Next came Arthur and Ada,
and the riding party were all ready.
She came out at the moment, and he mounted her first of all. And then Dolly was placed in a little arm-chair; Netta and Isabel, with their curls dancing in the sunshine, had saddles; but Walter had discovered there were some to be obtained with a sort of hoop round them, and with these they seemed delighted.
Next came Arthur and Ada, and the riding party were all ready.
Mrs. Arundel, Tom, and the baby, with the two servants and two hampers, were packed into the carriage.
"Where are you going to ride?" asked Isabel anxiously.
"Oh, I walk! No donkeys for me, thank you," answered Walter; "my legs are too long."
"So they are," said Dolly; "they would touch."
Mrs. Ross and Alfy came to the door to see them off. The carriage started at the pace of the donkeys, Walter generally walking by Nellie, and holding Dolly's bridle.
Shouts, screams, and laughter filled the air as the donkeys jogged their riders up and down. Tom leaned as far as he dared to see the merry party, and could not help enjoying their pleasure, though he kept on telling himself "it was very hard."
Arthur managed to urge his donkey alongside of the carriage. "Where are the 'goodies'?" he asked mysteriously of his mother.
She pointed to the coachman's seat.
"Pickled salmon?"
His mother laughed. "No questions, sir," she said.
By-and-by the ruins of the old castle appeared against the sky, and very soon the carriage pulled up at a low boundary-wall, after which they would have to walk.
Tom's perambulator had been fastened to the back of the carriage, and he was now placed on it. The coachman and the donkey-boy were engaged to carry the hampers up the hill for them, and Walter took Tom in charge; while shawls, rugs, and baskets occupied most of the others.
They found the hill in the burning sun rather fatiguing, but were rewarded when they reached the top by finding that part of the inside of the castle was in deep shade, and that overhanging the moat there were two fine old trees, which looked very inviting. Baskets, wraps, and hampers were quickly deposited, and the young people soon spread over the ruins in every direction.
Mrs. Arundel, with Nellie's help, aided by the two servants, now began to unpack the hampers. Tom, very interested, lay looking at them, suggesting where the viands were to be put.
"Who lent you the cloth?" he asked.
"It is one of ours, from home," said his mother.
"I am so thirsty!" he said, as he saw sundry bottles of water and lemonade lifted out.
"Wait till they come, dear," said his mother.
The servants had a little "nursery table," as Mrs. Arundel called it, spread at a short distance for baby and Dolly; but on this at present was laid nothing but some very tempting-looking rolls, with some tarts and cakes. As to Tom, he felt so dreadfully hungry that he held his whistle in his hand, only waiting a word from his mother to give the promised signal.
"Now, dear," said Mrs. Arundel, "we are all ready."
And before she had time to finish the sentence, Tom gave a whistle, which woke the echoes and brought the hungry party trooping back.
"You can do something, you see," said Nellie, smiling.
"Well, I declare," said Arthur, walking round the table-cloth, and surveying the viands. "Here's a spread! Well done, mother!"
"It is 'well done, Walter,'" said Mrs. Arundel; "more than half this came from London!"
"Pickled salmon, tongue, chickens, tarts, salad, rolls, blanc-mange, cakes, lemonade, and a lot more! Well done, Walter!"
"I'm glad you are satisfied; now then to enjoy it. But first we will ask a blessing." He raised his hat reverently, and calling to Dolly to be still a moment, he thanked God for giving them all this pleasure.
Mrs. Arundel said she should begin by helping the "nursery table," and sent a goodly supply by Arthur, who was head waiter. After that they all fell to, and did ample justice to all that Walter and Mrs. Arundel had prepared.
"There is no water left, Nellie," said Netta. "What shall we do? I am so thirsty."
"I know where we can get some more," said Ada. "I saw a little cottage down the other side, and there was a board up, 'Water or tea to be obtained here.'"
"Capital!" said Walter. "Where are the empty bottles?"
"We will fetch it, won't we, Arthur?" said Ada, jumping up.
"All right," said Arthur, taking a last bite of a nice tart. "And look here, mother, I don't think I have quite finished. Don't you clear it all away!" And with a laugh, he and Ada scampered off.
"Supposing we sing to pass away the time," suggested Walter.
"Mamma can sing," said Isabel, "and so can Nellie."
"Well, perhaps they will sing a duet first."
They willingly complied; and the sweet sound filled the old ruin, and seemed to float away on the wind. Walter lay with closed eyes; and when they had finished, no one spoke for a moment.
"Now you sing," said Dolly, getting up from her little table, and trotting round to her eldest brother.
He started up. "I? Well I will sing a funny one; and then when the others come we will see if we can sing something all together."
