Ruth Earnley. A tale

Front matter

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Chapter I

It was with feeling-s scarcely less painful than those with which I had anticipated Bessie Graham's departure, that I saw the month Miss Sinclair had allotted as the period of her stay with us, drawingto a close. It had been to me the happiest month I had spent for many, many years, and although I neither possessed at present the full assurance of faith, nor yet that fervent love to Christ which causes His people to take pleasure in every sacrifice they may be called upon to make on His account, still I could through Him approach the Father with some degree of childlike confidence, and VOL. III. B say, " Lord, I beHeve ; help thou mine un belief." Miss Sinclair was so uniformly gentle and friendly, if not absolutely affectionate to me now, that I had for some time had it on my mind to ask her whence arose the exceeding coldness and apparent dislike she had manifested towards me on our first acquaintance.

At length an opportunity occurred, and I put the question with some degree of timidity, and with all the sincere respect that Miss Sinclair had so deservedly won from me. "Will you tell me frankly," she said, "why you have asked this, if indeed you have any other motive than curiosity V ' Aunt Katherine's plainness of speech had long* ceased to surprise or offend me, so I replied without hesitation, K I will not affirm that curiosity has nothing" to do with the matter, but I think there are better motives mingling with it. I have an idea that I may learn something* useful by your ex planation, since I feel assured that your eonduct towards me was not the result of merely personal antipathy, which even had you felt, you would have endeavoured not to show." " Why might it not have arisen from the entire want of sympathy that must ever exist between those who are serving God and those who are in bondage to the world ?"

" Because, in the first place, the Scriptures give Christians no warrant for behaving with coldness and severity towards those who are 1 without ;' and because, in the second place, your conduct towards Edward is so very dif ferent from what it was (at the time to which I am alluding) to me." a Yes, you have thus far considered the matter justly. It would ill become one whom the grace of God has enlightened to manifest a cold, unfriendly spirit towards any who are still in darkness. Very different was the conduct of our gracious Master, in whose footsteps we seek and profess to follow. But how did he behave with those who while making* an outward profession of religion, and speakinggreat things of their own righteousness, proved by their conformity to a sinful world, by their covetousness and other unholy practices, that the spirit of Christ had never had any place in their hearts, — that they were, in fact, but as whited sepulchres which appear beautiful without, but within are full of dead men's bones and all uncleanness."

" But I was not making any particular profession of religion at the time of our first acquaintance." " You had been doing so, if I was rightly informed, and as your own confessions to me not long ago likewise testified. Perhaps I should tell you that I knew much of your former history when I came to see you as a bride, and that the conduct which appeared so strange to you was determined on before We met." " You regarded me then as a mere pro fessor, who had never known the grace of God, and who was consequently not entitled to be received as a friend and a sister by one of His children 1" " I do not say that I did ; I only wish you to understand that, as far as I knew, it might have been so, and that on this assump tion I was justified in treating you with the coldness and reserve that I should not think of manifesting to one who made no profession of religion.

But it mio*ht also have been that you were a child of God ; a disobedient child, walking disorderly, sinning against the light you had received, and bringing disgrace upon the holy name of Christian, by which you had been called. My first interview with you inclined me rather to this latter opinion, and I could not therefore do other wise than treat you in the manner I did." " Yet does not the Apostle say, ' Brethren, if a man be overtaken in a fault, ye which are spiritual restore such an one in the spirit of meekness, considering thyself lest thou also be tempted.' " " Yes, but that supposes a sudden tempta tion yielded to, but repented of, not a con tinuance in the path of error. Now had you been really an enlightened child of God, your union with an unbeliever, your conformity to the world, your constant mingling* in un christian society, would have been quite enough to place you amongst those disorderly walkers, from whom the Apostle commanded all godly Christians to withdraw themselves — that is, to avoid treatingthem with the affection and familiarity that they would evince towards the obedient brethren."

