[Illustration: FRONTISPIECE. Page 83.]
INGLESIDE;
OR
WITHOUT CHRIST AND WITH HIM.
BY
MADELINE LESLIE,
AUTHOR OF "TIM THE SCISSORS-GRINDER,"
"SISTERS AT SERVICE,"
"THE HOME SERIES," ETC., ETC.
"To be in Christ is the secret of our life; to be for Christ, the meaning of our activity; to be with Christ is the hope of our glory." Anthony W. Thorold.
SECOND EDITION.
London:
HODDER AND STOUGHTON,
27, PATERNOSTER ROW.
MDCCCI.XXXVIII.
Printed by Hazell, Watson, & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury
PREFATORY NOTE.
The object of this book is to prove, from a series of scenes drawn from real life, the misery of those, whether rich or poor, who live without Christ, and the peace and comfort of those in whom the spirit of Christ dwells as actuating principles of duty.
The scenes were selected by the author from a number, either falling under her own observation, or narrated by friends who vouched for their truthfulness. They are not the most wonderful thus brought to her notice, but were chosen because they more plainly prove the object referred to.
The devotion of time and money, by a young lady described here under the name of Marion Howard, is not fiction. The eccentricities of Mr. Regy, the sorrows of poor Esther, are facts. The singular circumstances connected with the brother and sister from a foreign land, inmates at the same time of the Home for the Sick, though unknown to each other, were given to the public at the time, and excited great interest for the unfortunate strangers. Indeed, were we privileged to read the record of cases in our hospitals, or the diary of our missionaries among the poor and distressed, we should find that in our very midst scenes so wonderful are occurring that fiction is left far in the background.
My little book is sent forth on the same mission as one of its predecessors, "Tim the Scissors-Grinder." That it may meet with the same success in winning souls for the Master is the earnest prayer of
THE AUTHOR.
TABLE OF CONTENTS.
PART I.
CHAPTER
II. [THE NEW PASTOR]
VII. [GAMES AND ENTERTAINMENTS]
VIII. [PLEASANT PROJECTS]
XII. [MARION'S SICKNESS]
XIII. [ANNIE'S LETTER]
XIV. [THE LOST PACKAGE]
XV. [A SAD STORY]
XVII. [THE CRIPPLED BOY]
XVIII. [A MYSTERY SOLVED]
PART II.
CHAPTER
I. [GRANTBURY AND THE FIRST CHURCH]
III. [WITHOUT CHRIST]
IV. [WITH CHRIST]
VIII. [GAMES AND ENTERTAINMENTS]
XI. [MANY BLESSINGS]
XIII. [RECONCILIATION AND HAPPINESS]
XIV. [CHRISTMAS DAY]
XV. [OUR INGLESIDE]
INGLESIDE.
PART I.
[CHAPTER I.]
THE FIRST SERMON.
"WELL! well!" exclaimed Mr. Asbury, after a preliminary "Hem!"
"I know what you would say, pa," interrupted Mrs. Asbury, in a deprecating tone. "But it isn't fair to judge so soon. It's a trying situation for a young clergyman. If it was our Gardner, now, we should want people to remember that it isn't easy to stand up before strangers and preach one's first sermon."
"I shan't be a minister, ma; I've made up my mind on that." Joe looked at his sister, who generally was not backward in expressing an opinion. Now she only said, as though speaking to herself, "I wonder what Marion would say."
The family had just returned from morning service, where the new pastor for the first time had met the people. Aunt Thankful, as she was called, had taken off her bonnet and shawl, folding the latter carefully in the creases; now, with a peremptory wave of her hand to enjoin silence, she said,—
"There's either sorrer or there's sin behind him. I'm inclined to think it's sorrer. It's Scripter, you know, to let charity have its perfect work."
The door-bell at this moment ringing, Aunt Thankful, who was passing Sunday with her friends, seized her bonnet and shawl and left the room. Annie started for the door, to answer the summons, while Joe opened his library book and began to read.
The sound of a manly but nervous step in the chamber above called forth a sigh from Mr. Asbury, followed by the words,—
"I'm dreadfully afraid, wife, we've made a mistake."
"Don't look so melancholy, pa," urged Annie, returning, "or Mr. Angus will think we are talking of him. He asked what time we dined, and said he would like to go to his chamber for a few minutes."
While he paces back and forth in the apartment assigned him, I will explain that the parish to which Mr. Asbury belonged had lost their pastor by death six months before the opening of our story; that a succession of candidates had been heard, discussed, and dismissed; that the people, wearied out by their own criticisms, were beginning to scatter; that at length they conceived the idea of sending a Committee on an exploring tour, which Committee, going to hear a city preacher, heard in his place a young man lately graduated from the divinity school; that they were so impressed with his heartiness in his work they requested an introduction and invited him to add one more to the number of competing candidates; that he politely but firmly declined, not believing, this the proper method of obtaining a clergyman that, after making inquiries of his Professors and others, and receiving instructions to go forward from the church at home, the Committee did proceed to call the Rev. Mr. Angus to be their pastor; that, after several weeks of earnest prayer for guidance, he did accept their call, the public services of his ordination to take place the week following his first sermon.
