels thought that some invisible guardianship
was around these praying people, or that they were well able to defend
themselves if attacked by sword and musket, cannot be told, but they
presently moved off; and left the thankful families with no further
damage than the one burnt bungalow which had been first fired. Surely,
surely we shall never doubt our God again! Many a pen will record
incidents of human heroism and deeds of daring in these terrible days,
but 'who shall declare the mighty acts of the Lord, or show forth all
His praise?'
"But to return to our own adventures. As soon as it was considered
practicable, my leave of absence having expired, I had to return to my
business duties. The country in that direction was reported quiet, and
I felt no fear, though my escort was but slender. Mr. Penwald insisted
on accompanying me, and propounded such weighty reasons in connection
with a certain quartette of anxious hearts in England that I was fain
to submit. By the way, I should tell you that this man bewitches
people, and makes them do his bidding in a most extraordinary manner.
He is somewhat darker in complexion than when we met him eight years
ago; and, dressed again in English broadcloth, might still be taken for
a civilised gentleman. There is the same intellectual brow and pleasant
smile and graceful manner that won our hearts by the Elwy's banks; and
very vivid seems to be his remembrance of those two happy days—happy,
I mean, to us; to him, perhaps otherwise. He says Frank has kept him
pretty well informed about us until the last year, and seems surprised
not to have heard from him lately.
"Well, we set out, and jogged very comfortably for the first day. Then
we passed through a village, where the people looked rather unfriendly,
and mischief seemed brewing. All at once shots were fired, and an aged
European, in the dress of an officer, was dragged across our path by a
native, followed by a young girl shrieking for her father. They were
evidently refugees, and were not to find protection there. We sprang to
the ground, beat off the captors, scrambled both father and daughter up
with us on our horses, and galloped off for our lives. Shots were fired
after us, which I thought had not taken any effect; but at the first
place where it seemed safe to halt, I observed for the first time that
Penwald was deadly pale, and could scarcely support the slight form of
the girl upon his horse.
"We dismounted, and some kind people came to offer assistance, which
was gladly accepted. A bullet had lodged in Penwald's shoulder, and
there was nothing for it but to hasten on to obtain proper surgical
attention. The old officer and his daughter entreated permission to
accompany us, and we made the best arrangements in our power. Penwald
held up like a hero, as he is, and horses were procured for our
friends. Another day, with occasional halts and rapid riding, brought
us to our present safe quarters, near to the factory where I am at
work. Penwald's wound was much inflamed, but the ball is extracted,
and he is doing well. I shall be extremely glad if he is obliged to go
to England for change of air, and shall bribe the doctors to order it.
But he is set upon preaching the gospel to those savages, and I suppose
will do it though it costs his life. However, I have had too many
lessons lately to doubt that all will be well with them that love our
Lord.
"But how can I ever be thankful enough to you, dearest Myra, for
teaching me something of the precious religion of Jesus?"
"Dear Harry!" said Myra. "He has had a higher and better Teacher, or he
could scarcely have written like this."
Subsequent accounts confirmed the hope that Mr. Penwald had recovered
from his wound; but, to his young friend's great disappointment,
he determined to return to his post, and to exert himself more
energetically than ever for the spiritual welfare of the misguided
people.
It was ascertained, so far as the means of information could elicit
facts, that not one Christian convert had joined the rebels, or aided
their cause with the smallest sympathy or help; while it was thankfully
proved that, even at the risk of persecution and death, many of them
warned, protected, and secreted the Christians and Europeans in their
hour of need.
———————
CHAPTER XIX.
SISTERS' LOVE.
WHAT was to become of Leonard when his term of imprisonment should end,
was a subject of grave consideration at home.
A true friend had been found in the chaplain, whose instructions had
been made useful to many a before hopeless wreck on the turbulent tide
of crime, and he thought that the boy's sullen spirit was greatly
subdued and softened.
He expressed an earnest wish to go abroad immediately on his
liberation, and sent to his uncle a request, as the last he should ever
make, that he would do whatever was in his power to facilitate that
design.
On the appointed day, Mr. Haynes was waiting for him with a suit of
clothes to replace the prison dress, and drove away to the railway
station.
