Anxiety on Aunt Rossiter's account rendered my sleep that night even more light and broken than on the preceding one. I feared that she might be very ill and require help, and be unable to make me hear her call, and it was with the full impression on my mind that her voice was still sounding in my ears that, for the fourth or fifth time, I awoke and listened. Rathfelder kept two or three little dogs, which rambled about the outside premises and were continually barking, but as nobody seemed at any hour to pay the least attention to them, their trouble was, I thought, quite thrown away. To my annoyance, one began barking now on the balcony. I knew it would disturb poor aunt, and felt sure it was that which had awakened me. Under cover of the noise it was making,I jumped out of bed and softly unlocked my door, to hear whether all was quiet in her room.
With a keen thrill of distress I perceived by the light inside that her room door stood partly open, and I was on the point of running across to ascertain the reason, when, to my amazement and terror, I heard aunt's voice, as if in conversation with some one. Who could it be? Had uncle returned after I came to my room? If so, what had brought him? Or was Charlotte ill? These thoughts flashed through my mind as I stood there hesitating what to do. But then came a sudden dread into my heart keen as steel. Was aunt more ill than she would let me know? and had she sent for either Uncle Rossiter or Dr. Manfred? Scarce conscious of my actions, I stole across the floor noiselessly, for my feet were bare, to the open door of aunt's room.
For the last two nights, being alone, she had shut this door, but when uncle was with her they left it open, and, to prevent draught,a large screen was placed across it inside. Peeping through a chink in this screen, a sight met my eyes which while mind and memory are spared to me will cling to my recollection like a hideous nightmare. Instinctively my eyes sought my aunt's beloved form. She was sitting up in bed, very white and still. Standing beside a table, his back toward me, engaged in unlocking uncle's desk, was the unmistakable figure of Blurdon.
"You may take all you like, and take it without fear; I will never appear against you if you harm us no further," aunt was saying in a tremulous voice. "May that great God who is now looking down upon you, reading the thoughts and intents of your heart, mercifully turn you in time from the error of your ways!"
I could not move, but I heard Blurdon demand whether there was any more money. Then to her expostulation he replied, "You and the other have got jewels worth a deal more than this shabby bit of money. I saw a gold chain on her, I should say, and ofcourse a watch to it; and you've the likes, I'll be bound."
I understood then why he had followed me on the Flats.
"There are my watch and chain on the dressing-table," replied aunt, quietly; and as she spoke she made a movement as if about to rise. Blurdon, with fierce threats, bade her lie still, and tauntingly assured her that he would "go and look up the little girl himself."
The impulse of my feelings when first I came to the door was to rush in and implore Blurdon on my knees not to harm my aunt, yet while I stood trembling I instinctively saw that I should but provoke him to violence. Now a sudden desperate courage seized me. Blurdon had turned to the drawers, and was tossing out the contents of the bag to find another purse. This movement still kept him with his back toward me, and I could not resist at this instant making a step to the left which revealed my white-robed figure to aunt, but not to him.Holding up my finger to enjoin silence, fearing that in the excitement of the moment she might betray me by some exclamation, I made a sign that I was going for help, and, turning round, fled back to my room and shut and locked the door. The ceaseless barking of the little dog, which must have seen the robber through the Venetian blind, providentially rendered every lesser sound indistinct, and slipping my feet into my shoes, I caught up my dressing-gown, and struggling into it on my way, I gently unfastened each door until I reached the balcony.
At the instant of leaving aunt's room I saw her raise her clasped hands and eyes to heaven, and I knew that with them went a prayer to God that he would be my support and safeguard, and so it was.
THE ROBBER
THE ROBBER.
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page 136
Noiselessly and rapidly I sped on through the rooms, round the balcony, to the back of the hotel, and down the flight of steps there, which brought me to the door of the suite of apartments occupied by Rathfelder and his household. But now how could I wakenthem without making too much noise, and thereby perhaps bringing that awful Blurdon down upon me? I began to rap and call gently, and used every means I could think of to arouse the sleepers, but in vain. Nothing I could do seemed to make the least impression on their heavy German ears. I became almost wild with fear how the ruffian might treat my aunt in revenge when he found I was gone, for, with his strength, he would soon force an entrance into my room. In utter desperation I knocked louder and louder against the door and windows, yet with a want of success that perfectly amazed me. For a long time I continued my endeavours, and was on the point of giving it up and trying to find my way in the dark round to the front of the house, and so on to some one of the native cottages, when, to my unutterable joy, one of the servants answered from within to my last vehement appeal, asking who was there.