His arrival in the town, which I shall call Grantbury, late on Saturday evening, had given the family little opportunity for forming an opinion of the new pastor; that he was tall and vigorous in frame, with a countenance sad rather than smiling, eyes looking far away, a sweet, musical voice with a sad note running through it, was all that they knew of him until they took their seats in church directly in front of the pulpit. The sermon was on Christ's invitation to the weary and heavy laden to come to him for rest. In the most graphic language he depicted the condition of these poor, sad, weary sufferers, bearing their heavy burden of sin and sorrow, longing to be rid of it, but knowing not how to throw it off, groaning in secret places, with an abiding dread of what the future might bring to them. He brought tears to many eyes unused to weep, by the vividness with which he portrayed the soul in darkness, but longing for the light, empty, void of faith in God or man, shut up in a prison of gloomy thought and forebodings, every day verging toward the frightful chasm of despair.
Listening to the preacher's voice trembling with pathos, no one could doubt that he well understood by personal experience the condition of those to whom our blessed Lord extended this gracious invitation. Every eye was fixed on his, every heart followed him; but when, turning from the weary and heavy laden, he pointed to the One who could deliver them from all their wretchedness, the note of sadness still lingered. Instead of the triumphant ring of victory from the freed soul, the tone of peace and rest from those delivered from their heavy load, there was an unexplained want of harmony between the manner and voice of the speaker and the subject of which he was treating. A general restlessness among the audience proved their disappointment.
The sermon closed with a passionate appeal to all present to accept Christ's offer of pardon, peace, and rest. The people rose to receive the benediction, half wondering at the sadness which oppressed them. Under other circumstances they would have crowded around the new pastor, offering their hands in token of their welcome. They had been prepared to receive him with enthusiasm. The weeks of suspense during which they were waiting his reply to their call had deepened their anxiety to obtain the services of one so highly recommended, but a weight had fallen on their spirits, and they silently left the church, a few casting glances back to the pulpit, where sat a figure prone and abject, the face buried in the hands.
So it happened that only the Committee who had heard him in the city waited to speak to him, and at length accompanied him, almost in silence, to the house of Mr. Asbury, where he was to remain until after his ordination.
[CHAPTER II.]
THE NEW PASTOR.
IN the mean time, in the spacious chamber assigned to the clergyman, a terrible conflict was raging. Possessed of the keenest susceptibilities, with a morbid sense of his own unworthiness, he was, alas, too well aware of the impression left upon his hearers by his morning's discourse.
"God forgive me!" he ejaculated, his hands pressed to his head. "Deliver me from this terrible burden. Make known to me thy will. Thou knowest my heart. I thought I heard thy voice. Show me the way in which I should walk. How can I, laden with sorrow, stand in God's stead and preach the gospel of salvation? Make haste to help me, O Lord! All my trust is in thee."
A light tap at his door disturbed his meditations. He presented to Annie a face so pallid and suffering that she started back, exclaiming,—
"You are ill, Mr. Angus: let me call mother."
"Oh no! I am not ill,—I mean not much. Certainly, I have a headache."
"I came to say that dinner is ready. Mother will give you something for your head."
"Thank you. I will be down-stairs directly."
He turned to his washstand and dashed cold water on his burning forehead, then, crushing back the wretched doubts and fears which had oppressed him, he presented himself in the parlor.
His pallid countenance confirmed Annie's statement of his illness. Mrs. Asbury, with true motherly kindness, ordered a cup of coffee with out milk or sugar, but postponed an examination of the case until a more fitting opportunity.
Seated opposite Mr. Angus at the table was fairy little figure, introduced to him as "Our baby Ethel." She had large gray eyes shaded and deepened by long, black lashes. Raising her eyes timidly at first, she glanced at the stranger, gave a little start at the expression which beamed in his face, then her whole countenance—eyes, cheeks, and lips—grew radiant and, to the utter astonishment of all present, the shy, timid little one, whose caresses were so daintily given, so highly prized, exclaimed,—
"I love you!"
"Why, Ethel!" began her father. "Why, Baby!" repeated the mother; but Annie, catching a glimpse of intense, yearning love in the face of the clergyman, wondered in silence.
After dinner, one look of entreaty brought the little miss to the clergyman,—no longer a stranger,—when, to the undisguised astonishment of her parents, she allowed herself to be folded in his arms, her long flaxen curls floating over his breast. Nestling close to his side, with her eyes uplifted to his, she remained, quietly listening to the conversation which followed, rewarded occasionally by a smile so sweet, so full of tender yearning, that not only the child's but the mother's heart was wholly won.
Mr. Asbury had asked some questions concerning Mr. Angus's mission work in the city, and then said to his wife,—
"Marion will like to hear about this: she loves such work."
"She is a real missionary herself," urged Annie.
"I love Marion," lisped the child. "She is my Marion."
"Is she your daughter, Mr. Asbury?"
"Not exactly," laughing, "though she is as near as a daughter. She is the daughter of Mrs. Asbury's cousin, now deceased. Indeed she has lost both her parents, and we have adopted her. She calls us uncle and aunt."
"I want Marion to come home quick, pa." Then, turning again to look in the face above her, Ethel said, "I'll let my Marion love you too."
"A great piece of condescension on Ethel's part, Mr. Angus," added the mother, laughing heartily. "The little puss is extremely jealous in her affection for Marion, and scarce allows her cousin out of her sight for a moment when she is at home."
"Does your niece not live at home, then?"
"Oh, no, sir. She teaches music in Madame La Vergnes's Institute in New York; but, as her classes only occupy six hours a day, she has abundant time for her poor people."
"It is against my wish," urged her uncle, "that she should stay away from home for so many months in a year."
"But not contrary to your consent, pa," explained Annie. "You told her you wouldn't forbid it. So, Mr. Angus," she added, blushing at her own earnestness, "you musn't think our Marion naughty or obstinate. It was her duty she said, and so she went."
"Ethel, I fear you will tire Mr. Angus, sitting in his lap so long."