"Am I going to a ship?" asked Leonard humbly. "Shall I see any of them
before I go?"
"Yes, Leonard; you are to have time to consider what you really wish to
do, and feel able to do."
"I am determined to go and try my fortune in some other country. No
one would trust me or believe me here. Besides, I don't want to be a
disgrace to anybody."
"That you have been as far and as completely as you could," said Mr.
Haynes; "but, Leonard, we profess, and I trust possess, something that
constrains us to forgive the past, and to hope for the future, unless
you wilfully deprive us of the opportunity."
"I expect, of course, that you must all give me up," said Leonard.
"My boy, you have an immortal soul to be saved, and a life, perhaps of
many years, to live, during which its fate must be decided. Can it be a
matter of indifference to us how that life is to be spent, whether in
hasting to destruction, or as a servant of Christ pressing forward to
His kingdom?"
"If anybody cares what becomes of me, I will do whatever they think
best, only I must get away as soon as possible," said Leonard, with an
effort to control his evidently touched feelings.
"Uncle," he suddenly asked, after a while, "where are we going?"
"Home," said Mr. Haynes.
"Home!—To my sisters?—To Myra?" exclaimed Leonard. "Oh no, don't take
me there; I cannot bear it."
"It is Myra's wish. She would have come for you, but I gladly spared
her the journey."
The boy bent his head, and tears strayed down his flushed face.
Mr. Haynes took no notice.
And when he had recovered a little, Leonard muttered,—
"I behaved shamefully to Myra; she would have led me on to good, and
saved me from mischief, but I defied and disobeyed her. Margaret
deserves all the shame and vexation she has suffered, for she helped me
to go wrong, and taught me to dislike Myra."
"Leonard, you do not know what Margaret has suffered, but she is
penitent and pardoned, and is as worthy of your love as Myra herself.
Your reproaches nearly cost her life and reason, and you must be
careful how you try to transfer your own responsibility to her. You
knew right from wrong as well as she did, and the same love and prayer
and instruction were over you both."
It was no gala day at the cottage, for anxiety about the tone of mind
and the future of the culprit occupied every heart. But a quiet and
affectionate reception awaited him, and he received Myra's kiss of
welcome with quivering lip and tearful eyes.
At first, he shrank from much intercourse with any of the home party,
but it soon became impossible to resist the winning kindness that
surrounded him, and Margaret's tenderness utterly astonished him. His
two years' growth into a tall, strong youth was not more marked to her
than were her altered demeanour and conversation to him. She courted
his attention, walked with him, read with him, and showed such anxious
longing for his confidence and affection that he soon yielded himself
to her influence, and sought her advice and opinion.
Myra saw all this with joy and thankfulness, but as yet she was not
fully aware of Margaret's motive.
"When do you think I shall go, Margaret?" he one day asked. "I cannot
stay here in idleness much longer."
"It is not idleness to rub up your old studies," said Margaret; "but
we are waiting for a letter from Frank Somers. You know he went to New
Zealand some time ago, and I have kept up a correspondence with him on
your behalf. He has settled on some occupation for you there, and his
next letter will tell us all about it. You will be content to begin
humbly, dear Leonard, and work your way up to trust and independence."
"Of course I must, and I shall try; but, Margaret, could Mr. Somers
have sufficient confidence to recommend me to any one?"
"He is going to try you himself, Leonard; he has purchased land, and
is doing something with it which his letters will explain, and you are
to attend to his interests there. Oh, Leonard, you will not disappoint
us all?" And as she leaned on his arm, she looked imploringly into his
face.
"No," said he, meeting her look with a kiss and a flush of feeling; "it
is something to be trusted once more. It is very kind of Frank, very
kind of you all. You are so altered, Margaret; I never saw any one so
changed in my life."
Longer lives than Leonard's could testify to the same fact.
"It is God's mercy over me, Leonard. I was stubborn, proud,
self-willed, and He was obliged to strike a fearful blow to save me
from myself."
"You are like Myra now," said Leonard; "I suppose you have learned
her religion. I wish there may be some one like her in New Zealand to
remind me of it. You see, I cannot help knowing that I have been too
easily led, and am afraid it might be so again. If I had been true and
firm, those people—ah! but it is of no use to blame anybody but myself;
it was all my own fault."