Never before had human voice sounded so delightful to my ear! And now the wholefamily were soon astir, and Rathfelder in a few minutes came out. It needed but little to be said on my part; the very name of Blurdon, as connected with my terror, was sufficient; and calling his two men from the loft over a stable where they were sleeping and accompanied by Mrs. Rathfelder and one of her maidens, who kindly came with me, we all ascended to aunt's room.
I could not speak my dread, it was too overpowering; but oh, when I found that she was uninjured, words cannot express the feeling of thankfulness—of positive ecstasy—that filled my heart. She was hastily putting on some clothes to come and seek for me. Flying into her arms, I kissed and hugged and cried over her.
"Where is he? where is he?" Rathfelder had cried out the instant he saw her.
She pointed to the ante-room. "Gone a few minutes back." Whereupon the three men dashed after him.
That terrible night I shall never forget. Even while I write the whole scene comesback as vividly as if it occurred but yesterday, but with it a deep thankfulness that we were mercifully spared from further horror. I did not know then what changes it was to work.
It was a pleasant relief to our excitement when uncle and Charlotte came back the following evening, and Susan with them. They were surprised to hear of our adventure, and deeply thankful that we had escaped without further injury. Blurdon had not been found, though search had been made in every direction round the house, and information given to the authorities in Cape Town, but my aunt remarked that a heavy storm of wind had arisen, which must have rendered the pursuit difficult. We were all glad to turn from this painful subject to more ordinary themes of conversation.
While undressing that night, Lotty frankly confessed to Susan that she had been indebted to me, during the whole of our previous stay in the hotel, for as skilful attendance as Susanherself could give. "So I have not missed you a bit, you dear old thing," she concluded with pretended seriousness.
"And who has done for Miss Mechie?" inquired Susan, gravely.
"Mechie? Oh, she does not want any one to do for her," rejoined Charlotte, gayly. "Every one has his own peculiar gift, you know, and Mechie's is a liking and adroitness in waiting upon others; now I have not a bit of ability—to say nothing of fancy—in that way myself, as you know."
"Well," answered Susan, gruffly, "I always find that Miss Mechie requires as much proper attendance as you, or any other young lady, and why should she not? But this I know, that while you are so lazy, Miss Lotty, that you always want to have everything done for you, and do as little as you can in return, Miss Mechie is quite contrariwise to that. And who, pray, minded poor mistress?"
"Oh, I delight in attending to aunty, you know, Susan," I said, "and indeed it was not Charlotte's fault, for I preferred acting as Idid for both of them. My only regret was that I could not by any amount of love or labour make dear, darling aunty better and stronger. But, thank God! she is much better."
"Those are very nice feelings, Mechie," observed Lotty, demurely. "You cannot do more amiably than encourage them. I wish I could increase your happiness, dear, by increasing your labour of love. I would set you to dress my hair every morning, only you have such bad taste you would make a perfect figure of me."
"Yes, it is very likely I should or I would," replied I, laughing, "so do not risk it."
"No, that is just what I thought; and—"
"There! don't talk no more nonsense, Miss Charlotte. I can't abide folly, and that you know, miss," interrupted Susan, peremptorily; "I don't object to an innocent cheerfulness, as much as you like, but not—"
"In church?" Charlotte said with pretended surprise, remembering a sharp lecture shehad once received from old nurse for irreverent conduct with a young friend during divine service.