He pressed her tightly in his arms and waited to hear what she would say.
"He's skeezing me, ma. I guess he isn't tired. Are you?" putting her hand softly on his cheek.
He took the small hand in his, held it for a moment, asked, "At what time does your Sunday school commence?" put her hand to his lips as he said, rising, "We are friends from this time, Ethel. Good by for an hour or two," and left the room.
"I like him ever so much," exclaimed Annie. "Aren't you glad now, pa, that he has come to be our minister?"
Perhaps Mr. Asbury would have answered still more warmly could he have followed the pastor to his chamber and listened to the cry which went up from a full heart.
"Is this a ray of light from thy throne, O my heavenly Father? May I not accept it as an answer to prayer for help,—as a token of thy loving care? O God, I bless thee!"
Making his way from his chamber, he saw Ethel sitting on the lower stair waiting for him.
"You may kiss me if you want to," she said, putting up her rosy lips.
He caught her in his arms, kissed her again, the mother coming forward just in time to hear him say, "God bless you, precious child!"
How warm his heart felt with this new glow. With his whole soul he received the loving confidence of this little one as a token of divine favor. God had accepted him and would bless his work among these people.
Arriving at the chapel, the superintendent of the school came forward to meet him, with the request that, in the place of the usual exercises, he would address them. But Mr. Angus requested to be allowed to watch the workings of the school consenting, however, to talk to them at the end.
"Is this your usual number?" he inquired, glancing over the room.
"Yes sir, about the average."
"Are they punctual in their attendance,—teachers and scholars?"
"No, sir; that is one great drawback to success."
"Do these children not go to church? I saw few children there."
"No, sir; they seldom go."
Declining a seat on the platform, Mr. Angus drew an arm-chair near the Bible class and waited for the superintendent to call the school to order. The gong sounded, but the noise did not decrease. The second time, with the aid of the teachers, the loud whispering abated, when, in a low voice, impossible to be heard at the farther end of the room, the superintendent offered prayer. A hymn was given out, and all looked around for the lady who usually played the melodeon. She was absent, and at last, just as the singing was to be omitted, Annie Asbury came forward blushing, and said, "I will try to play."
Mr. Angus was afflicted with a keen ear for discords. I can only say that during the singing he was agonized. Before the closing exercises he had made up his mind that here at least there was work for the pastor. The apathy was alarming. With few exceptions, the teachers hurried through the lesson, accepting without reproof the too evidently manufactured excuses in place of a well-learned lesson; then shutting the book, he or she became totally oblivious of all that was passing, some even leaving the class to talk with another teacher.
That was a face thoroughly in earnest which confronted the school when the superintendent announced that "Rev. Mr. Angus, our pastor, will address you."
In a full, impressive voice the clergyman began.
"Boys and girls,—yes, and teachers too,—we are strangers to-day, but we shall not continue so. I have a good memory for names and faces. I intend to know you all, every one. I have come here to be one of you, to love you, and I hope to be loved in return. My business is to lead every one in this room to the arms of the blessed Saviour, and I ask you all to help me. As many as are willing, I ask to come after school and give me your hand in token of your acceptance of this contract. Until we meet again next Sunday, I ask you to consider seriously a few questions. You can give your answers in writing if you please. I shall like that best; or you may come to me,—not in classes, but individually, and answer them.
"First. What do I come to Sunday school for,—to please God, or to please my parents, or to please myself?"
"Second. Does my coming just as I have been used to coming please God,—does it please my parents,—does it please me?"
"Third. If I neither please God, my parents, nor myself, in what way can I change my actions to do so?"
"Now, with the permission of your superintendent, I will ask you to rise and join me in one verse.
"Praise God, from whom all blessings flow;
Praise Him, all creatures here below;
Praise Him above, ye heavenly host;
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost."
"Remember God is here: let us not mock Him; now begin." His voice was a deep, rich baritone, which resounded through the chapel, carrying the scholars and teachers with him. At the close, he stood with his hand extended toward a little girl near him. Boys and girls pressed forward, each one giving his own name, until only the teachers remained. To these, as they gathered around him, he said,—
"Will it be too much for me to ask that each one of you will ponder the questions I gave you? The work of a Sunday-school teacher may be wearisome and unpleasant, or it may be glorious, most blessed. It is God's own work; and He is a good paymaster."
Annie persuaded her brother to wait for Mr. Angus, but hesitated about joining him when she saw how sad he looked. With a frankness which was her peculiar charm she said, timidly,—
"We waited to walk home with you, but perhaps you would rather go alone."
"Thank you, yes." Then, rousing himself, he added, "You are very kind. I shall be glad of your company."
It was true that in the excitement of the past hour his own personal grief had been absorbed in the sorrow he felt at finding the Sunday school in such a low condition. He began to realize that this was the keynote by which he must judge of the spiritual state of the church. Then doubts of his fitness for the work assailed him, and he was appalled with the reflection that it was too late now to recede. It was at this minute that Annie met him. He would have given much to be alone, to fight his battle unobserved; but no, it was better that he should not dwell on such painful, unavailing thoughts.
Annie glanced at him occasionally, as with knitted brows he hurried forward, but did not speak until he was about to turn the wrong way.
"This is our street, Mr. Angus," she said.
"Pardon me, Annie, I am usually quick at finding my way, but—I am thinking about your Sunday school. Were the children more inattentive to-day than usual?"
"No, sir. Marion goes wild about it. She thinks everything in it is horrid. I heard her talking to the superintendent; she told him the mode of teaching, the want of order, the singing, were all as bad as could be; but Marion is a singer, you know."