" I see now fully the grounds on wliich you acted, and of course you were justified in all your conduct ; but may I still venture to say that I think, in most cases, a person so situated would be more likely to be led back by gentleness and persuasion, than by a treatment the reverse of this." "We have no right to suppose that we know better than God ; and although there are cases in which we are told even while ( having no company ' with an erring be liever, to l admonish him as a brother,' yours did not appear to me a case of this kind. I could not undo what you had done ; I could not persuade you to be disobedient to your husband; and besides this, I was by no means sure that you had ever been anything" but an empty professor after all." " Yet I am sure you might, even at that time, have obtained a considerable influence over me."

" Not if I had flattered and caressed you as your other friends had done. I had heard enough to be convinced that you had been treated far too tenderly, and I knew that if I was to be made the instrument of doing" you any good, it must be by means .wholly different from those which had hitherto been employed so fruitlessly for your benefit." " Then you did desire to do me good, even then?" " Most earnestly ; and be very sure I did not forg*et to serve you in the best way that at that time was open to me — nay, in the best way that at any time we can serve each other — at the mercy seat of Christ." From the period of this conversation my affection for dear aunt Katherine grew rapidly, and though she was never in the least de- EtJTH EAENLEY. monstrative herself, she treated me with a g*entle kindness and familiarity that amply repaid the love I bestowed on her.

Never theless the faithful monitor had not passed from the scene, and while our guest remained with us there was little fear of my forg*etting the many frailties that still clung* to me, or of sinking into slothfulness concerningthe things that belonged to my peace. " What I fear for you most," said Miss Sinclair, just before she bade me good bye, u is the sin of idolatry, than which none is more utterly displeasingto the Lord. You cling too entirely, too absorbingly to your children, particularly to Willie, and I am afraid if this continues that you will need a sharper rod than any that has yet been lifted against you." " What can I do ? I must love them, and love is always a passion with me." " Yes, you must and you ought to love them, but you need not make idols of them. Inordinate affection is among* the fruits of the flesh, and should have no part in our spiritual nature.

I speak with the intention only of warning you, that you may look well to yourself, and endeavour to escape the human sufferings that a persistence in the sin of idolatry will entail upon you. I know that if you are God's child he will take care to get your heart by some means or other into his own possession." " I fear I shall be often stumbling when vou are no longer beside me." " If you depend in the slightest degree on my arm to hold you up, it is indeed high time that I was away. Let us not insult our Divine Master by assuming that there is not in Him a sufficiency for every possible spiritual want of his disciples. Christian fellowship and Christian society are good, but a dependence on Christ alone is infinitely better." " You will pray for me that I may soon learn to feel this, for it is too true that at present I am very far from such a spiritual state of mind."

" You must expect much both from within B and from without to contend against, for re member always that the position in which you so unwisely placed yourself is in no way altered, and that you are likely to feel its inevitable evils even more when you are walk ing with God than you did while in a state of alienation from Him." a Oh, if Edward could be brought to the truth !" " This must be the subject of your constant earnest prayer, and of your most diligent and affectionate efforts when he is with you ; but should you after all make no impression, should your husband remain as careless and worldly as ever, do not let your heart on this account become estranged from him, remembering always that God alone can give lig'ht to the darkened soul, and that you married Edward knowing him to be an unbeliever.'" " How true it is that one false step in life involves us in a net from which there is no possibility of extricating* ourselves."

" And how comforting to the believer to know that even his false steps, even his sins Il and ignorances, shall all eventually work together for his good, however rough and thorny may be the road over which they will lead him." " Yes, but are we not more apt to look down in despair at this rough and thorny road which our foolishness has obliged us to travel, than up to the 'glorious land of rest, where we shall at length learn how necessary this journey has been for us ?" " If we do so, it is our own fault : God does not require us to be for ever dwelling on our past sins, or mourning over their inevitable consequences. He puts us upon a rough road, not because he has any pleasure in punishing his people, but because we require discipline. The stars of heaven are however all shining brightly above our heads, and what shall hinder us from gazing up at them, and forgetting in their surpassing beauty the unpleasantness of the rugged road beneath our feet."

