MRS. HAYES APPEARS ON THE SCENE.
"Well, they're all grown," said she, after having taken off her travelling things, and been seated in the damask chair, and had time to look about her; "some taller, some broader, and, I dare say, all better. But where is Milly?"
Scarcely was the question asked when a light step was heard, and a blooming young woman bounded in. The old woman rose from her seat, opened her arms, and folded the girl in silence to her heart. There was no need for words, for Aunt Hayes and Milly Taylor knew full well each other's worth, and had long rested sweetly in each other's love.
"The Lord bless thee, my child. I humbly thank Him for giving me sight of thee again," she said at last.
Milly was young ladies' maid at Mr. Drake's, and being spared for the evening, the family party was complete, and a very happy party it was. There was Mr. Taylor, now a middle-aged man, healthy, active, and fresh-looking still, and to whom, after a season of trial and anxiety, "the lines had fallen in pleasant places." He was truly the honoured head of his house, "ruling in the fear of God," and commanding his children to "keep the way of the Lord."
And there was his faithful Susan, the loved wife and honoured mother, not very much the worse for wear; the burden and heat of her working day over, and the guide and instructress of her daughters in the virtues and duties which had made herself a blessing to all who came within her influence.
Susan, her namesake and second daughter, was preparing for service, while Bessy was taking her place in the household after leaving school.
"Susan, my dear," said Mrs. Hayes, "those hampers had better be unpacked soon. There are two hams, and some bacon home-cured, and a few vegetables, and odd things you'll find useful—my last butter and a cheese or so, and my sister has sent you two dozen fresh eggs and some poultry."
What delicious work to unpack such a present from the country! And after the good things had been displayed to the admiration of all beholders, Susan and Bessy had the coveted honour of bestowing them in their proper places, and one or two sick acquaintances were remembered when the eggs and chickens passed under review.
After the death of her husband, Mrs. Hayes had given up the land at the farm, and kept only the dwelling-house and its immediate belongings of poultry and piggery, and paddock for a cow or two. She did not intend to be idle, and a grave question arose about who was to live with her.
Milly had done so, as the pet and comfort of her good uncle, and Mrs. Hayes would fain have kept her and provided for her as her own child. But she was a sensible woman, and she saw that other relatives would feel jealous and annoyed at such a marked preference. Her own sister's children were growing also into womanhood, and were so much improved by her good training and kind interest, that she decided to have each in turn who liked to come, and at the present time Miss Bella was prime minister at the farm-house, trying to do as nicely as her Cousin Milly had done, and to be as thoughtful and kind to her widowed aunt.
Mrs. Hayes had paid each family a visit since prevailing on herself to move, and it was now the second time she had come alone to those she loved best on earth.
"If they're so kind as to want me," said she, "the least I can do is to go, so long as the Lord keeps me from being a burden; and with them I could perhaps even bear to be that." The highest compliment that Mrs. Hayes could have paid to any human being.
It was also the strongest proof of the mighty power of divine grace, that a spirit so proud, so sensitive, so independent, could be brought, with the humility of a little child, to endure the thought of such a possible event.
But there seemed no fear of it yet, and Mrs. Hayes walked, and worked, and busied herself in everything that was going forward, with all her usual energy.
A new anxiety, however, dawned upon her at this time, though at present she kept it to herself.
Robert's position at "The Works" was now such, and his prospects of advancement in due time so satisfactory, that there would be no impropriety in the notion, if he took it into his head to make a home of his own and marry. She could not object to that, but the choice of a wife worthy of Robert was a matter of the gravest importance, and her shrewdest humour was on the moment any young woman came within range of her scrutiny.
There was a very pretty and rather showy-looking girl who came to fit Susan with the dresses which were being prepared for her in her first service, and it struck Mrs. Hayes that the time of her visits was peculiarly ill-chosen, inasmuch as Robert was sure somehow to be in the way. And as Miss Brooks laughingly declared she had no objection, it came to pass that he offered to carry her parcel, and walked by her side on his way to work, so far as their road was the same, when she happened to call at mid-day. And two or three times in the evening he had gallantly taken her home.
Now Mrs. Hayes had a strong prejudice against milliners and dressmakers as suitable wives for working men. "She never knew one yet," she said, "who heeded where she threw her pins and needles, or cared what litter she made, or knew how to make home comfortable. It might be more their misfortune than their fault, poor things," she said, "for they were put apprentices to woman's greatest snare, just when they ought to have been learning woman's rightful duties; and silly heads were made sillier, and time and care were fully devoted to what should occupy the smallest place in female education, namely, 'the putting on of apparel.'"