"Mamma," said Ada, when they came back breathless, and Nellie was pouring out the cool fresh water, "it is such a nice little cottage, and such a nice woman; she has a table under a great mulberry tree; and she said, 'Should we want tea? Because of putting on the water.'"
"Yes; we will go down there presently and tell her. I thought I had heard there was a cottage."
"So nice!" said Ada.
Arthur sat down by his mother and pretended he had not finished dinner; but after one more tart, he protested the run had taken away his appetite, and turned from the table.
"We were going to have some more singing," said Mrs. Arundel.
"Oh, that was what we heard!" answered Ada. "We could not think what it was."
"What shall we sing, Walter?" asked Mrs. Arundel. "See, I have a few hymn sheets here. The first is, 'O God, our help in ages past.'"
"That is dear papa's favourite," said Mrs. Arundel; "how I wish he were here!"
"Yes," said Ada, sighing; "I often think of him all alone, only it spoils one's pleasure so to think about it."
"We will sing it, then, in remembrance of him," said Walter.
Mary, the nurse, sang a nice second, and they all drew together into one circle, and the familiar words sounded wonderfully sweet with all the voices.
On the back of this hymn sheet was printed another, on hearing the name of which Dolly exclaimed: "That's my hymn; we'll have that now!"
Everybody was willing, and the voices rose in "There is a happy land, far, far away!"
When Dolly's hymn was finished, they all dispersed. Simmons told Mrs. Arundel that she would clear up the dinner things, and see to their being packed safely. Baby had fallen asleep; Tom's eyes looked heavy; so leaving the spot where they had dined, Mrs. Arundel and Ada, followed by Netta and Isabel, walked down to the cottage to see about tea. Arthur began to climb the old castle walls; and Nellie and Walter found a little nook half way up the old tower, from which they could see the sea, and enjoy a really cosy chat—the first quiet time the brother and sister had yet had.
"Oh, Walter," said Nellie, looking up in his face, "I am so glad to see you again!"
"Dear Nellie!" he answered, putting his arm round her, and drawing her to him. "So am I. And how have you been getting on these three years? You were almost a little girl when I left, and now you are quite a little woman."
"Yes, nineteen," said Nellie gravely.
"I do not think I need ask how you have been getting on; your face, your whole life, shows that it is well with you."
"Yes; Walter, I am very happy. I have plenty to do—teaching the little ones, helping mamma, and all that; but it is happy work, and they do all love me so."
"I am sure they do," he answered warmly; "and I know by your letters that you, like myself, have found our Saviour, Nellie, during these three years; or been found of Him, for I am afraid we should never have looked for Him, if He had not looked for us first."
"No, I suppose not, Walter. It was your going away that led me. Oh, I was so miserable at first! And then, when I was reading one day, those words in the gospel of John seemed to shine out from the page:
"'Thy brother shall rise again.'
"And then I thought, Walter, that, whatever you might do, I was not sure of rising again; and this increased my unhappiness tenfold. So I went back to my chapter to see if the words were there, and then there flashed out on me a new sentence:
"'I am the resurrection, and the life: whoso believeth on Me shall
never die.
"I think those words rang in my ears for more than a week, and then—somehow—so wonderfully, God in His mercy helped me to believe on Him."
"Yes, darling, it is very wonderful, and so kind of our Father to draw us both at the same time. And you have no secrets, Nellie?" he asked, looking in her sweet face.
"No; how should I?" she answered, surprised. "I always tell you everything, Walter."
He pressed her closely. "You are a dear, dear little sister!" he said.
Tea at the cottage was another pleasure. It was spread on a long narrow table, under the shade of the mulberry tree. The woman produced cream and milk and mulberries, besides as much boiling water as they required.
All were very glad of their tea, and the chat was very merry. Tom was propped up as high as possible, and pushed close up to the table, and for once felt himself one of the party. His eyes shone with pleasure, and his mother thought the sea air must be doing him good. He even stretched out one of his little thin hands to help pass the cups to his mamma, and all looked delighted at the success with which he managed it.
When they were nearly through tea, Walter said, with a meaning look, "Well, now I want to know what you are all doing."
"Doing!" echoed Ada. "Why enjoying ourselves."
Still, he looked at them with the same enquiring glance; and then, not getting any exact reply, he said, "Now, I'll begin with the youngest."
"That's baby!" said Dolly, who was sitting next him.
"Well baby can't answer," said Arthur, "so I'll answer for him: 'Eats and sleeps.'"
"Good. Now, Dolly, what do you do?"
"Do as I am told," said Dolly deliberately.
The others laughed. And Netta and Isabel began blushing and hanging their heads in anticipation of their turns coming.
"And you?" he said, looking towards them.