" But even if we could do this, would it be right to lose altogether the remembrance of those sins for which God is intending to chastise us?" " Never fear. What God means to do, He will do. Whenever His wisdom sees it to be necessary He will cause our feet to stumble upon some sharp stone which will effectually remind us of our past foolishness. But I think we may in all confidence leave the discipline to Him, and not fear to look up at the stars at those times when we are walking on without any particular let or hindrance." " How often I wish I could obey implicitly that injunction of the Apostle, which says, ' Be careful for nothing, but in everything with prayer and supplication let your requests be made known unto God.' This would be a high attainment of Christian faith, would it not?"

" Not so high but what the humblest disciple may aspire to it. The Apostle addressed the whole body of his converts, some of whom must have been but l babes in Christ,' and he certainly would not have enjoined as a general duty that which the very weakest amongst them would have been incapable of performing." " When you tell me a thing, I am per fectly convinced of its truth ; but somehow I cannot as regards myself, succeed in realiz ing it." " No, because you differ in some extra ordinary and mysterious manner from all the human race — you have nothing in common with your fellow sinners — you require another revelation, another gospel written expressly for yourself. Is it not so ?" " Oh, Miss Sinclair " " Nay, this is what your constant repu diation of the gospel promises, and the gospel comforts, implies.

There is indeed no more rational way of settling the question." I really don't know what there was about Miss Sinclair so different to every other person I have ever met ; but certain it is that whether she spoke with the stern gravity which I have heard her assume, or with the simple earnest persuasion that was perhaps the most natural to her, or with the quiet, good tempered irony that dictated the words I have just recorded, she never failed to produce an effect verging towards the one she aimed at, and to leave an impression on the mind concerning her own singular powers of persuasion, that was altogether remarkable. I owe much, very much to her whom I had so long despaired of g'aining for a friend, and the strongest words I can use are inadequate to convey a just idea of the many and varied excellencies combined in that one character.

The children, like myself, were quite inconsolable at the thoughts of aunt Kathe rine's departure. She had been so unwearied in her attentions to them, so sympathizing in all their childish pleasures, so patient in listening* to all their childish griefs, so ten derly indulgent to all their acknowledged faults and weaknesses, and yet at the same time so firm and stedfast in pointing them to the truth, that her influence over them both was unbounded, and I am sure that Willie loved and looked up to dear aunt Katherine with a devotion only second to that which he felt for me. He never forgot his first idea about her being like a grown up angel, and the more I saw of Miss Sinclair the more I was able to understand this childish thought, for there was something about aunt Katherine's face when she was in a silent mood that was exceedingly pure and saint-like, that often reminded me irresistibly of our Lord's words, " Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God."

At length the dreaded parting came, and I was only prevented from giving way to violent grief by the calm, unruffled manner of aunt Katherine herself, and by the tone of mild rebuke in which she quoted the first verse of a hymn that was a favourite with both of us. " How can we mourn the loss of friends While Jesus still is near — How dare the saints His love has bless'd Shed one repining tear 1" " I will try to be good," I said chokingly, " but you must allow a little for natural feeling — I am still very, very weak." "Never tell me that again," she replied gravely, " I don't like to hear Christians talk of their weakness. It either proceeds from a false humility or from a misappre hension of what they can and what they have to do. c Go forward,' is God's command to His people. Moses knew nothing of the power given unto him while he stood still on the shores ofthe Red Sea, but when he obej'ed the command to go forward, the mighty waves divided in the midst, and he and all his company passed through on dry land."

The children hastily wiped their tearful eyes, and came up with quiet though very pale faces for aunt Katherine's farewell kiss. " Now mind," she said, " that you both set a good example to mama, and only remember aunt Katherine to profit by the lessons she has tried to teach you. Willie and Mary have had few trials yet to endure, and therefore their minds ought to be strong and cheerful. Mama has known sorrow and care, and it is the part of her little children to cheer and enliven her when other friends are absent. If I am spared, I hope to come again to Ashvale one of these days, and to find Willie and Mary growing in strength and knowledge — above all, in the knowledge of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ. Now good bye, my children — let me hear of no sorrow and no tears on my account, and if God permit I shall soon send you a friend whom you will speedily learn to love as much as you have loved aunt Katherine."