Well, it was to be hoped Robert would be cautious, and not get caught by a pretty face, unless it might happen to be only the pleasant index of all that is good and womanly within.
But Mrs. Hayes did feel a little uneasy about "that young dressmaker."
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CHAPTER XI.
IMPORTANT POINTS.
ON Sunday evening, as the family came out of church, Robert affectionately drew his aunt's arm within his own, saying playfully:
"It's my turn now, father; we'll follow you and mother at our ease."
Mr. and Mrs. Taylor nodded and walked on, but the whole party were presently stopped by the appearance of Miss Brooks and some young friends, who inclined to exchange a word or two.
The young woman was a great deal too much dressed for her position in life, but not more so than those about her, and was only noticeable in contrast with the simplicity and neatness of Mrs. Taylor and her daughters.
"We are just going to saunter along the river banks a little way, Mrs. Taylor," said Miss Brooks, "may Susan and Bessy come too?"
"No, thank you, my dear," said Susan; "they will take a little walk with 'us.' Good evening."
"Right, Susan," thought Mrs. Hayes, and she saw the eyes of the young dressmaker and her friends glance towards Robert. "They would like you to go with them, Robert," whispered she; "don't make the old woman a bugbear to them. Go, if you like." And she withdrew from his arm.
But Robert held her tight. "I am going with you, aunt," he said, firmly. And however he might have been inclined to a walk with Miss Brooks herself, he was not going to be carried off bodily by the gay troop around her.
Mrs. Hayes stole a glance at his face, which was flushed and grave, and while they walked on in silence, she thought her own thoughts, and instead of beating about with them, went straight to head-quarters with her conclusions.
"Robert, my dear," said she, abruptly, "does she fear God?"—The old-fashioned expression which, to her mind, included the whole blessings of the Christian life.
Robert Taylor had no affectation: he knew perfectly well whom "she" meant, and quickly guessed the train of thought which had led to the question.
"I don't know, aunt," he promptly replied; "I am trying to find out."
"Hum, then it does matter to him," thought Aunt Hayes, with regret.
"Well, my dear, and how are you going to find out? Take care that meanwhile she does not get to believe that you love her beyond recall."
"I will never trifle about such a matter," said Robert, warmly; "but I don't know how to judge of her real character without making opportunities, and such opportunities may betray my regard without winning hers."
"It's awkward on both sides," said Mrs. Hayes; "for if, after keeping company awhile, young people find out that they are not suited to each other, an outcry is raised about flirting, and deceiving, and what not. I do think it a grievous pity that young men and women have so little opportunity of really knowing each other's characters before they are what they call 'engaged.' Why, the most important thing in their whole lives has to be fixed all at once, like buying a horse or cow, on the credit of good looks or somebody's recommendation. It never comes out what one really is till you shut doors with her, when it's too late to find fault, and the poor things must make the best of it then."
"You have found out what I didn't wish to speak of to anybody yet," said Robert. "Can you help me a little without exciting attention?"
"Maybe I can, Robert; but, my dear boy, will you be guided by what we may discover as we become better acquainted with her? And, if her pretty face and pleasant manners should not cover heart, and temper, and principles such as you ought to look for in a wife, what then? Will you, like many a simpleton, fancy you can make her what you love and wish her to be, and—"
"No, aunt, I should not presume so far as that; I should like my wife to be of God's making, and His gift to me."
"Good," thought Mrs. Hayes, joyfully; "he'll not marry this girl, unless they were to catch him on the ground of 'honour,' and 'entangled affections,' and so forth, the which I'll do my part to prevent. She may, however, be a good girl after all; we'll see."
"Ask the Lord to guide all about it, Robert," said she; "He loves you, and will not throw away anything so precious to Himself as your happiness, if you'll leave it in His keeping. Make much of the matter of temper, Robert; next to piety and virtue, a woman's temper is the most important thing." And Aunt Hayes sighed softly, as memory retraced her own career.
"Your Uncle Jonathan," she continued, "wanted a thrifty, industrious wife; and, though I say it that shouldn't, perhaps, he got one."
"I'm sure he did, aunt," said Robert, smiling.
"Ah, but what did he get besides? A cross-grained temper that never made allowances for anybody, and worried him with fidgets, and fuss, and particularity, so that he couldn't say home was his own, and that never thought anybody knew anything but herself. Ah, I've shed many a sorrowful tear over it since he went where I can do nothing for him more."
"Dear aunt," said Robert, tenderly, "I do assure you, he always told Milly and me that you were the comfort of his heart, and had been a blessing to him all his life."