"Play with our dolls, and dig, and help Dolly over the shingle."
"And you, Tom dear?"
"Lie here," said Tom, gruffly.
"Ah, the hardest of all!" said Walter compassionately. "But we shall see, Tom."
"And you, Arthur?"
"I'm like Dolly—do as I am bid!"
"I daresay!" said Walter. "And now you, Ada?"
"Walk, and dig, and carry baby, and sleep, and eat, and bathe, and enjoy myself."
"Now it is Nellie's turn!" they all burst out.
"Well, Nellie?" said Walter affectionately.
Nellie blushed. "I don't know, Walter, but I guess what you mean, and I should like to do anything I could."
"I should think, if you really mean sensible duties," said Arthur, "that Nellie has no need to be ashamed, as she is always helping everybody, and being just as kind as she can be."
"Arthur always praises me," said Nellie; "but now, Walter, we will question you. What are you going to do?"
"Ah, that's it, is it? Well and good; but I do not mean to tell you that to-day. Is that hard? I am only going to give you a hint, which will last you till to-morrow to think about. I shall not even explain a word about it, and just leave you this text to think of. I will tell you my little plans to-morrow."
He drew from his pocket a well-worn little Bible, and turning over the leaves soon found these words: "'Ye are not your own. For ye are bought with a price: therefore glorify God in your body, and in your spirit, which are God's.'"
* * * * * *
After tea, Walter proposed a game at rounders. Ada and Arthur were capital players; Netta and Isabel were not to be despised; and the game went on with great spirit. Nellie said she would rather watch, and she held the baby while the nurse and Simmons did the final packing up; and then she sent them to explore the castle.
At seven o'clock the carriage and the donkeys came up the road leading to the cottage, and Tom was told to give a loud whistle to collect the party. The advent of the donkeys was a fresh delight. The children did not need much telling as to which steed to choose. They were soon off; the donkeys were on their homeward road, and knew it; and the children had plenty of jogging before they had done. Bump, bump, they went, until Nellie said she should be too stiff to walk to-morrow. Ada and Arthur declared they did not mind a bit, and let the animals go at any pace they chose; only sorry that they soon distanced the others, and had to bump along without the pleasant sympathy of fellow-sufferers. It was all fun, however, and perhaps the greatest enjoyment of that enjoyable day.
By the time all reached the farm, they were pretty well tired out. Tom was carried up to his mother's room, and she and Simmons quickly and tenderly undressed him, and laid him in his little bed. Nurse meanwhile did the same for her baby; Dolly had a few tears, but denied that she was the least tired. Nevertheless, before Nellie had well tucked her up, she was fast asleep. The rest were glad to take arm-chairs, sofas, or stools, and to rest quietly; while Mrs. Arundel took out the interesting book she was reading to them and offered to begin.
"You are as tired as anybody, mamma?" said Ada, yawning.
"No; I have not been shaken to pieces by a delightful donkey!" answered Mrs. Arundel. "I can easily read, if you all like. We will have supper early, and go to bed soon. Netta and Isabel, do you care to sit up?"
"Oh, yes, please mamma! We would not miss that book for anything!"
"Very well; just one chapter then."
CHAPTER VIII.
SETTING TO WORK.
WHEN Walter and Arthur were returning together next morning from their early bath, Walter referred to the conversation of the previous evening.
"Have you thought at all about it, Arthur?" he asked.
"On and off I have thought about that sort of thing for a good while," said Arthur, reddening; "but I do not quite see what you want me to do now."
"That I am going to explain to you all after breakfast; but there is one thing that comes first by rights, and that is to remember the opening words of our text."
"'Ye are not your own,'" assented Arthur.
"Yes; not our own at all. Servants to do the will of another. Are you His or your own, dear Arthur?"
"I should like to be His, but I don't know yet," answered the boy in a low tone.
"'Ask, and ye shall receive,'" said Walter earnestly; and no more was said till they reached the farm.
When the children assembled at breakfast, to their surprise they found a text, nicely painted, pinned by its four corners to their dining room wall. They could all see it, for it was large; they could all read it, for it was plain: "Ye are not your own. For ye are bought with a price: therefore glorify God in your body, and in your spirit, which are God's."
"Who did it?" said Ada.
"I guess," said Isabel, looking at her eldest brother.
"It is a message for you all," said mamma gently. "But now, dears, to breakfast, and we can talk about the text afterwards."
When the first clatter of knives and forks had subsided, and the cups had been filled the second time, Walter began to explain his plans.
"You all know that there are many children down here, come like yourselves for a summer holiday. Of these many, no doubt, are from Christian families, and have been taught about God and the Bible as you have. But there are others who have heard very little of Jesus, or having heard, have not cared. Should we not like to reach even one of these children who have never heard?"