Margaret listened eagerly to every word.
"Then you don't want to escape from us, Leonard? You would like home
influence still around you?"
"Of course I should, Margaret; but I must do my best without it. You
see, a fellow among strangers, without any one to care for him at home,
may get into many a temptation, and I don't know yet how I may stand
it. Perhaps Mr. Somers may know of some family that would have me; we
shall see."
"Oh that you may learn to depend on God, and be strong in His strength,
dear brother, and able to say, 'My Father, Thou art the guide of my
youth'! Leonard, answer me now truthfully, would you like me, poor
Margaret, to go with you?"
"You!" exclaimed Leonard, in amazement. "Yes, of all things I should;
but, nonsense! it cannot be. What made you put such a thought into my
head?"
"Because, if you like it, I shall go," said Margaret quietly. "We shall
make a home for each other." And, withdrawing from him, she ran away
to the house, leaving the youth dumb with surprise, and yet scarcely
comprehending that the support he needed was to be so generously
supplied.
"Who would have thought it possible to love Margaret as I love her
now?" pondered he. "How good and kind she is! No; I will not disappoint
them. At least I will be honest, and do my best to please them."
And, though lacking the best and highest motive, it was a merciful
sign, and to be right thankfully hailed, that the forbearing kindness
of friend; and the love of anxious sisters, should so take the helm,
and be allowed to steer in the right direction. The more he meditated
on the future just opening with promise and hope before him, the
stronger became his desire to retrieve his character.
"And I will never rest," he whispered to himself, "until I have repaid
all—all—Harry's and all."
And the resolution was a relief, and a step towards the restoration of
self-respect.
Happy was it for the boy that the religion of true charity pervaded the
lives and actions of his friends.
Margaret went in and sought Myra, with a countenance radiant with joy.
"Myra, dear sister, my prayer is granted; my brother loves and trusts
me," she eagerly began.
"I have seen it, dear Margaret, and rejoiced in it with you."
"But I have won his confidence with a great and special object, sister;
and now I throw myself upon you for its attainment. Myra, I must go
with Leonard, to be his friend and companion, and to make a home for
him in the world. I have taken pains to learn everything I could, and
I am able to teach those who may be glad of an English governess, so I
shall not be a burden to him. And I have begged Aunt Haynes to try and
get me a passage out as companion to some lady or children who may need
one. You consent, dear Myra? You will not oppose me?"
Myra drew the pleader to her arms, and fondly kissed the eager face.
"No, dearest; I too truly appreciate your design to oppose it for a
moment. It will be a sore trial to us to part with you, and so break
up our happy sisterhood, but it is right, and God will bless you. I
only ask that you let us arrange everything for you. Mr. Haynes and
I have judged it best to provide for Leonard's passage, rather than
risk intimacy with undesirable companions, and I shall not permit you
either 'to work your passage out.' You may remember once asking me to
pay some money for Leonard. It shall now be yours, dear Margaret; you
will accept it as your sister's parting gift, and you will have time to
decide on your future work when you reach the scene of action."
There was nothing but thanks to be spoken, for when Myra said a thing,
she meant it, and when she intended a thing, she did it. She was not
surprised at, nor wholly unprepared for, Margaret's decision, and
had already provided in a measure for the necessary expenses of an
emigration.
Myra had not been tried by poverty, and she had endeavoured to prevent
any of her brothers and sisters from ever feeling galled by dependence
upon her, but she could appreciate any desire they manifested for
self-reliant effort, and all she wished now was to secure for them the
most suitable and promising means of making that effort. Margaret's
talents were of no common class, and she had diligently cultivated
them; her piety was genuine and practical, and she was evidently fitted
for some post of active usefulness.
The anticipated letter from Frank Somers supplied all the information
required, and preparations were hurried forward in earnest.
Every one was resolved to "keep up" and sustain each other; the
cheerful view of things was dwelt on, and when all the party proceeded
to the place of embarkation to see the ship, and do what could be done
for the comfort of the young emigrants, none would have guessed at the
trials through which they had passed, nor the extent of the present
self-denials.