"Ah, my dear, he was content to let bygones be bygones; and after that time that you and Milly and your mother came to stay with us, things got to be different, I know. But then, we'd lost years of happiness, and I'd got a sharp disagreeable way with me that has never been quite done with, do what I will."
"Well, I'm sure I don't want you different from what you are," said Robert; "nor does any one else that I know of."
"Well, dear, I only spoke of myself as a warning to you, to see that you choose for a wife one who is gentle-tempered and humble-minded."
"Or that she has the good secret for curing a bad temper; won't that do as well, aunt?"
Mrs. Hayes shook her head.
"I think not entirely, Robert; though wherever there's much character, there's often something of a stubborn temper to control. Get both if you can. But don't mistake me. I've no patience with flimsy, wishy-washy things that can't stand the storms of life, and who droop under a cloud like a stricken flower. Such are not wives for working men, nor any men, for that matter. No, I should like your wife to be one who marries you not merely because you ask her, but because she wishes to help you, and believes you will help her to serve God, and do your duty in the station of life in which it has pleased Him to place you; one who will stand by you through life, come weal come woe, with a backbone as straight and strong as your own. That's the woman I respect and love."
"That's just my mother," said Robert.
"So it is, and just Milly too, when her time comes. By-the-by, Robert, who is that young man that came in the other evening? And what does he want at your father's house?"
"He is lately come to be head gardener at Lord Crewe's, and I suspect, though I don't really know, that he wants to get acquainted with our Milly."
"I suspect so too. Well, I didn't take to him at all. 'Wise in his own conceits' was the text he made me think of. However, Milly is not to be caught with a clattering tongue. Mind you take her up to the house yourself if she comes when he's there, and don't on any account let him do it."
"No, that I shan't," said Robert, laughing; "I'm not going to help any beaux to make up to Milly. I've always hoped that she'll live with me when I get a home of my own."
"What, if you marry?" asked Mrs. Hayes.
"Yes; why not?"
"Then you and she will make a terrible mistake, my lad: a mistake that many a brother has made innocently enough, but none the less mischievous for that. No, no; let your wife have her home to herself, or she'll never settle in it as she ought. I've seen a few things in my time; and I see this among them, both for high and low, rich and poor, that married people should have no relations in the house to put in a word between them. It's a temptation that scarcely anybody has strength to resist.
"There must always be things in a family to consider, and talk over and judge about, and husband and wife should do it for themselves. If they don't agree, they should think and pray about it till one sees it right to give up; but woe to the meddler that puts in for a casting vote, or pretends to know better than either one or the other! Mothers and mothers-in-law, sisters and sisters-in-law, are all well enough in their own places, and long life to them there; but they're out of their place in the families of sons and brothers; and having 'an interest' in everything (as they say), they seldom or never have sense to hold their tongues. But just see, now, here's even the old great-aunt meddling and giving opinions without waiting to be asked."
"Go on and welcome," said Robert; "I see the wisdom of your opinions, aunt."
"About this affair, my dear lad; I've thought of a little plan to help you both to know something more of each other without seeming particular. I do wish young people's heads weren't so full of themselves as to fancy every little attention or kindness means more than it ought to mean until there's a good foundation for it, and that simpering misses wouldn't suppose themselves so desirable as wives and companions to sensible men. But, dear me, what a change comes over some of them in a year or two! You wouldn't know the pretty trim-looking things again, in the slatterns and idlers that dare to face their husbands with uncombed hair and ragged gowns. If they dressed to catch, they should dress to keep, and not treat a man as if he had lost all taste, and feeling, and sense, because he's married. God save you from such as that, my boy; and he will if you'll mind his word, and let it be 'only in the Lord.'"
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CHAPTER XII.
WITH THE "DOORS SHUT."
"DEARY me, I'm sure I don't know what to do," said a little fat woman, with a pleasant, round face, coming leisurely down the stairs, and pushing open the door of a small "front parlour," where she stood for a moment, looking very much puzzled, her hands spread upon her sides, and her eyes fixed on the ground.
"It's very tryin', that it is," she murmured; "I don't know 'what' to do."
"What about, mother?" asked her pretty daughter, who was propping up a fashion book in the window behind a card, in token to passers-by that a very superior dress and mantle maker and milliner, from a first-rate establishment, was to be found within.
"What about? Why, about our lodger; but, deary me, Lydia, what a dreadful litter! When 'are' you going to let me brush this room? What would any lady say to such an untidy place?"
And Mrs. Brooks, looking round, tried to imagine the impression that the sight of it would make. Every chair was covered with work in some form, either cut out and begun, or awaiting that process; patterns, rolls of calico or trimmings: the floor was strewn with pieces, cuttings, thread-ends and tackings, among which shone pins, buttons, beads, tossed and scattered, not with the intention of wasting any of them, but just lying until it might happen to be convenient to pick them up; and it seldom was convenient to Miss Lydia Brooks.