"How long has this gentleman been superintendent?"
"Only a few weeks. They tried one and another, but nobody would take it. Marion said Mr. Molton only accepted because he was too good-natured to say 'I won't,' as the others did."
At the close of the evening service the congregation were not a little astonished by the request to remain in their seats for a few minutes after the benediction had been pronounced, nor was the astonishment abated when the young pastor elect began to address them. It was as well for them to know it now as any time. He never made any unnecessary preliminary remarks; he made a fierce dash at any subject and done with it.
Every eye was fixed on him when he began.
"Owing to my peculiar views as to the dignity of the office of an ambassador of Christ, I declined to come among you as a candidate for your favor. I knew nothing of the state of your church and society. I had no experience to guide me, except that derived from my mission work among the poorest of the poor,—among those so eager for the bread of life that it was a glorious privilege to break it for them. I find your church large in numbers; I—yes I must say it—I am appalled, I am young. It is not yet too late for you to relieve me from the responsibilities which may prove too much for me."
His head sank on his breast as a murmur, "No! no! We want you," ran through the audience. His voice trembled with emotion as, after a brief pause, he spoke again. "God's will be done; there is a great work to do here. We must begin with the Sunday school. The help of every father and mother and child is necessary. Above all, we must earnestly besiege the throne of grace for divine help. Brethren and sisters, pray for each other and pray for your pastor, for his guidance; that he may be holy, humble, earnest, and hopeful in his work of winning souls for the Master."
[CHAPTER III.]
THE HOME FOR THE SICK.
IN one of the main avenues in a large city stands a spacious building enclosed in garden. The edifice and its ornamental surroundings occupy an entire square. Lofty trees and low shrubs, parterres of flowers, picturesque arbors with rustic seats, gravelled walks winding in and out among the blossoms, prove to the passer-by that this is truly what the name indicates,—a "Home for the Sick."
A Russian nobleman, after a thorough examination of the building itself, its lofty ceilings and thorough ventilation, its conveniences for heating and cooking, its laundry department, its beautiful, sunny wards, with the well-trained nurses moving quietly from cot to cot for the relief of the sufferers, was asked,—
"What do you think of our hospital?"
With a burst of enthusiasm he exclaimed, "It isn't a hospital, it is a palace where the king receives his guests and takes care of them."
At this moment a carriage is drawn up before the principal entrance and a young woman is assisted to alight. Presently two men approach with a chair, in which she is seated, a young lady who has accompanied her walking by her side.
This is not her first visit to the hospital. For months together she lay prostrate, struggling for life, going away at last, not strong, certainly, but with a prospect of perfect recovery. Now she knew she had come home to die. Yes, it was home in the truest and sweetest sense of the word, for here she had been born of the Spirit. Old things had passed away and all things had become new. Here she had joined herself to the people of God, confessing Jesus Christ to be her only hope for pardon and peace. She no longer shuddered at the approach of the grim messenger; she was ready to welcome him whenever her Saviour called her to his immediate presence.
She was placed in her old bed, endeared by so many precious memories, where she could see the setting sun, and by his resplendent glories be reminded of the Sun of Righteousness in whose effulgent beams her soul would bask for ever and ever.
Oh, no! there was no terror in the thought of death; the language of her heart was, "Come, Lord Jesus, come quickly."
As she lay reposing on her spotless couch, her cheek rivalling the whiteness of her pillow, she clasped her hands, exclaiming,—
"How good God is! Think of my being allowed to come home, to have my own bed! You were so thoughtful, dear friend, to ask for that favor. This room has been like heaven to me. I am afraid I ought not to be so happy."
She glanced wistfully in her companion's face, who understood the appeal and answered, warmly,
"God has forgiven the past, dear. We are told to 'forget the things that are behind, and press forward.' You have given that burden to the Saviour; don't take it back again: it shows distrust of His loving care for those you have committed to Him."
"If I could only know before I die that he is safe—I mean that he has accepted Christ,—I would ask no more. Poverty, even want, I do not care for. Poverty brought me here, where I found my precious, waiting Saviour; but oh, if I could know that in his wanderings God's spirit has led him into the truth, how I would praise His name to all eternity!"
An expression of holy rapture beamed from every feature. Her friend gazed with glistening eyes. Softly laying her hand on the head of the dying girl, she repeated the words, "who giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ." Rising, she pressed her lips to the forehead of the sufferer, whispered, "I shall come again tomorrow," and left the room.
In the morning Stella found herself so much refreshed by sleep that when the chaplain came into the ward she requested the privilege of having private communion administered to her.
This gentleman, Rev. Mr. Owen, was not a stranger to her. It was his faithful words which had cut so deep into her heart that for weeks her soul writhed with self-inflicted torture. It was a sermon he preached one Sunday when she was in the chapel which brought her to the feet of Jesus, clothed and in her right mind. The text was this, "If ye forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you; but if ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses." How quickly the gracious promise had been fulfilled in her case! Her heart, which had hardened to flint while cherishing anger toward one whom she believed had injured her, grew tender and loving under the softening influence of the spirit of forgiveness. No sooner did she cast away the vile serpent which had coiled itself so closely around her vitals as to crush out every vestige of affection, than the dove of peace flew down and nestled in her bosom.
To the chaplain Stella had related some facts in the history of her early life, with a mere hint at some events which had blasted her happiness. Only to the loved and trusted friend of her own age, one who had secured a place for her in this happy home, and brought her hither, had she confessed that her own temper, jealousy, and distrust had greatly aggravated her sufferings. Mr. Owen knew enough to understand that, whatever the past had been, she was now repentant, that she had listened to the invitation, "Come unto me all ye that are weary and heavy laden," and that Jesus Christ had given her rest.