Several sympathising eyes were raised to Walter's.
"I know we should; but I see the question on your lips—How? Well, there are several ways; but the way that seems easiest to me is to try and gather them together on the sands, and tell them about Jesus."
"Oh, I have read of that!" said Nellie, "But could you, Walter?"
"I think we could manage it all together."
"I could not do anything," said Ada decidedly; "I should hate to be seen going about like that."
"Yes, I know it needs a little bit of self-denial at first; but if we remember our text, that will help us," he answered, glancing at the opposite wall.
"But we can't preach," said Arthur; "and you said you had something for us all to do."
"So I have. Nellie can sing, Ada can sing, so can Isabel and Netta a little; the rest can give round hymn papers, invite the children, and join in looking pleased and happy to see them come."
"I can't," said Ada; "for I shall dislike it extremely."
"We shall see," answered her brother patiently; "meanwhile, Ada, think of our text, dear, and try not to say anything to discourage the others. And then we must pray."
"Pray?" said Arthur.
"For God's blessing on what we do; for His help to get the children together; for His Holy Spirit to send the arrow to the dear little hearts. When we get to the beach, I will set you all to work. I have brought some hymn sheets with me."
Nellie felt the responsibility great of being considered "able to sing," And as they all with beating hearts walked down to the shore, she said to her brother, "I am afraid you count on me too much. I can start the tune, or I will try to, but my voice is not very loud, and if the children do not catch it up, I am afraid—"
"Don't be afraid," said Walter; "it will be sure to be all right, and someone will be there, I daresay, who will help. Think of our text."
Nellie smiled, reassured, and they soon reached the beach, where Walter set the children to work to make a circle on the sand. Tom's little carriage was wheeled into one side of it, and while the children were diligently digging a trench round the circle, Walter took a cane and wrote on the smooth sand in the centre what he called "their text."
When this was done, he began inviting a few children who stood near to help them. "We are going to have a little service," he said, "only lasting half an hour, and we want you to come and sing a few hymns; will you?"
Some of the children stared; others turned away; but one or two, who had seen the same sort of thing at other places, joined very heartily, and the circle was soon made, and some of the children began seating themselves with their feet in the trench.
Mrs. Arundel had her camp stool close to little Tom, and she too would be able to help the singing.
They were to begin at half-past eleven. The hymn sheets were handed round; and when Walter had given out in a clear voice the number, and read one verse of "A charge to keep I have," Nellie in rather trembling tones set the tune.
If Ada had not loved Nellie she told herself that she would not have joined, but in order to help her sister she did her best. And before the end of the first verse, the children took it up, and the hymn went well to the end.
Nellie found a lovely voice helping, close behind her, but was too nervous to turn; but when they all sat down she caught a glimpse of Miss Arbuthnot's dress, and guessed it was she who had sung so sweetly.
"Walter said we should find someone," thought Nellie thankfully; but she had no time to think more, for Walter, who was standing close to the upper end of the little circle, began in his pleasant voice—
"Now, children, can you all read our teat? It is upside down to a few of you; but see, I have written it so as to be read by those at the bottom, and I know it by heart. Let me see if you can all say it after me—'Ye are not your own. For ye are bought with a price: therefore glorify God in your body, and in your spirit, which are God's.'
"Now I shall only keep you half an hour altogether; and as we are going to sing two hymns there will not be too much time, so I hope you will all be very attentive, and be able to tell your mammas every word I say.
"'You are not your own!' Now whom do you belong to?"
He paused, and looked round the little circle.
"Some of you will say, I belong to mamma; some of you will say, I belong to papa, or to my grandparents, or to whoever has the charge of you. But whom do you belong to?
"It says here—can you read it?—'Your body and your spirit are God's.' Yes, you belong to God; therefore you must serve Him! Some of you love to please those who have the charge of you. Now do you not? How nice it is to hear one who loves you say, 'That is a good boy!' 'That is a good girl!' Yes, I know you do. But much, much more you will like to hear God say to you, 'Well done, good and faithful servant!'
"YOU BELONG TO GOD! This is what I want you to remember to-day!
"There was once a little boy—he was a slave in South America—whose master was very hard and cruel, often having him beaten when he had done no harm, and teaching him many cruel and wicked ways.
"One day a traveller came to this hard master's plantation. He was driven to take shelter there while a swarm of locusts passed over. His horse refused to go a step further, and turning in at the gate, he asked if he might remain there for a few hours. Leave was readily given; for people are very hospitable in South America, and this little slave was sent forward to put the stranger's horse in the stable.