"Our last word, dearest Florence," said Margaret, as she laid her
head upon her sister's neck and clasped her close; "I have kept it
until last, that you may not refuse me. I have prayed to be a blessing
for Christ's dear sake to you all, and I feel that I shall be His
instrument to watch over Leonard and keep him right. You said his
future was so uncertain that you dreaded some further sin and disgrace,
and dared not involve another in the fearful risk. Will you now put
away that fear, Florence, and trust God for us and for yourself? Frank
is coming home to attend to his mother's affairs and his own; he is
needed, and I have encouraged him to come, and as soon as he can.
Promise me that you will put a happy end to his wanderings, and remove
the last load from my heart; promise me this, my darling Florence, and
I shall go away so happy."
"If Frank still wishes it, dear Margaret," whispered Florence,
beginning to take a still wider view of her sister's conduct, and more
highly than ever appreciating her noble self-surrender for the safety
and happiness of others.
* * * * * * *
One sunny day, when the sky was clear and the ocean calm (such a day as
the sad records of storm and wreck cause to be too much overlooked, as
if the grand sea ware all and always plotting terror and death), two
stately vessels came in sight of each other on the wide waters. Glasses
were in general requisition, and on the deck of the homeward-bound
stood a young man, watching with special interest the approaching
stranger.
"Who and what is she, captain?"
"An ocean monster," said the captain; "none other than the G— B—, of
Liverpool, passengers bound for Melbourne and Nelson. I thought we
should fall in with her somewhere; she is too huge a tub to be missed."
"Captain, you will let me have a boat? I have reason to think I have
friends on board of her."
The captain consented, and was not reluctant to pay the beautiful
"monster" a visit himself.
Soon both ships saluted and lay to. A boat skimmed the space between,
and Frank Somers's two hands were seized by Margaret and Leonard, as he
sprang on to the spacious deck.
A few brief minutes—oh, for words that would convey volumes! But there
was no time to select them.
"All is ready and straightforward for you, Leonard," said Frank,
looking earnestly at the tall, strong youth, from whose countenance
clouds had been gradually clearing, until it strongly resembled that
of the fair girl beside him. "I have been writing a whole bookful of
directions and advice ever since we sailed; here it is. And, Margaret,
you are not going to a cannibal island; some good kind people are ready
to welcome you, and look forward with pleasure to your arrival."
"Oh, Frank, how much you have done for us! How can we ever be grateful
enough?" said Margaret.
"Margaret," said Frank softly, "you told me you would leave behind you
the only reward I covet. I have worked selfishly, I own; how is it to
be?"
"Just all you wish, dear, kind brother," said Margaret, with a joyous
smile. "Elsie will represent me, and I shall be with you in spirit,
blessing God for your happiness."
Frank's beaming face and grateful words satisfied Margaret for her
sister, and she resumed:
"And Myra, our loved, devoted Myra, oh, be very careful of her, dear
Frank. She can never be prized too much, and she never thinks of
herself. Harry is still abroad, and you will be a brother to her until
he comes home?"
Too soon the short interview, so unexpected, so cheering and
satisfactory, must end. So they shook hands again and again.
The boat struck off; cheers, loud and long, mingled from both decks,
hats and handkerchiefs waved; again the engines thumped and steamed
away, and eyes watched until each to the other was a speck on the sea,
bearing hopes, lives, fortunes, to their respective destinations.
And then, to the young emigrants, the last link with Old England seemed
broken.
———————
CHAPTER XX.
THE LAST OF THE STORY.
"WE regret to announce the return, in consequence of ill health, of the
Rev. Ralph Penwald, whose labours among the heathen of India have been
so highly appreciated during a ministry of several years. It is feared
that only a long or permanent sojourn in his native land will preserve
his valuable life."
So ran an item of missionary intelligence, exciting different feelings
in the hearts of different readers. Mr. Harry Sherwood's cognisance
of the fact proved him, to his great satisfaction, a true prophet in
the matter of his friend's health, which he had protested was not
sufficiently restored for his work when he left the hospital, and made
his long journey under a burning sun back to the old scene of interest.
Harry cared little for the sickness, and was inclined to rejoice over
anything that constrained a return to England, whither he hoped to
follow in a few more months.