In an interview with the chaplain preparatory to her receiving the precious memorials of Christ's love, she once more announced her faith in Christ as her only hope for a poor sinner like herself, and her belief that He would answer her prayers for one long lost to her, that, if he were still living, he would be brought to love her Saviour, and to forgive her, as she had, from the heart, forgiven him.
The effect of this service was so refreshing that for several days she was quite free from the extreme suffering for breath which had so exhausted her. According to her request, her friend, in one of her daily calls, had brought her paper and pens, and, bolstered up in bed, she spent nearly an hour every day in writing.
The end came at last unexpectedly. She was sitting nearly upright listening to the last chapters in the Revelation, when, with a wave of her hand to stop the reading, she repeated in a full voice the words just read: "And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying; neither shall there be any more pain, for the former things are passed away."
She paused, raised her eyes, a bright smile illumined her face; she pointed upward, then with a little gasp her spirit fled away to the Saviour in whom she trusted.
Waiting only to ask permission from the superintendent to pay all necessary expenses, and to learn when the funeral services would be attended, her friend gazed for the last time on the marble countenance, so peaceful in its calm repose, then, taking from the nurse a package directed to her care, passed quietly from the room.
[CHAPTER IV.]
ETHEL AND HER PASTOR.
NOW that the ordination services had passed, the young clergyman girded himself up for his work among his people. It was his chosen work, and, could he have blotted a few pages from the book of his past life, he would have gone forward with hope as well as with courage. During the few days preceding the ordination, he humbled himself before God, asking help of the Divine Spirit to search out whatever was wrong in his heart and help him to overcome in whatever tempted him. Still there was a kind of bewilderment in his mind, a kind of waiting to see whether his Father in heaven, who knew every event of his life, might not interpose even yet and by his providence send him back to his work among the poor in the city.
During these days the influence of the sweet child Ethel did much to quiet him and inspire him to more confidence in gaining the affection of his people. She used to fix her eyes so wistfully on his, as she sat opposite him at table, watching and waiting for the smile which now and then flitted across his features,—a smile not soon forgotten, so entirely did it change the whole expression of his countenance. At his bidding she would come and nestle herself in his arms, never obtruding herself on his notice, but quietly submitting to having her hand held tenderly and occasionally put to his lips.
Her brother Joe, or Gardner, as his mother called him, was rather a saucy boy, the only son, and of course a great pet. When he thought Mr. Angus was out of the house, he would march up and down the long hall singing,
Our pastor is a rare, rare man,
He sings so fine you cannot tell,
His smile is bright as bright can be,
But then he only smiles for Ethel.
"Look here, I'll tell you a secret," he said to Annie. "My poetry will be the making of me. I have succeeded so well in my first effort I intend to publish a book of poems, and I shall dedicate it to the Rev. Harold Angus, who first inspired my muse. Isn't that the way they put it? I shall have, let me see, how many copies printed for private use, one for mother, Marion, and you,"—counting on his fingers—"one for Mr. Angus and Ethel, five, and I'll keep one for myself."
Annie laughed heartily, as she said, "If the rest is as fine as your first verse, no doubt there will be a great sale. I'm so glad Mr. Angus is to live here."
"Only for the present. He said he wouldn't ask more, and then he whispered baby to plead for him. Wasn't it funny how seriously the little puss took it? When she found there was even a possibility of his going away, she walked right up to pa and said,"—
"'Do you want your little girl to go way off?'"
"'No, puss, what do you mean?'"
"'Why, you know if Mr. Angus goes I shall have to go. He can't go alone, and he hasn't any little girl but me.'"
"'In that case,' pa said, 'the matter is soon settled; pa can't spare his baby any way.'"
In a few weeks the Sunday school was completely reorganized. Every teacher was obliged to be present at the teachers' meeting on Saturday afternoon, to be promptly in her or his place every Sunday; or, if unable to do so, to send a substitute. A Bible class for adults had been formed, taught by the pastor, and this soon outgrew the accommodations in the Sunday-school room, and had to adjourn into the church.
Here more than anywhere else Mr. Angus felt at home. If it were a mistake for one with a past like his to stand up in God's place, it certainly was right for him to help others to study God's word, and so to study it that the effect on their lives might be for the honor of Christ.
Honestly and truly, he did try to throw off the burden which often weighed his spirits to the earth, and yet there were hours when the agony of his mind was almost more than he could bear, when he could only cry,—
"Dear Lord, Thou knowest all. Put Thine almighty arm around me. Hear my prayers and grant me relief. Visit not, O Lord, upon others the chastening for my deserts. Save me, and I will praise Thy name for ever and ever."
Day by day he buried himself in study or in visits among his people, Joe frequently conveying him to the outskirts of the parish in his father's buggy.
One afternoon he had been alone to a distant part of the town, and was returning, when he stopped at a small thread and needle store to purchase a pair of gloves. Behind the counter was a young girl who attracted his attention by a peculiarly merry expression. The color deepened in her cheeks as she took down box after box, searching for the right number, and at last she asked him to excuse her ignorance, as she was only a new hand.
"This pair seems to be very elastic," she said, striving in vain to control the muscles of her face, which, in spite of her efforts, dimpled and beamed in the most mirth-provoking manner. She stretched the kid across the back of the glove, and held it out to him, when he put out his hand for her to measure it. He could scarcely help noticing that the fingers of the shop girl were beautifully tapering, and that her one ring, though not a diamond, was large and costly.