"The traveller noticed the miserable plight of the poor boy, and gave him a kind word, at which the boy looked up astonished. He pitied the little slave, and afterwards, conversing with the master of the plantation, offered to buy him.
"'What, Harry?' said the master. 'He is a rascal, as idle as can be! But if you want him you shall have him, at my price; but you'll repent it!'
"The traveller paid the price, and by-and-by went out to find his horse and his slave. The boy was lying under a verandah; not attempting to work, but thinking how he could be idle, and yet avoid a fresh beating.
"The traveller strolled up to him. 'Harry,' he said, 'why do you not work?'
"'No good working, massa,' answered the boy sullenly. 'Harry work, gets a beating; Harry no work, gets beating too. So Harry please 'self, and no work.'
"'But I want you to untie my horse,' said the traveller.
"'Yes, massa,' said the boy, rousing himself a little at the mild tone; 'I get your horse for you.'
"'But you are mine, Harry; I have bought you!'
"'Yours, massa?' said the boy, leaping up. 'Yours? Why me not know dat; me do anything in worl' for you, massa!'
"The traveller smiled. 'Will you, Harry? And why will you do anything in the world for me?'
"''Cause massa's kind,' said the boy huskily; ''cause massa say nice words; 'cause massa's bought me from my cruel old massa!'
"Yes, children, you are not your own; you are bought with a price! What price? Is it money? No! Something much more precious than money! What can it be?
"God has plenty of money, but that would not do for you! He had only one precious thing that would do to buy you! What was it? For He gave it! The Bible says, 'Bought with the precious blood of Christ!' It was His own only Son! Yes; He gave His Son for all of you! Will you spring up as Harry did, and say to God, 'I did not know that; I will do anything in the world for you'?
"Now all repeat our text once more: 'Ye are not your own. For ye are bought with a price: therefore glorify God in your body, and in your spirit, which are God's.'"
By this time quite a little group had gathered together; but most of the inner circle had been too absorbed to notice. They now sang another hymn, which was well taken up; and after two or three words of prayer to ask God's blessing, the little party broke up, just as the clock near the beach struck twelve.
"Was it so very dreadful?" Walter said to Ada; but she turned away hastily, and would have nothing to say about it.
The children now dispersed to their digging or bathing; Walter and Arthur pushed Tom off on a promised expedition; and Miss Arbuthnot sat down by Nellie and Mrs. Arundel.
"Thank you for helping us so nicely," said Nellie. "We all felt it rather an ordeal, never having done such a thing before; but—"
"So it was; and it only shows what may be done with a little courage."
"Yes; and Walter has so much. He is truly brave."
"Your brother?"
"My own dear brother!"
CHAPTER IX.
CHRISTINA.
THREE months before this, two visitors were sitting in one of the large houses in South Bay. The blinds were down, and the room, though large and handsome, seemed dull and cheerless.
"Dear father," said the girl, addressing the old man tenderly, "you will feel better for a cup of tea."
"No, my dear, I think not," he answered quietly.
"To please me, dear father," she still persisted.
And the old man allowed her to persuade him into drinking half a cup, but he would not eat or come to the table.
Christina ate a slice of bread and butter mechanically, and swallowed her tea, and had an almost guilty feeling when she felt less unutterably desolate than she had done half an hour ago.
Her mother had died early in the afternoon. As yet the real desolation had not swept over her. That would be, perhaps, when she had ministered all she could to her bereaved father, and came to lay her head on her pillow at night. Yes; the sorrow must wait till then.
She seated herself again by the arm-chair, and softly stroked her father's hand. She felt anxious about him. He had given way to no sorrow, had not, broken down in any way; but she thought he looked exceedingly pale, and there was a gravity about him which she did not quite like.
He soon took her hand in his, with a mute intimation that he did not wish to be stroked. And after a long silence, he said gravely, "Christina, my child, I do not think it will be long ere I follow your mother home."
"Dear father," she answered deprecatingly, "do not say so; you will feel better soon, I hope."
"I do not say it lightly, my dear; nor can I tell you why I think so; but I feel assured of it."
Christina's heart gave a strange leap, and she felt powerless to say anything to break the spell, as it were, of her father's words. It was like walking with her eyes open over a frightful precipice. She shuddered.
"My dear child," he continued quietly, "you have been a good daughter to us—God bless you!—now I want to leave a few directions with you in case it should be as I think it will. You will have enough to live on; plenty for you, and a friend to take care of you. Christina, I should like you to ask your aunt Mary to come and live with you. Promise me."
Christina, even in that bitter hour, felt a certain repugnance to comply with her father's wish in this respect; but how could she hesitate? She would have time to talk it over with him another day—not now; oh, not now!