"Oh, it looks as if I was busy; and really so I am. I've had no time to pick up and straighten," said she, carelessly.
"Well, I'd have done it, only you made such a fuss about your pieces; I wasn't to meddle with them," said the mother, still looking about. "Ah, there now," she continued, "it's just as I said about Sally's spencer; I knew it wouldn't be done, and here I'm going about in this old rag of a gown, waiting till you put in those sleeves that you made me unpick. But 'the shoemaker's wife goes the worst shod,' as the saying is. I did think when I put you to the dressmaking, Liddy, that you'd take a pride in seeing your own family nice always, but it isn't so."
"I'm sure I like you all to be nice," said Lydia, rummaging in a heap of pieces for one she wanted; "only I didn't know that I was to make and mend for everybody, when I've to get my own living by my work."
"Your own living, child! Why, is your living just putting clothes on your back? What about lodgings and victuals on days that you stay at home to work? Living, indeed!" And the good woman looked as indignant as her good-humoured face would allow. Then suddenly recollecting something, she added, in a doleful tone, "But, as I was saying, I'm sure I don't know what to do. I got all the things the doctor ordered, and he won't touch nor look at them. I wish you'd seen him when he smelt it was brandy I was giving him. I never saw anybody so obstinate in all my life; how in the world he's to get well I don't know!"
Lydia was too much absorbed in the effect of a bow she was making up to feel any sympathy in her mother's difficulty. But happening to look out at the window, she uttered an exclamation of pleasure and darted to the door, as a neat, bright-looking girl came up the steps. "Oh, do come in," she cried. "Mother, it's Miss Susan Taylor."
"Susan Taylor, ma'am," said the girl, smiling. "Mother sent me, Miss Brooks, to ask if you can come and do some work for Aunt Hayes; she wants her black silk gown turned, I believe, and she likes to help with it herself."
"Oh, I shall be very happy indeed; but do sit down, I'll soon make a chair," and bundling up a lot of things and slipping them all down in a corner, Miss Brooks handed a chair. "You'll excuse litters, I know; dressmakers can't be—that is, they can't always have their things out of sight, you see."
"I can't stay, thank you," said Susan. "May I say that you'll come to-morrow, or next day?"
"Yes, to-morrow, if you wish it; but, Susan, she looks very particular. Do you think I can manage to please her?"
"I'm sure you will if you try," said Susan; "she is always pleased when we do our best."
"Well, then, I'll do my best."
"But, Lydia," began Mrs. Brooks, "you promised—"
"Oh, yes, I know," interrupted the daughter. "I'll do that at home; it won't interfere at all. And, Susan, I'll bring home the pieces of your prints, and your best dress. What a pretty thing it is! Did you try it on again?"
"No," said Susan.
"Well, then, you'll see that I have made it nice and long, as I was sure you'd like it. You won't wear it at home, you know; so your mother won't see it or know anything about it, and servants like their things long as well as other people."
Susan stared so hard at the dressmaker that the colour rose to both their faces at once.
"Why did you?" at last said Susan, recovering from her surprise. "You will have to alter it; for I'm not going to sweep streets or carpets to please anybody. Besides, I wish to have it exactly as mother told you."
"Oh, nonsense, you'll like it well enough when you get among them that have the same."
"Milly's dresses never sweep," said Susan; "she says trains are for drawing-rooms and carriages, and look pretty enough; but for people who bustle about a house, and walk in streets or roads, they're a nuisance outright. So I'll put it on before you to-morrow, and I'll have it just as mother thinks right," concluded Susan, positively.
"Dear me, I thought to please you," said Miss Lydia; "but I shall know better another time."
Susan hoped so, and was going; but Mrs. Brooks stopped her.
"My dear," said she, kindly, "I like to hear you speak that way, though of course poor Liddy thought you were like other young people she works for; so no offence, I hope. But could you tell me of any teetotal people? Perhaps your good mother may know some of them."
"My father and brother are both total abstainers," said Susan.
"Oh, dear me, how glad I am! Would you ask one of them just to call in here, for I've got a lodger very ill, and he won't touch anything the doctor orders, except just the medicine; but the brandy, and wine, and things he won't even look at, and begged me not to bring anything of the sort into his room. I've always heard tell that when doctors order things, it's lawful for those temperance people to take them, and this poor man says he has taken the pledge."
"I will tell my father what you say, and I am sure he will come if he can do any good," said Susan, as she tripped away.
