Chapter Six.
Duty.
Mary Stansfield and Grace Willerly were sitting together, about three weeks after the above conversation, in an arbour in the garden attached to Lady Willerly’s house. Miss Stansfield had come to spend a day or two by special invitation, by way of getting a little change, which she much needed; her aunt having spared her without a murmur, and having accepted the services of a former domestic in her place.
“How very kind of your aunt to spare you!” said Grace to her friend; “I hardly expected it, knowing how much she depends upon you.”
“Oh yes!” was the reply: “you cannot tell, dear Grace, what a wonderful change has come over my dear aunt. And it is all owing, under God, to the loving faithfulness of our kind friend Colonel Dawson. I scarcely ever get a harsh word or a hard look now; and when I do, my aunt at once calls me to her, and asks me to forgive her. Oh, is it not wonderful? I am sure I blush with shame to think how little I deserve it.”
“Yes, it is very wonderful, dear Mary. Certainly our new neighbour is a most earnest and useful man; and he has shown his discernment, too, in getting hold of yourself to work for him in Bridgepath. But I am afraid you will find it very up-hill work; you’ll want the strength of a horse, the patience of Job, and the zeal of an apostle in such a place as that.”
“Certainly, I shall want the grace of an apostle,” said the other quietly; “but the work is very delightful, and is more than repaying me already for any little trouble or self-denial it may cost me.”
“It is very good of you to say so, Mary; I am afraid the work wouldn’t suit me. I don’t mind making sacrifices—indeed, I think I can truly say it is one of my chief pleasures to make them; but there must be something very depressing in the jog-trot sort of work you are called on to do. I don’t mind anything, so long as it has a little bit of dash in it; but I am afraid I should soon grow weary of a regular grind like yours.”
“Oh, but you are quite mistaken about my work at Bridgepath,” said the other, laughing. “There is nothing dull or monotonous about it; and it is such a happiness to see the light of God’s truth beginning to dawn on dark and troubled hearts. And there is one particularly interesting family—I mean John Price’s. You have heard, I dare say, that he was steward to the squire, and that he lost almost everything by his poor master’s extravagance. Poor man, he is bed-ridden now, and I fear had little comfort even from his Bible, for he seemed to have learned little from it but patience. But, oh! How he has brightened up, and his wife and daughter, too, now that they have been led to see that it is their privilege to work and suffer from salvation instead of for salvation.”
“I don’t understand you,” interrupted Miss Willerly.
“Don’t you? Oh, it makes all the difference. Poor John Price has been reading his Bible, and bearing his troubles patiently, in the hope that at the end he may be accepted and saved through his Saviour’s merits. That is what I mean by working for salvation.”
“And what else, dear Mary, would you have him do?”
“O Grace! This is poor work indeed, working in view of a merely possible salvation. No! What he has learned now is to see that his Saviour, in whom he humbly and truly believes, has given him a present salvation; so that he, and his wife and daughter too, can now say, ‘We love him, because he first loved us.’ And so they work and suffer cheerfully, and even thankfully, from love to that Saviour who has already received them as his own. This is what I mean by working from salvation. Surely we shall work more heartily for one of whom we know that he has saved us, than for one of whom we know only that he has saved others, and may perhaps save us also in the end.”
“I see what you mean, dear Mary, but I never saw it so before. Such a view of God’s love to us personally must take the selfishness out of our good works, because what we do will be done just simply from love to Christ. It is a beautiful way of looking at God’s dealings with us.”
“Yes, Grace; and as true and scriptural as it is beautiful. It is just what God sees that we need, and furnishes us with the most constraining motive to serve him, and to deny self in his service.”
“I see it,” said Miss Willerly sadly and thoughtfully, after a pause. “I very much fear, dear Mary, that I have been greatly deceiving myself. I have been just simply building up a monument to my own honour and glory out of my heap of little daily crosses.”
“Nay, dear Grace, you are dealing too severely with yourself.”
“No, I think not. At any rate, I am sadly aware that not the love of Christ, but the love of human applause, has been the constraining motive in my acts of self-denial. I have made such a parade of my willingness to thwart my own will that I might please others, so that while I should have been startled to see a full-grown trumpeter at my side proclaiming my unselfishness, I have all the while been keeping in my service a little dwarf page, who has been sounding out my praises on his shrill whistle.”