So she promised. "Anything you wish, my precious father!" she said, with anguish in her voice.
"I do wish it; I know it will be best—for a few years at any rate, my child."
They sat on in deep silence for some time longer. Then he spoke again; but this time the voice was not grave and authoritative, but loving and simple: "Christina, your mother and I have loved each other for forty years. We have never been separated for a single day; we have walked hand in hand all our pilgrimage; she has gone just a little way in front, and I am following. My dear, let no one think I am following her. Oh, blessed, blessed truth!
"'He calleth His own sheep by name, and leadeth them out.'
"It is Jesus we follow, my dear. He has taken her this afternoon across the water, and He tells me He thinks it is time for me to go too. But if He did not, my dear, I should have to wait; yes, wait patiently for the Lord.
"My child," he said again, clasping her hand tightly, "you must wait for the Lord! I had hoped we should all welcome Him together when He came; but He knows best!"
As the room darkened, Christina's desolation crept over her. She still believed her dear father would feel better to-morrow; but, oh, why could not she raise her head and trust in her God? What was this anguish at her heart which made her shudder to think she should never, never hear her mother's voice again? All the tenderness that she had received from her, all her own waywardness in past times, all the sins of her youth, flashed over her mind.
"Closed for ever," she said to herself; "that book can never be opened again."
The room grew darker still. She ventured to chafe the fingers of the loved hand she held. He did not respond; and she rose to light the gas, feeling for the first time that perhaps she ought to speak to the doctor about her father's low condition. But the fingers did not yield as usual to her movement, and, terrified, she called him over and over again. Then she stooped and kissed his forehead; it was cold; and at that moment she knew that he too had been safely carried through the dark river, and landed on the other side.
When supper-time had passed, and the maid at last entered the room, the sight that met her eyes remained printed on her memory for many a long day. In the arm-chair sat the dear old gentleman who had won all their hearts, and kneeling before him, with her arms tightly clasped round his neck, and her face buried in his breast, lay his daughter. Worn out by long watching, spent with grief, and finding comfort for a few moments in her passionate embrace, Christina had fallen asleep.
The people at the lodgings dared not wake her, but sent quickly for the doctor, who lived near. He soon came; and in a moment whispered that "their care must be for her."
A small mattress was lifted in; her clinging arms were tenderly loosened, and she was laid upon it, and borne into the next room.
"He was all I had left," she murmured, as her head touched the pillow—"all but Jesus."
CHAPTER X.
BEREFT OF ALL.
WHEN the slumber passed away, which had mercifully deadened Christina's sensations, she started up with a bewildered look round the room.
It was the bedroom her father had lately occupied. But no father lay in the bed. She also found herself dressed in her clothes, and on a bed on the floor.
Her father; where was he? Was he still sitting in the chair—so cold! Could she not go and entreat him to rest?
She hurried to her feet; and as her senses became more fully awakened, she began to have a certain dim perception that it would be of no use to go to her father. Still she went. She opened the door noiselessly, and stood on the quiet landing, in the still early morning before anyone was up. Then she hesitated, and finally very cautiously opened the drawing room door. The room was very still—very, very still, she felt. She looked towards the arm-chair, and then she remembered more of what had happened. Then her glance took in the sofa, hidden under a snowy covering.
She knew now; knew all. She went up to it gently, and softly lifting the sheet, gazed on the features. Then she stooped and kissed the forehead tenderly.
"My beloved!" she said quietly, in a low caressing tone.
Turning away, she went softly upstairs. In the room above lay the other loved one. She entered and, as she had done downstairs, lifted the covering, and looked once more on this face too. She meant to be very strong, and after softly kissing her mother's forehead was again turning away, when a horror of great darkness fell upon her, and throwing herself on her knees she gave way to the wildest weeping.
"Mother, mother!" she sobbed, "Why did you both leave me? My mother! My father! I am bereft of all!"
She wept on till it seemed as if she had no more tears to weep, and then she lay exhausted. Her own words kept on coming back to her—"Bereft of all!" Ah! No one knew but her father and mother what she had lost, only such a little while ago. No one could comfort her now—no one!
Did no one know? In her anguish the words of peace stole over her heart,—
"As one whom his mother comforteth, so will I comfort you;"
"When my father and my mother forsake me, then the Lord will take
me up."
Over and over again the words seemed repeated to her distracted heart; and after a time her faith began to take hold of them.
"I know it, Lord," she whispered; "why did I forget? Thou art my portion! Thou dost comfort me!"
She rose now, and not daring to glance again at the bed, she went back into the chamber where she had slept.
She washed her face and smoothed her hair, put her dress to rights that she might look somewhat as usual, as if with a feeling of loyalty towards Him who was taking her in His keeping; and then she descended to the dining room and rang the bell. The maid answered it quickly.