In a few minutes Mrs. Brooks returned hastily to the parlour, leading a little boy of four or five years old by the hand.
"Here, Lydia," said she, hurriedly, "just let Dicky stop here a bit; Sally's gone an errand, and the doctor's come."
"Oh dear, mother; I really can't have him here, he does knock everything about so."
But Mrs. Brooks was gone, prudently shutting the door upon the objection.
"Dick, don't touch that, sir! Sit down, and be quiet, do," cried Lydia, in great disgust, at hands none of the cleanest being laid upon one of her pink paper patterns. And she seized Master Dick, and bumped him roughly upon a chair, away from the possibility of touching anything.
Dick sat for a few moments looking defiance, and then slid down, crept under the table among the pins, and buttons, and beads, and presently gleaned a fine handful of the same, with a skein of silk and a reel or two of cotton, all of which went into his small pockets.
The silence was ominous; and, instead of encouraging the child to be useful in collecting and classifying her stray goods, Miss Brooks was certain he was in mischief, and hauled him out by the legs, with a slap for moving from the seat whereon she had placed him.
This was, of course, the signal for a violent yelling, and screaming, and kicking, and a hand-to-hand fight, poor Miss Lydia very red and angry, and talking as many exasperated sisters do talk on such occasions.
"You nasty little plague, I'll master you now, so I will. I hate children, I do; I can't think what you're good for, always in everybody's way. There, you wicked boy; how dare you, sir!" And so on, while Dick, between his kicks and struggles, was paying the same compliment in return, wondering in a great rage whatever sisters were made for, and hating the whole race, and Lydia in particular, with a most vigorous and active hatred.
In the midst of the strife, Mrs. Brooks rushed in.
"Lydia! Dick! What a noise! Aren't you ashamed of yourselves? Couldn't you keep quiet for a minute?"
"You shouldn't have brought him," pertly exclaimed Lydia; "you know I can't do my work where he is."
"Bother the work," said the mother, smoothing Dicky's ruffled curls; "everything has to give way to it, till I'm sick of the sight of it: it's no good to anybody that I can see."
And she led away the young urchin, who turned with a parting salutation to his sister in as ugly a grimace as he could manage to form out of bright blue eyes, a rosy mouth, and cheeks like fresh peaches.
So, where love, and patience, and gentleness might have won obedience and affection, the opportunity passed away in a declaration of war between the rival factions, and the indignant grief of an unwise mother.
Lydia's defence of herself and her work was provoked into a very high key before banging the door, to shut out all her enemies together, which expressive sound had just rung through the house, startling the sick lodger, when the street-door opened, no one in the confusion having heard two or three modest knocks, and Robert Taylor stood before the ruffled mistress and her pouting pet.
"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Brooks," said he, taking off his cap respectfully, "I am sent by Mr. Dixon to inquire after a person who has been working a little for him from Carter and Davis's shop, and who he heard is lodging here."
"Yes, I dare say it's all right; you mean Mr. Matthew. He's been too poorly to go to work these three days, and he won't do anything to get up his strength. Why, sir, he has actually walked to B— and back, ten miles in all, after his day's work, inquiring, he said, for a letter he expected: so he's just knocked himself up, and the doctor says he wants strengthening. I shall be so glad if you'll speak to him and get him to take proper things to do it, Mr. Robert."
"I shall be glad to do my best, Mrs. Brooks," said Robert: "he has interested our master very much, and is one of the cleverest workmen he ever had sent to the office. The man they have sent in his place is nothing to him for intelligence and skill."
While Robert followed the mother, the daughter stood listening inside the door she had so rudely shut, fluttering with curiosity and red with vexation lest Robert should have witnessed anything of the unseemly strife in which she had been engaged. She had gained sufficient knowledge of his family to be aware that some principle unknown to her ruled in their house, and influenced their conduct, and that if she chose to value the admiration with which she saw the young man regarded her, she must take care what kind of character she exhibited in his presence.
She therefore decided to be quite sure of her power before venturing to presume upon it, and to complete her conquest before she should make up her mind whether or not to return his regard. She should not object to be attended, for a time at least, by so good-looking and respectable a suitor, and she had no doubt of the envy of half the "young ladies" of her acquaintance.
But Robert left the house that day without even inquiring for her.
CHAPTER XIII.
THE LAMP LIGHTED.
"IT'S very kind of him to think about me," said Matthew Hill, as Robert Taylor sat by his bedside, and told him how Mr. Dixon, to whose office he had been sent to execute some delicate piece of work for them there, had felt interested in him, admired his skill, missed him, inquired about him, and hearing that he was ill, had commissioned Robert to find out his residence and attend to his condition.