Her last words to me as she kissed my cheek were — " Wait on the Lord, be of good courage and he shall strengthen thine heart — wait, I say, on the Lord."

Chapter II

Foe many days after the departure of aunt Katherine I felt her loss too acutely to be able to estimate the amount of good her visit had done me, but as my eye grew ac customed to the vacant place, and my children's voices sounded once more merrily in the old orchard, and the remembrance of our friend's parting injunctions began to work upon my heart, I looked up and around me in astonishment and delight, scarcely daring to believe that the heavy clouds of years had really been dispersed, and that the sun was shining steadily, if not brightly, over my little world. Not brightly do I say ! oh yes, it was brightly, radiantly, joyously, while my precious ones, my dear, dear children were still with me, gladdening with their sweet affection every passing hour, and making me almost wonder, at times, where were the sharp and rugged stones of which aunt Katherine had spoken.

I now began, as it were, a new life. I sought opportunities of usefulness beyond my own home ; I took my little ones with me to visit the poor and afflicted ; I felt some real concern for the souls of those around me, and was satisfied to do the small amount of good that lay in my power, with out reference to the applause or approval of any human being. Time, instead of hang ing heavily on my hands, as it had used to do, now glided by so quickly that the days seemed g*one almost as soon as they had arrived, and I often wondered what spell of evil had so long withheld me from striving after the peace and the happiness I at pre sent enjoyed. My soul was resting contentedly by the palm trees of Elim, and it looked not forth into the wilderness that still stretched, with all its yet untried and barren paths, before me.

I heard frequently from Miss Sinclair, and her letters were always a source of pleasure both to me and to the children^ as there were sure to be a few words addressed exclusively to them, which was enough to excite and gladden those pure and innocent httle hearts for the whole day. And one day there came a letter containing news that filled us all with delight. Fanny Cleve had been released from her engage ment, and, after spending a week with Miss Sinclair, she would at once proceed to Ash vale and undertake her charge. Up to this moment I had persuaded myself that something would certainly occur to prevent the accomplishment of aunt Ka therine's plan regarding Fanny's residence with me. It was so exactly what I should have chosen, had a choice been given me, that, long used to disappointments of various kinds, I found it difficult to believe in the reality of the scheme proposed.

But the present letter satisfied or rather removed all my doubts, and assisted by the happy children (who thought having a governess must be — next to having a grand mama or an aunt Katherine — the most de lightful thing in the world) I commenced, with a really joyous heart, the preparations for my friend's arrival. The following week passed swiftly away, we had all something to prepare for Fanny, and I can answer for my own hands never having worked so busily at toilet coverings and bed draperies before, and for Willie's and Mary's brains never having toiled so perseveringly at history and geography on any previous occasion. I had told them that they were to begin their education in good earnest now, and the precious darlings were resolved that their dear new governess should neither have much trouble with them herself, nor find fault with " poor mama's teaching."

How proud I was of them ! how very, very lovely and engaging they appeared to me, and with what eagerness I anticipated the moment when I should present them to her who was henceforth to share with me the delightful task of training my beloved ones both for this world and the next. " To-day, mama, to-day !" said two little joyous voices in my ear one bright autumn morning, as I slowly unclosed my eyes after a rather restless night, and discovered the children standing by my bed side, " have you forgotten about to-day ?" " No, my darlings," I replied, drawing them to me for the first sweet morning kiss ; " I know that our friend is to arrive this evening, and as soon as I am dressed we will all go into the garden and see what flowers we can find to decorate her room." " Oh yes, yes, how nice that will be ; and, mama, may I gather those golden pippins to-day that are left on my own tree ?