"In church!" repeated Susan. "I was not thinking of church; but no! play of any kind would no longer be innocent in God's house: you know that, Miss Lotty, as well as I do. What does the Holy Bible say on that matter?—'Keep thy foot when thou goest to the house of God, and be more ready to hear than to give the sacrifice of fools, for they consider not that they do evil. Be not rash with thy mouth, and let not thine heart be hasty to utter anything before God, for God is in heaven, and thou upon earth; therefore let thy words be few.' Now, do you think those few words ought to be words of lightness or wordliness? Do you go there to speak such? 'Be not rash with thy mouth.' What does that mean? If you were come before a great king to make a petition, would you, while standing there and his eye upon you, begin whispering and giggling with your friends? You know you wouldn't. Andwhat is any earthly king to our heavenly King of kings?"
"I can't think what you are so cross with me about, Susy," Charlotte said, half poutingly. "The fact is you don't like coming to this place, and very naturally, and so you are trying to lighten your feeling of annoyance by throwing it upon me. Why don't you make Mechie share it as well?"
"No, I don't object to coming here a bit, miss. I think it a very pleasant place for a while, and, moreover, if I didn't like it, I shouldn't mind so long as it did poor, dear mistress good to be here. But what annoys my feelings, child, is this: there are two weeds growing up in your character, and though as yet they have made no great show, because everybody that cares for your future happiness keeps nipping off their heads and warning you of them, too, that you may try to root them up, they nevertheless go on throwing out their roots into your heart and soul. Now, from every fresh root will, in time, spring up another plant, until yourwhole mind is at last so overrun with them that they will kill every good and beautiful thing growing there now, and poison the soul for everything else."
"In the name of patience, Susan, what do you mean?" asked Charlotte, with an astonished look in her amused face. "Am I becoming a female Blurdon? Well, I know somebody who will think me a much more interesting personage if I do," gayly glancing at me.
Poor old nurse looked puzzled for an instant, as well she might, but, coming to the conclusion that this was only some of Lotty's usual nonsense, passed it by, continuing with increased seriousness:
"Many a young person, Miss Charlotte, begins life with laughing at what in after years she is forced to weep burning, heartfelt tears over."
"Well, but what are these two weeds, Susy, which, according to your account, are possessed of such life-destroying properties? They must be very small at present, for I declare Ihave not the remotest conception of their existence, in my heart at least."
"No, child, there's the mischief! More's the pity that you haven't. If you could only see those weeds in your own heart, and were to pull them well up by the roots instead of being proud of their ugly blossoms, as you really are, mistaking them, as you do, for things to be admired, you have no notion how a deal comelier you'd be; ay, that would you."
"What does she mean, Mechie? Can you understand her? I protest I cannot!" And Charlotte laughingly sat down on the bedside, staring at Susan.
"I'll clear it out for you in two words, Miss Lotty," nurse said, standing before her with a stern face, while holding in her hands a dress which she was on the point of folding up. "Selfishness and indolence—they are the weeds—or indolence and selfishness, it doesn't matter which I put first, for either of them is parent to the other, as the case may be."
The offended expression that came into Charlotte's face pleased me much better than its preceding one of levity and indifference.
"Well, I must say I see no just reason why you should accuse me of so bad a fault as selfishness any more than Mechie," she exclaimed, warmly. "I may be indolent, if not liking disagreeable trouble is being so, but selfish I am certainly not; or if I am, so is everybody else, for I see no difference between me and others, excepting, perhaps, that I am more good-natured."
"Now, listen to me, Miss Lotty, and judge for yourself if I am right or wrong. You say you are not selfish, and you question being indolent because you only don't like disagreeable trouble. You are not indolent? Then what is it, in the first place, makes you such a sluggard in your duties to your God that if it were not for others there's scarce a morning you'd be down in time for the Bible and prayers? You know very well, too, that your poor aunt is a deal better in this place from the change than she was before, and yetyou have done nothing but grumble and complain, and that because things aren't so straight and pleasant or so gay as at Fern Bank. Isn't that selfish? And hasn't it to do with indolence? You haven't many servants to be attending to you here, and that obliges you to attend to yourself and to wait upon your aunt—at least, you ought to wait upon her, and you can't help feeling and seeing that you ought, whether you choose to do so or not. Then you haven't a carriage to be driving you out in whenever you fancy it, and that obliges you to walk, which you don't like either; and the conclusion of all is, that if you could make us all go home this minute, you would gladly. And if you could avoid doing anything that gives you trouble and get other people to do all for you, you would be quite contented and very good tempered, and think yourself all the while one of the most amiable, obliging young ladies at the Cape. But is that what you have been taught to be, Miss Lotty? Is that the sort of life which is pleasing in God's sight? Oh, child!child! remember what our blessed Saviour's example was while on earth—how he spent the whole of every day in teaching and benefitting poor human beings, pleasing not himself in anything except in doing good."