"It is early," said Christina; "but I should like some breakfast, Ellen, as soon as you can."
"Yes, miss," said Ellen, regarding her with sorrowful and awestruck face.
"I have seen my dear father," she said gravely, in a steady voice; "and you know, Ellen, he is where he wished to be—with Jesus; so we must think of him so!"
"Yes, miss," said Ellen, weeping.
But Christina gently pointed towards the table, as if she could not bear much more, and the girl hastily disappeared.
"She's like a ghost," she said downstairs, "for all she's so quiet; and she would not let me talk to her, nor tell her how sorry I am."
"Better not, my dear," said the landlady kindly; "she has been up in her mother's room this long time, for I saw her go in; and the best thing you can do is to get her a cup of tea as quickly as you can."
* * * * * *
In the long, quiet days which followed, Christina had ample time to recollect her promise to her father. Tender as was the memory of that conversation, dutiful as Christina was, she sought hard for some excuse to evade the keeping of her promise.
"He would never have asked it from me if he had known how it would add to my distress," she said to herself.
"To have fixed on her, above all people; she is so particular; and—Oh, I do wish he had not asked it!"
Still he had asked it, and she had promised it, and very soon her conscience told her there could be no evading this duty. She had given directions that this aunt should be asked to the funeral. And she herself, now her mind was made up, wrote a little note inviting her to stay with her for a while. She could not make herself give a more definite invitation.
The day before her loved ones were carried to the grave, Miss Arbuthnot came. Christina met her at the drawing room door, and led her in, looking in her face to see if she could do anything towards filling the void at her heart. Her aunt pressed her hand earnestly, but did not speak, and Christina undid her wrappings without a word.
"Shall I be able to see them?" at length Miss Arbuthnot said in a low tone.
"I thought you would wish it; they are here," she answered, drawing her aunt into the back room. Side by side, in the centre of the room, lay the two peaceful faces, prepared for their long rest till the resurrection morning. Christina made no remark; but when her aunt had printed an agitated kiss on the two faces, and they were turning away, she said solemnly, "I have come to feel it is better as it is; I do not know what I could have done with one without the other. They loved each other so tenderly. I am thankful it is as it is."
Thus Christina and her aunt settled down to their joint life. Christina found her a very different companion from what she had feared. God's grace had done much for Miss Arbuthnot. The loss of a favourite nephew had almost broken her heart, and driven her to find comfort in God; and now she could better sympathise with Christina's loss, and behaved as wisely and as tenderly as was possible.
Thus the sacrifice on Christina's part was rendered less great than she anticipated, and by-and-by she began to perceive some of the reasons which might have made her father exact from her that promise. Her generous heart soon told her that her aunt was very lonely living by herself, and incidentally she gathered that when her father died, some of her aunt's income ceased.
"Doubtless he knew that," thought Christina; "and I believe he trusted me to be good to her. I will."
Thus Christina obeyed in "the letter and the spirit," and found increasing happiness in doing so.
CHAPTER XI.
THE LIFE-BOAT.
"BROTHER," said Netta, on Saturday morning, "are you going to have a little service to-day?"
"Yes, every day, dear, if the children come to listen."
"Oh, no fear of that!" said Arthur. "We had quite a crowd."
"But what shall we do when there is only shingle?" said Ada.
"Then we must collect a circle of stones to sit on, and get the children to heap up shingle for seats."
"It will not be so nice," said Ada.
"No, not quite; but I do not think we shall mind."
"What a quantity of hymn sheets you will want!" said Isabel.
"One apiece, all round, every morning!" said Arthur.
"Well," answered Walter, "it is another way of giving away tracts, as some do. You see these are all sweet little hymns, and often sink into the heart when other words are forgotten."
"I see," said Arthur; "so you look at giving those away as some part of the work you want us to do?"
"For God," added his brother.
"Yes; I meant that," said Arthur.
"Shall we always sing the same?" asked Ada.
"No; I have twelve different sorts. That will be a change, you see, for twelve days; and then begin again."
"I wonder what the children do with the hymns?" said Nellie.
"I have heard," answered Mrs. Arundel, "that the children sometimes make little cardboard portfolios to hold them, as, if they love the hymns, they do not like to lose them and get them scattered."
"I wonder how they are made?" said Ada.
"I will show you," answered their mother, "if you will buy some cardboard and narrow ribbon in the town to-day."
"Oh, do, mamma! And that will be something to do after it gets dark."