They are really getting too ripe, and Miss Cleve will like some apples I am sure after her journey." "I daresay she will like some off your tree, my Willie, and you may] gather them as soon after breakfast as you please." " Oh, thank you, thank you, dear mama, and majr Mary see if her pears are ripe ?" " Yes, we must get everything as nice as we possibly can, but run away now, my cherubs, for it is quite time that mama was dressed and down stairs." We had a very busy, happy day, and the evening, a sweet autumn evening it was, found us almost tired out, but full of eager expectation and delightful excitement con cerning the arrival of her in whose behalf we had so willingly and cheerfully laboured. Mary, who was stronger and healthier than her brother, had been down at least twenty times in the course of the afternoon to the end of the green lane that led from our house to the main road, and the moment her tea was over she began her voyages of observation again, while my Willie (exhausted with his apple and flower gathering) sat patiently at my side in the parlour, asking a hundred questions about everything that came into his little thoughtful head, and receiving my replies with all the gravity of a philosopher of eighty.

My own reflections were leading me far back to the time when I had first met Fanny Cleve at Miss Sinclair's house, and to the many confused and gloomy pictures con nected with that period of my married life. Willie's questions often broke this chain of thought in rather an odd manner. " Dear mama, while you sit and look so grave, where do all your nice thoughts, I mean those thoughts that make you smile and become pretty, go to ?" " I am afraid I am not sufficiently learned to answer you, Willie. I suppose they don't go anywhere in particular, only remain quietly folded up in the brain, against the time when circumstances shall once more call them forth." " Oh — then has everybody, do you think, got a parcel of nice happy thoughts folded away in their brains, mama ?" " Not everybody, Willie, but all who are true Christians and love Jesus Christ in sin cerity, ought to have."

" I fancy aunt Katherine had — don't you, mama ? though perhaps she didn't unfold them quite so often as some people." "lam quite sure she has an abundance of nice and pleasant thoughts, Willie. Now let mama finish out her grave ones, please, darling-." For a few minutes the little voice was hushed, then as if forgetting my request, in his instinctive passion for knowledge, came the second question. " Mama, I heard Mrs. Graham say to you to-day that the little buds would soon be expanding into blossoms — I think expanding was the word — and that then you must expect them to be looking* up at the sun and skies and depending no longer on the parent stem for the supply of all their need — what did Mrs. Graham mean, mama ?" "She meant, my Willie, that by and bye you and your sister would grow into a young man and woman, and that then you would VOL. in.

C have other objects to interest your hearts and to promote your happiness besides your (poor mama.' It was a warning to me not to expect to keep you always to myself." The little face put on its gravest and most thoughtful expression as the pretty lips gave utterance to the idea my words had suggested. " Mama, I don't think you would be at all happy if Mary and I Avere away from you." It was one of those simple and apparently trivial speeches that occasionally afforded me a momentary glimpse into the unfathomable depths of my love for my precious children. On all such occasions I became frightened, absolutely frightened at the intensity of the passion that was revealed to me, and not unfrequently the words, which had once pos sessed such power to alarm my awakened conscience, would recur, with somewhat of their old force, to my mind : — " Whoso loveth son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me !"

" You are looking now, mama, as if all your nice thoughts were gone for ever— don't look like that, please." " Then you must not speak of my losing either 3'ou or your sister, Willie. There are some things, my darling, that even in ima o-ination I am not strongenough to bear." " Poor mama, my own darling mama, I will never leave you ; indeed, indeed, I never will." The dear head with its clustering sunn}* locks was hidden in my bosom, and I could feel the little warm impassioned heart beat ing fast against my own. Aunt Katherine would surely have con demned such demonstration as this, and I was convinced myself that it could not but be unwise to foster in my bo}* an excess of tenderness which might one day prove an occasion of suffering-s whose end it was not easy to foresee. " Run out and find Mary, my pet," I said, as I gently unclasped the little arms that had been twined about my neck * " it is time she came in and rested herself."