"Come and stay with me," wrote the friend to whom the country charge
once offered to Ralph had been presented, "and let me see if there is
not more work in you yet. A breeze on our pretty hillside will do you
good, and when you are able to be of any use, I want help. Your 'crown
of rejoicing' is not full-gemmed yet, and British pearls must mix with
Indian diamonds."
The friendly invitation was accepted as soon as the invalid rallied
from the effects of his voyage, which had tried him much. And Ralph
was introduced to a scene which he had once pictured to himself as
the result of his own presence there, and which his friend had been
permitted to realise instead. And this pastor was one after his Lord's
"own heart," feeding the flock, caring for them as a father for his
children, and living among them in their homes and cares, their joys
and sorrows, the very gospel he preached to them in the pulpit. A
faithful teacher of truth in his ministry, and a living epistle for
Christ in his life, could not fail to be blessed and a blessing. And so
it was here.
In an atmosphere so congenial, Ralph's energies revived; and the
brightness of his friend's spirit, with the peaceful pleasures of his
home, could not fail to soothe and cheer the mind under the endurance
of much personal suffering. Many were the happy hours of communion over
the inspired pages that had made them both wise unto salvation and
fellow-workers for the Lord they loved.
One of the fair features of the religion of Jesus especially claimed
Ralph's cordial sympathy, for he knew the value of it abroad, and
could see no valid reason for ignoring it at home. By precept and
example, Mr. W— cultivated and illustrated the large-hearted, apostolic
charity that "vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up," "thinketh no
evil," "rejoiceth in the truth," from whatever quarter it comes; and,
extending the right hand of Christian fellowship to all who "love our
Lord Jesus Christ in sincerity," he welcomed to heart and board all and
any who were anxious and qualified by providential circumstances, or
endowed by the Head of the Church with gifts for special ministries,
and gratefully hailed all scriptural instrumentalities that came in
his way. Only let there be evidence that the Holy Spirit of God had
taught the brother who came in the name of Jesus, and, so far as lay
in his power, that brother found himself within the social circle of
acknowledged relationship.
The differences that divide Christian men into various communions he
knew to be "of the earth," and will "perish with the earth," having
nothing to do with the foundation of the faith, nor with its high
aim and end, the glory of God and the salvation of sinners; and that
whatever scaffolding men choose to erect between foundation and
top-stone has nothing to do with the spiritual life and position of
the living stones that compose the temple. "The communion of saints"
in the "one body" by union with the Divine Head was more dear and
real to him than any visible uniformity or outward profession on
earth. In the "household of faith" "charity" should bear "all things";
while from superstitious tamperings with, and pervertings of, the
gospel of Christ, or infidel subtractions from its divine fulness and
completeness, "faith" will bear "nothing."
In consequence of Mr. W—'s views on this point, which some called
"liberal" and some "heretical," and some even "narrow,"—opinions
varying, as they always do, from the point of view in which a subject
is regarded, his influence was willingly felt and acknowledged among
all orthodox parties, and no rivalries, no jealousies, and very little
political strife ever disturbed his neighbourhood, and never "separated
chief friends."
"If you feel able," he one day said to Ralph, "I want you to call with
me on an old gentleman who resides some distance away, and who always
has in reserve some knotty point or favourite theory to discuss. He has
heard that I have with me a live missionary from India, and wishes to
see you. Then I shall drive you a little farther for a beautiful view,
which you shall enjoy by yourself while I pay another visit or two, and
so we will make a long day of it. My wife promises us a basket of good
things, that you may not be starved while left to my mercy, and she
also undertakes to represent me at home."
Ralph thought he was able, and they went.
The old gentleman was gratified at the visit, and questioned Ralph
minutely upon the mission work in India, and especially that in which
he had been personally engaged, and Mr. W— knew perfectly well that a
generous contribution would result to the good cause.
"Well, now," said their host, turning to his pastor, "do you mean to
tell me that a man like your friend is to have only 'a penny' for his
day's work, while I shall get a penny too for my pitiful hour?"
"Let him speak for himself," said Mr. W—. "I daresay he has estimated
the reward as well as 'counted the cost' of the service he undertook."