"It is like himself and everything he does," said Robert, warmly; "it is a pleasure to work for such a master."
"Well, there isn't much the matter with me. I shall soon be right again; but I suppose I did a bit too much, not being over strong since I had rheumatic fever. And these good people, with the doctor at the head of them, want to poison me."
"Now, my friend," began Mrs. Brooks, "you just tell me this. Does your oath bind you never to taste anything that the doctor orders to strengthen and nourish you when you are sick? Because, if it does, it's little short of murder, I say, that's all." And the kind woman looked extremely indignant.
"We take no oath," said Robert, gently.
"No oath! Why, what is it, then? I thought you vowed before God to touch no strong drink."
"Then you are misinformed," answered Robert. "It is a promise to each other and our fellow-men, and a precaution for ourselves under temptation, and it is a disgrace to a man of feeling and honour to break his word: he proves himself unworthy to be trusted: but as there is no oath, failure is no perjury."
"Well to be sure; why, I thought every one that broke his pledge was an awful sinner, and must be punished in the next world as well as this."
"Did you ever break a resolution, Mrs. Brooks, a real solemn resolution to be better, and shake off some great fault, or do some great good?"
"Deary me yes, lots of times; I'm sure I don't pretend to be better than other people."
"Then you stand on the same footing as the poor fellow who breaks his pledge," said Robert.
"Goodness heart alive! Then what's to become of us all, I wonder?" cried Mrs. Brooks, in alarm.
"That's soon told," said Robert, in a modest but firm tone. "We must all go to the same Saviour, and beg for the same mercy, through the same blood shed on the cross, and free to all alike who come."
"Well to be sure," said Mrs. Brooks, looking earnestly in Robert's face; "to hear one as young as you talk like that. It quite does me good, I declare; for though I don't know very much about it myself—I've got so much to do, you see—yet I know religion when I see it in others. But about the wine and things, mayn't you take them on occasions like this?"
"I do not know of any pledge that sets aside the apostle's directions to Timothy after his illness," said Robert, turning to the sick man, "'Take a little wine for thy stomach's sake, and thine often infirmities;' inferring, I should think, that Timothy usually abstained, and needed the advice from Paul the aged, who could not mislead his young friend."
"If Paul stood there," said Matthew Hill, raising himself on his elbow, and speaking earnestly, "I believe he would say to me, Drink nothing of the sort, but be content to die first. What may be medicine to one, is poison and ruin to another. Might I ask you why you took the pledge?"
"My father is foreman of Mr. Dixon's works," said Robert, "and he has had a great deal of trouble with drunkenness among the men; so, for the sake of example, and to show that it is possible to do without strong drink, he took the pledge, and so did I when old enough to understand about it; and we have our reward. Nearly all the men are total abstainers, and a better set of workmen do not stand on British ground, nor men with happier homes and more comfortable families."
"Well now," said Matthew, "just suppose one of those men, once given to drinking, but now sober and steady, yet mistrusting himself if strong temptation beset him; if he took ill, would you put strong drink to his lips, and bid him take it to get well?"
"No," said Robert, promptly.
"But what if a doctor order it, and the patient feels that if he taste it, he is lost?"
"In such a case I would disobey the doctor, and trust in Christ the Saviour for life or death."
"Well, but suppose he dies?" questioned Mrs. Brooks.
"Then let him die sober," said Robert. "Better so than to fall back into sin, living the life and dying the death of a drunkard, a curse to himself and all belonging to him."
"Now that's the right sort," exclaimed the patient, with animation. "So now, young man, we understand each other. You can make it all out for yourself, and won't advise me again to touch the poison."
"But I am not the less hopeful of your recovery," said Robert, smiling. "The doctors have other tonics, and Mrs. Brooks can second them with her kitchen physic."
"I'll do my best, and he shall have some capital beef-tea at once," said the kind woman, trotting away to see if it were as good as she meant it to be.
"I don't know you," said Matthew, in a low voice, to Robert, as soon as they were alone, "but you come on a kind errand, and you are on my side in a matter that concerns me more than you think. You spoke of Christ the Saviour—you know him?"
"I trust so," said Robert.
"Then," said Matthew, eagerly, "can you, will you, ask Him to help me, to heal me?"
"Your soul, or your body?" asked Robert.
"Both," replied the sick man; "but my soul first, because it must last for ever; my body too, that I may use it as long as it lasts to try and make up for the evil I have done in it."