Just as he was paying for the gloves, a woman, fat and rosy, came bustling in, exclaiming, as she saw what was passing,—
"Well, I never did! Why, Miss—"
She checked herself suddenly, warned by a glance from the young lady.
The clergyman had scarcely reached the street when he heard the
woman's voice saying,—
"That's the new parson. Folks like him, mostly, though they do say he's kind o' stiff and proud."
The reflections caused by these words were not pleasant. It was possible that when his thoughts were dwelling on his own painful experience his manner might be reticent. "If they consider me proud," was his reflection, "how little they know me! Why, I would exchange gladly with those rough boys playing ball yonder, if by doing so I would get rid of these harrowing memories. Well, I owe my thanks to the woman, though I suppose she scarcely intended that I should hear her criticisms."
Then he began to wonder who the shop girl could be. She was so evidently out of place there; and what caused her mirth? Alone as he was, he laughed heartily as he recalled the dimpled curves around that arch mouth, and wondered whether there had been any reason personal to himself which brought these dimples into such full play.
Letting himself into the house by his night-key, he went directly to his chamber, where he remained until summoned by the bell to the tea-table. Ethel, at sound of his step, rushed to the door to meet him, her voice ringing joyously as she exclaimed,—
"My Marion has come! I'll show her to you."
Pulling him eagerly forward, she brought him face to face again with—the shop girl; stood for an instant gazing at them, then, in the fulness of her content, and wishing to give one grand proof of her love, she added,—
"I'll let you kiss her if you want to."
A burst of laughter followed, during which Mr. Angus had time to catch the little girl in his arms and whisper something in her ear, Marion, meanwhile, growing very rosy as she waited for a formal introduction from her uncle.
"My niece, Miss Howard, Rev. Mr. Angus, our pastor."
The gentleman cordially extended his hand. Their eyes met and they both laughed.
After they were seated at the table, Marion, who was sitting next her uncle and opposite the clergyman, with a merry glance in his direction, explained:—
"I have met Mr. Angus before."
"Where did you meet him? In the city?"
"I had the pleasure of purchasing a pair of gloves from the store where Miss Howard is employed. I have tried on the gloves since," he added, glancing archly in her blushing face, "and I assure you they fit extremely well."
Marion threw back her head and laughed heartily, and as mirth is more contagious than any fever, all present joined in the mirth, though there were loud calls for an explanation.
"It is only," she said, "that I called on my way from the depot to see Mary Falkner, and as her mother was very busy, I offered to sit by Mary's bed while she finished her washing. Some one came into the shop. Mrs. Falkner was in the clothes-yard, and did not hear, and I at last went forward, supposing, of course, that I should be called on for a spool of thread or a paper of pins.
"I am sorry, sir, that I could not serve you better, but under the circumstances I did as well as I knew how. But I am forgetting my errand to you. I charged you too much for the gloves, and Mrs. Falkner trusted me with the change to be returned, which I now make over to you"; passing twenty-five cents in silver across the table.
"I shall take an early opportunity to show my appreciation of Mrs. Falkner's fair dealing," responded Mr. Angus, smiling, as he put the silver in his pocket. But with an instant change in his tone, "Who is this Mary Falkner? Does she belong to my charge?"
"Yes, sir; she is a poor cripple; so patient and cheerful, that it is a lesson to see her. It almost brings tears to my eyes to hear her talk of God's mercy to her, and how He inclines the hearts of people to supply her wants. Why, even the coming of customers to the store for a few pennies' worth of thread is a subject for thankfulness."
"She is, indeed, to be envied. I regret that I have not seen her. Such calls are needed by a pastor for his own good."
Marion's beaming face bore witness to her approbation of this sentiment, as she remarked,—
"There is no place in the parish where a visit from you would be more prized than in poor Mary's chamber."
Dear little Ethel, how hard it was for her, during the few days of Marion's visit, to divide her favors equally between her two friends. By this time the friendship between her and her pastor had become very close. In a small locker under his bookcase were some of her choicest toys, brought hither from time to time; and with these she would amuse herself so quietly that he almost forgot her presence. During his study hours he often rose from his books and paced the floor while he arranged the topics of his sermons. One glance showed her he was busy, and she scarcely moved. Sometimes he seated himself in a large chair for the same purpose, when the little one, watching every movement, obeyed the motion of his hand, and with her favorite dolly in her arms, silently crept to his lap, sitting so quiet that she often fell asleep.
Once her father, coming unexpectedly from his office to the house, inquired for her, and was told she was with Mr. Angus in his study. The child heard his voice, and putting her little fat hand on her mouth to keep herself quiet, went softly from the room.
"I'm afraid you will disturb Mr. Angus," her father said. "What do you do in there?"
"I keep stiller than a mouse, 'cause they nibble cheese and I don't, and I make sermons with Mr. Angus."
"Make sermons, eh?" laughing; "well, you'd better come with me and make the horse go."
Now if she obeyed Marion's invitation for a walk with her, she watched anxiously for any marks of disapprobation from her other friend, nor was she quite satisfied until she had made it clear to him that she loved him just the same, but that her Marion was only going to be with her a little while, and would feel badly if she did not go for a walk.
To her cousin she also explained why she did not as heretofore devote herself entirely to her society.
"I have to take care of him, you know, because he has nobody but me. He doesn't look as sorry as he did. It always makes me cry to see tears roll down his cheeks."
"Cry!" repeated Marion, quite shocked.
"Yes; when we're praying to Jesus to make us good, he says we must always tell Jesus when we have been naughty, and He will forgive us right off."
[CHAPTER V.]