"Very well, sir. Then, Mr. Penwald, I shall trouble you to show me how
it can be just or right to treat all alike hereafter who have been so
very unlike down here. I am sure there is some right way to put it, but
until I got at it, I confess myself obliged to cast in my lot with the
grumbler, so far as his complaint goes."
"Are you sure that the parable of which you are thinking has any such
reference?" said Penwald. "In its first connection it may be a special
lesson addressed to the Jews, who had been 'first,' but, in consequence
of their rejection of the Messiah, must be 'last,' after the Gentile
dispensation should have accomplished its special purpose of 'gathering
out' from all nations 'a people for His name.' The Jews had agreed to
serve the Lord in the morning of His dealings with the world; had they
any right to murmur because He chose, in the same sovereign grace which
had favoured them, to call in others to the honour they had but lightly
esteemed?"
"No, surely not. I like the thought, but you say only 'it may be so.'
What if it be not?"
"I say that you have just the same right that I have to use your own
judgment, and consider what view of the parable is most in harmony with
the rest of God's holy word."
"Well, but when I read the parables of the talents and the pounds, and
the addresses to the seven churches, I find that there is a difference.
If you dislike any personal reference, take for example the cases of
the dying thief and of the Apostle Paul. Were ever two lives more
unlike each other?"
"Take the parable of the vineyard to represent salvation, eternal life,
and that of the talents to represent the reward of service, and I think
your difficulty will end. The thief and Paul were both lost sinners; as
regards salvation they were equal; both were saved by the grace of God,
by faith in the precious blood of Christ, and had nothing of their own
to offer, but everything of their own, whether sinful self or righteous
self, to put away. God gave to them both eternal life for Christ's
sake, but there the parallel ends.
"One passed away without opportunity to do a single thing for his
Saviour, the other was a chosen vessel to bear that Saviour's name
over the known world, and to 'suffer great things' for His sake. Only
one of them could say, 'I have fought a good fight . . . I have kept
the faith.' To only one of them can it be said, 'Well done, good and
faithful servant.' Both will join to sing, 'Unto Him that loved us, and
washed us from our sins in His own blood;' but both cannot wear the
martyr's crown, and only one of them will be able to rejoice in the
presence of the Lord at His coming over the 'glory and joy' of souls
brought from darkness to light, and from the power of Satan unto God,
by the honoured means of his faithful testimony."
"I like that," said the old gentleman; "it puts one's life and work
into the right place."
"The children of God need not ignore the hope of reward for devoted
service; nay, even 'a cup of cold water' given for His sake shall not
be forgotten in the reckoning day; but they must guard with jealous
care against the possibility of mistaking motives. In the work of
salvation, Christ stands, not pre-eminent, but 'alone'—our altar,
sacrifice, and great High Priest; but in glorifying God, He is 'the
Firstborn of many brethren,' and shares His honours with every faithful
servant."
"It seems to me," said the old gentleman, "that the religion of the
Bible is more to teach man how to live than how to die. The poor thief
just believed in time to die safe, all for himself, and, so far as he
was personally concerned, was nothing for his Saviour but a trophy
snatched out of the devil's malice. 'He shall die with thieves,' said
his enemy. 'But I shall save a thief,' said the dying Saviour. Now
death in safety is not the sole purpose of salvation."
"Certainly not. Very little is said about death in the New Testament,
but a great deal about life.
"'He died for all, that they which live should not henceforth live unto
themselves, but unto Him who died for them and rose again.'
"'For ye are bought with a price, therefore glorify God in your body
and your spirit, which are God's.'
"'Be ye stedfast, unmovable, always abounding in the work of the Lord,
forasmuch as ye know that your labour is not in vain in the Lord.'
"Are you labouring for salvation? No; salvation is a free gift, but for
the glory of Him who has saved us, and the reward so dear to loving
hearts, the joy of His approving smile."
"Yes; that's the right sort, I believe, sir. I shall not forget your
view of the vineyard."
The good old man had been brought late into the light, but his "pitiful
hour" had a fund of usefulness and blessing in it.
Mr. W— drove his friend to the promised spot, where invalids often
resorted for the benefit of a sea breeze, and where some who were not
invalids often rambled to enjoy the superb beauty of the view.
