“You want the lads home first?”
“Oh! yes, indeed. Oh! if I might hope for that, I could love Him—I could serve Him well.”
“Eh! dear,” said little Nan, “I think I could love Him, even if Miles was gone to Him. Seems to me, for all I’m so timmersome, and I does cling so to Miles, that even if Miles was dead, I could love the Lord. I think father and me, for all we’d grieve bitter, we’d never turn agen the Lord. Why, the Lord’s our guide, Miss Morgan; and however rough the way, we’d rayther go that road with Him, than any other in the world without Him. And father and me, we’d soon see that having Miles up in the better land, only ’ud make it more home like. Oh! Miss Morgan, it don’t seem to me that yours is a bit the right way.”
That night the doctor gave mother a composing draught. She had not slept for two nights; and the sleeplessness, added to her anxiety, had brought on feverish symptoms. Happen what might, sleep was necessary for her, and she was now in bed, wrapped in heavy slumber. After doing what he could for mother, the doctor looked hard into my eyes, but I assured him I was well, which was true—for in body I never felt better. He made me promise, however, to go to bed. I agreed to do so, though sleep seemed very far away. The night was still early, and for an hour or two longer I would sit by the dining-room fire. As mother had done two nights before, I made down a good fire, then sat opposite to it. I sat with my head pressed on my hands, my eyes gazing into the ruddy flames, my thoughts very busy. My thoughts were troublesome—almost agonising. For the first time in my life, my will and God’s were standing opposite to one another, opposing one another in grim conflict. My young desire dared to stand up and defy its Creator. The Creator said to the thing that He had made, “My will be done.”
The tiny atom replied, “No; not Thy will, but mine.”
Thus we were at variance—God and I. I knew I must submit—that God could sweep me aside to perform, independent of me, what seemed good to Him. He could do this, but still my will might rise in rebellion, might dash itself out and die against this rock; but never, no, never submit. I was quite ready, as little Nan had expressed it, to make a bargain with God. I was ready to sell my submission at a fair price. If He left to me that for which my soul longed, then my soul, with its treasures, should be His. But without them—empty, torn, and bare; could that soul go to Him?—go to Him in its desolation, and say, “You, who have taken what I love, who have emptied me in my youth of all light and joy, take me too, and do with me what you will.” This I could not do—this deed of submission I could not perform. No, if God would be good to me, I would be good to Him—that was my rebellious thought. No wonder it brought me no rest. No wonder I was tossed about by this wind of desolation; and the Lord—the Lord whom I needed, the Lord who, though I knew it not, was wounding but to heal; slaying, to make me truly live—the Lord was not in the wind. I was sitting so, thinking these thoughts, wondering why trouble had awakened all these depths in me—why I, who only six months ago had been, in every sense, a child, should now feel so old and heavy at heart—when at the window of the room where I was sitting there came a very low tap. At another time such a sound, in the stillness of the night, would have frightened me; but not so now. I went directly to the window, and looked out; then, indeed, my heavy heart gave a bound, for Owen stood without. I could not raise the sash of the window without the possibility of awaking mother; but I went to the front door, and managed softly to open it.
“Is my mother up? Gwladys.”
“No, no, Owen,” clasping his hands, and trying to drag him over the threshold. “She is worn out—she is in bed, and asleep. Come in, dear Owen.”
“No one is up but you?”