A HAPPY CHRISTIAN.
FROM the first Marion had been agreeably impressed with Mr. Angus; though after hearing from Aunt Thankful of his first sermon and his cry for help after the evening service, agreed with her aged friend that he must have known real sorrow; sorrow from the effects of which he could not all at once rally. After hearing his prayers, it seemed to her impossible to believe that his sorrow was caused by any act of his own. If so, she was certain that it had been heartily repented of. The scene so innocently referred to by Ethel took hold of her imagination. In the solitude of his chamber he knelt, his little pet by his side, her hand held fast in his, while tears ran down his cheeks, as he implored forgiveness for past offences. Do what she would, she could not shake off the memories of this scene.
Marion was young in years, only twenty-three her next birthday; but her life had been an eventful one. Blessed with Christian parents, her opening mind eagerly imbibed the practical truths of the Bible. Jesus Christ was embraced as her Saviour from sin in this life, and from the punishment of sin in the life to come. God was to her a tender, loving Father, to whom she might go at any hour, with the same freedom as she approached her earthly father. She realized in an unusual manner His watchful providence, guiding and guarding her at every step of her young life. When at the age of seventeen she was bereft of both her earthly parents, she accepted in all their fulness the promises of God to the fatherless ones, and never had these gracious promises failed.
Her education being incomplete, her guardian' sent her to New York City to the care of her father's sister, an amiable but thoroughly worldly woman. Mrs. Williamson considered her duty accomplished when she had seen her niece arrayed in the most becoming mourning attire, had entered her at a fashionable institution, and introduced her to her own select circle.
But these surroundings, so unlike the quiet refinement of her own sweet home, instead of weaning the young orphan from the pure pleasures of a Christian life, left her with such a yearning for the society of those who sympathized in her dearest joys that she resolved to spend more time than ever in communion with her Saviour. Happy indeed are those who, losing Christian companionship, are driven for comfort to Christ himself. His love can so fill the soul thus depending on Him as to compensate for the loss of every earthly solace.
Marion was allowed to choose her own church, and at once joined a Bible class, where her hunger for instruction so animated her classmates and so encouraged her teacher that the most happy results followed.
During the hours in the day devoted to secular studies Marion worked with all her might. She knew it to be right to do her very best, and even with the branches of exact science, which were irksome, she conquered her reluctance and soon made her mark as a scholar of unusual ability.
Music was, however, her specialty. It was passion with her, and even before her parents' death, her skill as a pianist as well as her power with her voice distinguished her.
"How plainly I can see a Father's hand leading me all the way through!" she used to say. "He gave me the ability to sing, and when the right time came He allowed me the privilege of using my voice for the comfort of others."
She alluded to the fact of being invited by a gentleman connected with her Sunday school to sing for the patients at the "Home for the Sick." In connection with this first visit she used to say,—
"Never did I know such real happiness as when I found myself able to comfort those poor, weary ones, Christ's own sufferers. When one woman, taking my hand, thanked me with moistened eyes for the words of cheer, it was an impulse I could scarcely resist to fall on my knees and thank her for letting me sing for her. 'You have lighted the path to the grave. I'm not afraid now,' gasped one whose wings were plumed for her flight.
"Oh!" exclaimed Marion, clasping her hands to her breast as she recalled the scene. "Who am I, that I should be so blessed?"
During the summer months Mr. Williamson usually travelled with his family or passed the time at some fashionable resort, and it was his earnest wish that Marion should accompany them.
But after a week spent at a gay hotel she told her uncle she found it unendurable; and insisted on going alone, if he could not find an escort for her, to visit her Aunt Asbury. She arrived when the whole family were watching the fading away of a young life. Helen, the oldest daughter, about whom so many hopes had clustered, the light of the home, the pride of parents and friends, had received a summons to leave all that had hitherto been so dear and enter on the unknown,—the infinite. Shuddering with fear, she turned to her parents for help, but they could only weep and wring their hands. At length their clergyman was summoned, and from this hour his visits were frequent. The knitted brow had given way to a calm seriousness, as with trembling lips she said, "I do believe Christ is my Saviour, and that He will lead me safely home."
Her parents, too, if not really submissive, were trying to say, "Thy will be done."
The coming of Marion at such a crisis was indeed a blessing. Her very first words as she sat down by the bedside, after offering and receiving a loving embrace, lit up the face of the dying girl with a ray of Heaven's own light.
"O Helen, how I wish I could change places with you! Going home to Christ, to be with Him forever, to see the dear saints who have gone before, to talk to them of what Jesus has done for you, to sing with them the new song, 'Worthy the Lamb,' to sit down by the beloved John, to see Peter and hear him repeat the story of his grief at the denial of his Lord, to talk with Moses and Joseph and Samuel, to think that you will be forever free from the struggles with sin, that you will be holy as He is holy. Dear Helen, you are indeed to be envied."
"Yes, I can thank God now." Helen's smile was radiant.
Tears were streaming down Mrs. Asbury's cheeks, but wholly unconscious of them, the lady rose and kissed Marion, saying softly,—
"Thank God you have come! Your visit will do us all good."
Mr. Asbury had not known much of his niece, though he was one of her guardians. He watched her closely, trying to account for the change in his household. Every day rendered it more certain that a grim messenger was hovering about, waiting for an opportunity to enter, but his approach was no longer dreaded. The chamber where the patient sufferer lay seemed the brightest in the house. Marion, who had constituted herself chief nurse, went in and came out with a smile. Her voice was often heard singing there, not sad, pensive strains, but notes with a ring of triumph. The names of our blessed Lord, Jesus, Immanuel, Saviour, were constantly repeated, and dwelt on lovingly. The very words seemed to give strength, even in the lingering echoes.