Ralph had thrown himself along a bench, and, shading his brow with his
hand, resigned himself to a half-hour of exquisite pleasure in making
acquaintance with every feature in the scene. He had scarcely noticed
the repeated saunter past him of a lady and a gentleman to whom he had
become an object of interest; but, suddenly altering his position, he
encountered the inquiring gaze of his friend Frank Somers.
"My dear old fellow!" exclaimed Frank. "I thought I was not mistaken.
What a pleasant surprise is this!"
To Penwald it was not less pleasant; and in the eager greeting the
young lady stood smilingly by, almost unnoticed for the moment.
"What a budget we shall each have to empty, Ralph!" said Frank. "But
I must begin at the end, and introduce my last item in the name of my
wife, your old friend Florence Sherwood."
Ralph stood perfectly excused for not recognising the child of former
years in the graceful woman before him, but they had too many themes
of interest in common to meet as strangers; and a long and happy day
together afforded opportunity for retracing the past and making sundry
plans for the future.
"You will find letters and presents from Harry waiting for you at
home," said Ralph. "I was unable to be the bearer of them myself, and
forwarded them to Miss Sherwood's address."
"My mother and Myra and Elsie are to meet us at our new home in a
week," said Frank; "you must promise to join us there."
Florence marked the flush of pleasure that overspread the face of their
friend, recalling the bright visitor of former well-remembered days,
but it faded again as he replied,—
"I am but a poor invalid yet, Frank, and am not fit to join such a
happy party. I do not know yet whether I am to hope for recovery, or to
await a gentle and sure decline."
"We are not going to await any such thing," said Frank, "and you are
not to give yourself up. Expect and hope to get well, and you will do
so."
"My Father's will be done," said Ralph, with an expression of perfect
peace on his worn countenance.
"Let us try if it is not His will to restore you, dear old friend! You
will come and see us. Bring a servant who knows how to attend to you,
and trust to English hearts and cooks for the rest."
Penwald laughed at the prescription. "It has not come to that yet,
thank you," said he. "I can minister to all my own wants, and though
the hearts will be fully appreciated, the cooks will not. I am no
epicure, notwithstanding India."
"So much the better every way. You give encouraging signs in a yellow
gentleman from the East," said Frank gaily. "So you come."
"If you wish it, and if I can," said Ralph.
"We do wish it very much, Mr. Penwald," said Florence. "Did not Harry
wish it too?"
"Yes; Harry is only too kind to me. Perhaps, excepting yourself, there
is only one person in the world for whom he cherishes more earnest and
warm affection. I need not tell you that he is all but an idolater, Mr.
Somers."
"Of our dear Myra," said Florence, smiling. "I am disposed to justify
him, Mr. Penwald. She has been our guardian angel, you know, and has
given up everything she might have had, for us and our interests."
"And no one has been able to beguile her from you?" said Ralph.
"No one," said Florence, "though the effort has been made."
Ralph felt irresistibly impelled to sea Myra again, and it was
remarkable what a tonic her society proved. Those who admired Myra
Sherwood as a girl could not fail to admire her more as a woman. Her
simple, unassuming manner remained unchanged, and a matured dignity
subtracted nothing from her early grace. Former interest could not but
increase on both sides in renewed intercourse, and Mr. Penwald forgot
that he had apprehended dying of gentle decline; the lawful desire for
prolonged life and usefulness, with a companion capable of adding to it
the highest and sweetest domestic happiness, had due effect in rapid
and complete restoration.
Harry having made the "overland route," burst in upon the home party
in time to bestow with his own hand his darling sister upon the friend
even he deemed almost worthy of her.
For her brothers and sisters, Myra's chief work was done; the pet and
fairy Elsie was equally at home with her or Florence. All went happily
with the young emigrants, and it remained for her, in another sphere
and another range of duty, still to honour and adorn the religion of
Jesus. She had experienced the blessedness of giving, and now others
were to enjoy it too, and she was to take her turn as the recipient of
new happiness and blessing.
Wherever the Master called, His servants would go, and if the
missionary should return to India, he would not go alone.
THE END.
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