"But you cannot make up for it to the Almighty and Holy God," said Robert "The Bible says, 'Though thou wash thee with nitre, and take thee much soap,'—two things that signify the very best means of cleansing that man can invent,—'yet thine iniquity is marked before me, saith the Lord.' We need to have the old stains washed out before we can be fit to appear before Him. And then our fresh doings are so clumsy and weak and defiled after all, that we haven't the heart to think He can accept us for them."
"What do you mean? Will not our repentance be accepted?" asked Matthew, anxiously.
"Not as an atonement for past sin: tears cannot wash it away. If they could, the blood of the Lord Jesus Christ need never have been shed, and we could then take credit to ourselves for repenting; but the Bible says salvation is 'by faith, not of works, lest any man boast,' and 'faith' is 'the gift of God.' It is all God's own work from beginning to end: what He does He does completely, unmixed with any poor imperfect doings of ours."
"Well, I must do something. I want a religion, or a something that will keep me from a terrible sin," said Matthew, wearily. "I've resolved, and tried, and pledged, and done everything I can think of, and still I fall."
"We need a religion that will keep us from all sin," said Robert. "Did you ever try what love can do?"
"I loved my wife and children, but that did not restrain me when strongly tempted," said Matthew. He seemed to have forgotten all the provocations which he had been fond of pleading in excuse for himself.
"I mean the love of the Lord Jesus," said Robert, simply.
"No, I don't know Him well enough."
"I thought so," said Robert; "and now we have just got to the root of the matter. 'If thou knewest the gift of God'—But you can know it; and then you will join those who can say with his apostle,—
"'We love Him, because He first loved us.'
"'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.'"
"'Washed us from our sins.' Yes, that's what we want," said Matthew, "and help to sin no more."
"And you can have both by giving yourself up to the Lord Jesus. Do as the hymn says:—
"'Just as I am, without one plea,
But that Thy blood was shed for me,
And that Thou bidst me come to Thee,
O Lamb of God, I come.'
"I dare bid you welcome to my Lord," continued Robert, earnestly. "There is no hindrance on His side; are 'you' willing?
"'Just as thou art, without one trace
Of love, or joy, or inward grace,
Or meetness for the heavenly place,
O guilty sinner, come!
"'Come hither, bring thy boding fears,
Thine aching heart, thy bursting tears;
'Tis mercy's voice salutes thine ears:
O trembling sinner, come!"
Matthew Hill gazed earnestly on the young speaker. "Oh that I had begun as you have!" he said. "You have taken God for the guide of your youth."
"You have not got very far beyond youth," said Robert. "There is time for you to take Him for everything you want. But let me read you a few lines about Him."
And from his little pocket Testament Robert read the story of the visit of Jesus to the house of Simon the Pharisee. *
* Luke vii. 36.
"You see, neither of the debtors had anything to pay, so 'He frankly forgave them both.' But the poor woman who felt that 'her sins which were many were forgiven,' 'loved much;' and never did she hate sin so truly as when her tears of love and penitence flowed over the feet of Jesus. He did not say 'thy love,' or 'thy tears,' or 'thy penitence hath saved thee,' but 'thy faith hath saved thee; go in peace.' She believed in His love to sinners, that He had come to seek and to save the lost. Do you think, as she knelt before Him and felt that He understood her gratitude and believed her love, and heard the beautiful permission to 'go in peace,' that she could go back to her sins, and forget her Saviour?"
"No, no, surely not," said Matthew.
"She had been too near to Jesus for that; she had found a principle that was stronger than sin, stronger than nature, stronger than temptation; faith and love would bear her above and through them all. If ever that heart mourned again, it would be when the hour had come in which that precious Saviour must be given up to his death of shame and anguish, to seal before God and man the covenant of mercy by which He had saved her soul and given her peace. To pierce the heart of Jesus, and put Him to shame, by our sins and inconsistencies, is the bitterest, darkest sorrow that can befall one who believes in Him. Oh, if there is a safeguard on earth, it is thus to be 'kept by the power of God through faith unto salvation.'"
"But to get it!" said Matthew. "Is it for me?"
"Dear fellow-sinner, that beautiful story was for you and me; 'written for our learning, that we through the patience and comfort' of it 'might have hope.' And the Lord Jesus has never changed from what he was that day, but is 'the same yesterday, to-day, and for ever.'"
"Lead me to Him, ask Him for me," faltered Matthew.
And Robert simply and earnestly, as a loved child speaks to a revered and beloved father, did as he was desired.
"Now," said Matthew, as his young visitor rose to go, "I do not think I am to die yet. If I cannot make up for the past to the holy God who so freely forgives, I may be spared to do my duty by my family; but I must get out as soon as possible, that I may hear of them. I expect a letter to be waiting for me at B—."
"Can I write to the postmaster to forward it?" asked Robert.