About eleven o'clock Walter appeared on the sands, and began to select the spot for his little service. While his helpers were digging out the trench as they did the day before, Walter wrote his text on a smooth place on the sand—
"CHRIST JESUS CAME INTO THE WORLD
TO SAVE SINNERS;"
And underneath this he drew a picture of the life-boat belonging to South Bay, with which they were all familiar. Many inquiring glances were directed to the text and the picture; and very soon more and more children brought their spades and began to help. Nurses and mothers grouped themselves near: the promised shortness of the service being a great attraction to many.
"I wonder what it will be about?" said a child to Ada, who was busily digging out sand.
"You will see," answered Ada; "I guess the life-boat has something to do with it."
"I suppose it has; but I do not see how."
Just before half-past eleven, Christina came up to Mrs. Arundel, and sat down close to little Tom. Tom turned his head with a pleased look.
"I like your singing; I wish you would always come by me," he said.
"So I will, when I am here. Did you like it yesterday, Tom?" she said softly, looking in his face with her dark eyes.
"Yes," said Tom, hesitating; "but it was not meant for me. I cannot do anything for God!"
"Can you not, dear? I think you can. I will tell you another time. See! They are going to begin."
Walter now gave out, "Safe in the arms of Jesus," which they sang through; and then he asked the children to read his text over as on the day before.
"'Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners.'"
"What did He come for, dear children?"
"To save sinners."
"Now you see underneath our text a picture; what is it a picture of?"
"A life-boat," said a number of voices.
"And what is a life-boat for?"
"To save men from drowning," answered Arthur, after a short pause.
"Quite right," said Walter. "Now all of you,—What is a life-boat for?"
"To save men from drowning," answered all.
"Now, children, you have the key to understand what our text means. You have often heard that text before; but I do not suppose you have ever thought about Jesus being like a life-boat, have you? No, I daresay not; and that is why I want you to think about Him in quite a new light to-day.
"Not far from here, one very stormy day, a vessel was driven, by the violence of the waves, on to that sandbank over there."
All eyes followed Walter's; and now on this calm sunshiny morning, far out at sea, there was a little gleaming line of white to be seen near the horizon.
"There is the sandbank! Even on this calm day, when we have hardly a ripple here, the waves dash and foam over there; but if they do so in this weather, what must it be in a storm?
"That day the gale was very, very severe; and the coastguard watching heard a signal of distress, and very soon the brave sailors had manned the life-boat, and she was on her way to the wreck.
"What do the people on board that sinking vessel think when they see the life-boat battling with the waves, yet steadily and surely coming nearer and nearer? Do you think they are glad? Or do you think they do not care? Ah, they know their danger! Soon, soon their ship will sink; soon the waves which now wash over almost every part of the vessel must engulf them. No doubt whether they are glad!
"The life-boat comes nearer. Between the awful breakers they can see her, rising and falling. She is close now. For a moment the rush of the waves lessens.
"The brave men seize their opportunity. 'Jump!' they shout—'Jump!' Several obey, and are safe; but the giant waves rush forward, and the lift-boat is carried far beyond the wreck.
"'How many are left?' shouts the captain.
"'Five,' is answered back in a voice of despair!
"'Oh, don't leave us behind!'
"'No, no!' says the captain, and they put the head of the life-boat towards the ship again.
"A man stands on the edge of the vessel. He grasps a heavy bag. The boat comes nearer again.
"You'll never jump with that,' cries one standing near him.
"'I cannot leave it behind, it is everything I possess,' answers the man.
"The boat is borne close on another wave.
"'Jump!' shouts the captain once more, and four of the perishing ones obey. But the man who holds the bag of gold hesitates one moment, then, as the life-boat is carried back on the relentless wave, with a shriek, he springs forward. The boat is too far off! The bag which he still grasps in his hand becomes entangled, and drags him down and down, and still holding it, he sinks, never to rise again.
"The life-boat bears her freight of saved men and women safely to land; and you can imagine the rejoicing when they arrive there."
* * * * * *
"Long before this, children, you will have made your own application of my subject; so I will not be long.
"Jesus is our Life-boat. We are on a sinking ship! The waves of our sins are washing over us! Do any of you doubt it? Have you ever felt a sin? Have you ever done a thing that you would not like your mamma to see? I know that each of you at this moment is confessing to yourself with a prick at your heart, 'I should not like her to have seen that!' Well, then, if so, the waves of your sins will sink you.
"Oh, children, we all need the Life-boat! Here it is:
"'Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners.'
"The Life-boat is come close to every one of you to-day. Will you jump? It may never come so near you again. Jump now! Jump now, children! Do not be like the man that held back, who wanted to take his earthly things with him. You can't do it, dear children. You must leave all behind; think of nothing but the Life-boat, and that will carry you safely to every blessing. Jump into the Life-boat now, children! Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners.'"