“You judge yourself hardly, dear Grace; and yet, no doubt, self does enter largely even into our unselfishness. I am sure I have felt it, oh, how deeply! And specially just lately, since I have undertaken this work at Bridgepath.”
“You, dear Mary!”
“Yes, indeed. And I see now how wisely our heavenly Father ordered his discipline in my case. There was indeed a ‘needs-be’ in my dear aunt’s former harshness and irritability to me; but for that, and for her disparaging remarks on my conduct, I might have been more self-seeking than I am. But the discipline has been changed now, and I trust that the chastisement has not been wholly in vain. What we all want, I am sure, if we are to be true workers for God, is to lift our eyes from self, and keep them steadily fixed on Him who has done so much for us.”
“I am sure you are right,” said the other. “I know I wish to do right, and I feel a pleasure in crossing my own inclination when it will gratify others; but then my inmost look has been to the world and its approbation. ‘What will people say? What will people think?’ or, at any rate, ‘What will good people say and think?’ this has been the prominent thought in my heart, I fear.”
“Well, dear Grace, I suppose this is so, more or less, with us all. What we want, I think, and comparatively seldom find in these showy and surface days, is a high sense of duty, so that we just act as duty calls, let the world, or good people even, judge of us or speak of us as they please.”
“And yet, dear Mary, I think I see a little crevice through which self may creep in even there. I have met some of your ‘duty’ people who have flung themselves so violently against the prejudices of society, or, at any rate, of good people, crying out all the time, ‘Duty, duty! It don’t matter to us what the world thinks,’ that they have given great offence where they might have avoided giving any, and have set up people’s backs against what is good and true.”
“I dare say you have met such, dear Grace, and I think you may be talking to one of the class now,” said Miss Stansfield, laughing; “at least, my character and principles would naturally lead me in that direction, for, of course, we are all disposed to carry out our own views to an extreme, if we do not let common sense, enlightened by grace, preserve a proper balance. But, spite of this, I still feel that a high sense of duty in those who love our Saviour is the surest preservative against being carried away by a subtle selfishness, and is the making of the finest and most truly self-denying characters. If I am manifestly in the path of duty, what matters it what is said of me, or who says it? I may then go forward, not, indeed, arrogantly or defiantly—that would be unlike the great Master—but yet firmly and confidently, and God will set me right with the world and with his people in his own good time.”
“Ah! I believe you are right,” said her friend, with a sigh. “I wish there were more of such true unselfishness amongst us; I wish I were such a character myself.”
“And so you are, dear Grace, in the main. No one can possibly doubt your genuineness and sincerity. You have only just to step up on to the higher platform, and, as your heart’s gaze becomes more fixed on a Saviour known and loved, you will cease to think about how your self-denial looks in the eyes of others, and will feel the cross which you carry after Christ in the path of duty to be easy and his burden light.”
“I shall not forget our conversation on this subject,” said Miss Willerly with tears in her eyes. “I always thought that I hated selfishness, but now I see that I have been blinded to my own. I suppose it is very difficult for us to see it in ourselves as it really is, especially in these days when there are so many attractive forms of self-denial. It occurred to me the other day what an odd thing it would be to see how a number of utterly selfish people would get on if thrown together for some weeks, with not a single unselfish person amongst them, and unable to get rid of one another’s company. I feel sure the result would teach an admirable lesson on the misery of a thoroughly selfish disposition.”
“I think so too, Grace,” said her companion, much amused. “What do you say to putting a story or allegory together on the subject.”
“Capital!” cried Miss Willerly; “it will be something quite in my line I will set about it at once. I shall be able to give myself some very seasonable raps on the knuckles as I go on, and perhaps I may be of use to some of my acquaintance, who might be induced to look through my performance in a friendly way.”
“You must let me be the first to see it,” said her friend.
“Oh, certainly; and you must give me your free and candid criticisms.”
“Yes, I will do so; and I don’t doubt I shall find profit in the reading of it, and a little bit of myself in more than one of your characters.”
A fortnight after this conversation Miss Stansfield received from her friend the promised story, which we give in the following chapter.