On one occasion, Mr. Asbury, too anxious to remain long absent from the house, quietly entered the chamber just as Marion began a familiar hymn. He had often heard it before, but never with such a thrill as now. Even the dying girl was joining in the singing.
"How sweet the name of Jesus sounds
In a believer's ear,
It soothes his sorrows, heals his wounds,
And drives away his fear.
"It makes the wounded spirit whole,
And calms the troubled breast;
'Tis manna to the hungry soul,
And to the weary, rest.
"Weak is the effort of my heart,
And cold my warmest thought;
But when I see Thee as Thou art,
I'll praise Thee as I ought.
"Till then I would Thy love proclaim
With every fleeting breath;
And may the music of Thy name
Refresh my soul in death."
Gazing into that rapt face, so elevated above all the pains and sorrows of earth, the father could not doubt that the prayer in these last lines was answered. The soul was refreshed, invigorated, and made infinitely blessed by the music of that precious name. A prayer rose to Heaven from one hitherto unused to prayer, "Breathe, O Lord, into my soul such love for Thee as may fill my heart with peace and joy when I go down to the dark valley."
The end came at last, suddenly, though long looked for. The messenger was not unwelcome. He was greeted with a smile so sweet, so rapt, that all gazed in wonder. Calmly the dying girl put her hand in his, while Marion in a clear voice repeated the inspired words, "'Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for Thou art with me; Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me.'"
[CHAPTER VI.]
THE MUSIC TEACHER.
THE triumphant death of the eldest daughter was followed by marked religious improvement in the family. Both Mr. and Mrs. Asbury publicly confessed their faith in Christ. The family altar was erected with this inscription, "As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord."
Marion, too, received a new impetus in her chosen work,—the work of a soul-winner.
"I want to be a missionary," was her reply to her uncle, when he was urging her to remain permanently in his family. "I have already begun to make many projects for the poor in New York City."
"But, Marion, you are too young, too attractive, to go alone among the poor."
"Don't say too attractive, uncle. I want to be as attractive as possible. Understand me," she added, laughing, with a visible heightening of color, "I want to be loved and trusted; and I thank God that I am—am not repulsive in appearance. Too young I certainly am to go alone; and that is why I have kept dear old Hepsey. Aunty thinks me obstinate, incorrigible, because I don't dismiss the poor old creature, as she calls her, and have a fashionable French maid. Dear aunty! I'm afraid she would think me a fit subject for the lunatic asylum if she knew where Hepsey and I go."
"I'm afraid, Marion, that I shall have to agree with Mrs. Williamson that you are a little wilful. Put yourself in my place, and ask yourself whether it would be right for me to consent to your going into those infected regions in New York. You might catch small-pox, or cholera, or something dreadful."
She caught his arm, and gave it a loving squeeze, then with an arch glance in his face, exclaimed, "You ought to praise me for telling you all this. I have never told Uncle nor Aunt Williamson. But seriously, uncle, I haven't a particle of fear. The sanitary arrangements in a city like New York are excellent. I love life too well, and I have too great a work in it to put myself in danger. Besides, I have the earnest approval of dear Helen. I talked with her more freely than I ever did with any one, and she, standing on the border land between this life and the next, with Heaven's own light on her, said,—
"'Go on, Marion. Yours is a blessed work. God will protect you in it.' Oh, how that benediction has encouraged me!"
What could Mr. Asbury answer to such pleading?
And so Marion had gone on, from step to step, till Mr. Williamson was fain to resign his ward to other and firmer hands. Her aunt, having exhausted all the adjectives in her denunciations, and having informed her thousand and one friends that her niece was a bigoted fanatic, who, if permitted, would convert their house into an asylum for paupers, coolly turned her back upon her, entirely ignoring her existence.
In consequence of all this, Marion's twenty-first birthday found her in apartments of her own, with Hepsey for her confidential adviser; not satisfied, as her aunt explained, with a life of luxurious refinement, such as befitted her wealth and position in society, but actually engaged as music teacher in Madame La Vergne's institute.
This last step, indeed, had been earnestly protested against by her Uncle Asbury, and she was obliged to bring all her powers of coaxing, arguing, and pleading to bear upon him before he would yield a reluctant consent.
"These young girls are just entering life," was her concluding plea, "without either chart or compass to guide them. They will by and by exert a powerful influence either for good or evil. In no other way can I so readily gain an influence over them. If I can win only one of them to higher aims in life, will it not be worth the effort?"
Even Mrs. Asbury expostulated with her niece. "You are free," she urged, "to go into any society you please, and you surely can find young ladies quite as much in need of good influences as those connected with Madame La Vergne's school. You will, when too late, perhaps, find it very irksome to be confined to certain hours."
"Now aunty, dear, don't you turn against me. I have thought so much of this plan, and my conscience approves, but I want your approval also. Well, I may as well confess it; there are certain reasons why I want to influence these particular girls, two of whom are in danger. They were my pets when I was their schoolmate, and think I have already gained their confidence."
"After all that is said," resumed Mr. Asbury "you have power to do as you please. You are absolutely your own mistress, with an independent fortune, but—"
Marion drew up her queenly form and for an instant looked seriously displeased, but quickly recovering herself, said, "I'm sure, uncle, you do not mean to hurt me. You and aunty are all I have who really and truly love me, so if you positively refuse your consent to my devoting a few hours in a day to an employment which is congenial to me, with the hope of being useful to two motherless girls, I will relinquish my project."