"No, thank you," replied Matthew, hesitating a little. "I don't want to give my address, so I call for my letters. I've had one or two, but not from the right person; and I believe walking so far, and anxiety, and (I'll not deny it) a glass I got to strengthen me, as I thought, all together knocked me up at last."
"May I come to see you again?" asked Robert.
"The sooner the better; and if you wouldn't mind just lending me that little book, I'll take good care of it until you come again. Please mark it at that place, 'Her sins which are many are forgiven;' 'Thy faith hath saved thee; go in peace.'"
"You have every kindness and attention that you need here, I suppose?" said Robert.
"Oh yes, they are kind, but I'm afraid they don't know much about this," replied Matthew, clasping the little Testament. "There's a deal to do, and all sorts of merry-making on a Sunday. And that kind little woman spoils the children, and their pretty sister, the dressmaker, isn't the best of tempers, and they get to fighting and screeching like wild things. There was a fearful row just before you came in."
"But if the younger ones are not well managed, you know, they are often very troublesome to the elder ones," said Robert, anxious to hope that Lydia might not be the chief cause of the mischief.
"That's true; but there's a way to speak, and do, that shows whether the elders are selfish and unfeeling or not; and I know too well that a pretty face doesn't make a woman all she ought to be. I've longed to tell Miss Lydia so, before she spoils her fortune by it. But I've enough to do to mind my own faults, and I shall long for the time that you come again."
Robert had a dull sort of feeling on his mind as he returned to give an account of his mission to his kind employers, but his sterling principles, learned from his Bible and his Christian parents, were firm; and by them he must stand, and would, at any cost.
CHAPTER XIV.
STITCHING AND TALKING.
"IT'S no make-believe of a home that Robert can take up with after this," thought Mrs. Hayes, as she sat in the easy-chair, leaning her head upon the little pillow at the top of it, with her eyes closed as if for a nap, but her thoughts extremely busy. "I wonder if there are any more Susans and Millys in the world."
It was a comfortable home, certainly, with "a place for everything, and everything in its place," and yet no show, no fuss, as if things were not to be touched and used, but hung or stood to be looked at.
The general sitting-room had the oven and the ironing-board, while all unsightly operations in washing or cooking were carried on in the back kitchen, where no one was disturbed by them, and where unavoidable greasy doings, and sundries, such as knife-board, blacking bottles, black pans and kettles, had it all to themselves.
Then there was also "a room to be quiet in," where solitude, or a confidential chat, or a company tea-party could be had if required; a neatly-furnished parlour, with a little fire nearly every day in winter, keeping away the mouldy smell which inhabits most "best rooms" everywhere. And what a luxury is such a room to one who is obliged to be in noise and confusion all day, among machinery or mankind, the strife of tongues, or the bustle of busy streets! There are times when a man would be quite alone, away even from the easy chat and playful humours of his own children, to rest, or think, or to hold communion with the gracious "God from whom all blessings flow," and it is happy to have, if possible, such a retreat.
Mrs. Hayes did not know where Robert was to look for a home to be compared with that of his childhood and youth; but she thought it would be well to prove that he had better not delude himself into the hope of it where his eyes, if not his heart, were attracted to seek it. So she insisted to Susan that her black silk dress must needs be turned at once, and that Miss Lydia Brooks was the person she wished to do it.
Susan looked in the old lady's face, but could read no particular explanation there, and kindly agreed; though some thoughts of her own would have made her prefer some one else.
So Miss Brooks came in a fashionable bonnet, and her hair dressed like that of the most stylish young lady in B—, so far as she could master it to her will, with a bright ribbon interwoven with it, all very well for that young lady in evening toilette, but somewhat out of character for the young dressmaker at nine o'clock in the morning, sitting down to work in a simple cottage home.
"Have you forgotten an apron, my dear?" said Mrs. Hayes. "I'm sure somebody will lend you one."
"Oh, I don't wear them, thank you," said Miss Brooks; "my dress won't take any harm."
"Nay, it was the other way I was thinking of," said Mrs. Hayes. "When I used to do my own work, I had a large white apron to keep it all fresh and clean. However, it doesn't matter for this, which is black to begin with."
Things went on pretty smoothly for some time until Lydia, who had put much restraint on her tongue during the morning, said, "I do wonder why Mrs. Taylor didn't bring up Milly to the dressmaking; she is such a nice-looking girl, a great deal too nice for a servant."
"My dear, what is a servant?" asked Mrs. Hayes, gently.
"A servant! Why, one who goes out for hire to—"
"For a year or more, instead of a day," interrupted Mrs. Hayes. "Yes, what else?"