"Dear me!" sighed Charlotte, wearily, passing her hands over her face after a fashion of her own; "now I do wish that all that is pleasant wasn't wrong, and all that's wrong—Well, no matter; it can't be helped, I suppose. I will try and be better, if only just to please you, dear old nursey; see if I don't!" and, jumping up, she threw her arms round Susan's neck and impetuously kissed her check several times. "There! dear old thing; don't scold any more."
Susan, with whom Charlotte was secretly at heart the favourite, warmly returned her embrace, and her eyes filled with tears as she said earnestly, "If I did not love you two children as though you were my own, I shouldn't grieve over your faults so much, nor scold you so much, maybe; but don't you say that, dear—don't encourage themhard thoughts against the all-wise, all-merciful God, for it is against God we grumble when we murmur at the dispensation of his laws on earth."
"What thoughts, you dear old scold?" and Lotty laid her soft young cheek caressingly against Susan's.
"Why, that everything pleasant is wrong, and—"
"Well, but is it not so, nursey? I declare, I rarely, if ever, do anything pleasant, or wish to do it, that I don't find out that it is in some way wrong, and things I generally dislike you tell me are right;" and Charlotte hid her face on Susan's shoulder.
"It is true, dear, that many besides yourself have that notion about right and wrong, but then they are unthinking, foolish-headed young things like you" (Charlotte did not look particularly flattered by this definition of herself), "or, if they are older, they are no wiser. But come! get into bed, both of you, and I'll just set that error to rights in your mind, then leave you to go to sleep."
We did as she desired, and seating herself beside Charlotte, Susan continued: "In just those very words you used, Miss Lotty, lies right and wrong most times. 'In some way,' you said, if you remember. Well, that's just it. Very often it is not the thing itself that's wrong, but the abuse of it; it's the degree it's given way to that makes it either wrong or right. Can't you see that running through almost everything? God has put us here to learn self-control and moderation and obedience to his will. 'Thus far shalt thou go and no farther,' is the boundary line to many of our enjoyments, if not to every affair and act in life. I can see with half an eye that since you have been here you've given way to all your whimsies and humours to their fullest extent, and how much happier have you really been? And mark, it was the abuse mostly, not the moderate use, of your liberty that spoiled your pleasure. Miss Mechie was wrong to encourage you, and I hope she will not do it again. And now, before I go listen to this text, and keep it always in mind."
"But just tell me this, Susan," interposed Charlotte. "You say that God shows us things are harmful if we abuse their use, but how? I don't understand you."
"You have seen those things they call buoys floating on the water?" questioned Susan.
"Yes."
"What do they put them out there for?"
"For? Oh, to denote danger of some kind and to warn vessels not to come any farther, lest they be lost or seriously injured."
"That's it—that's it exactly. The instant the feeling of wrong, or the appearance of wrong, comes up into any pleasant thing, depend upon it that is, as it were, a buoy floating over some hidden danger to the soul. When amusements or feastings begin to bring uneasy sensations to the body, be sure you are going too far—you are passing the buoy! God has given us all things richly to enjoy, but only in moderation and in the way in which he sees best for our temporal and eternal interests; and when in our obstinacy we chooseeither to have things different from his will or in greater excess than is good for us, then the pleasantest things become hurtful—become wrong. But I must go to mistress now, so I will just leave you a text or two and then run away."
Taking her Bible, Susan read the following: "Let your moderation be known unto all men. The Lord is at hand." And again: "And every man that striveth for the mastery is temperate in all things." And once more: "Better is little with the fear of the Lord than great treasure and trouble therewith."
On the morning of the fourth day from the night of the robbery we returned to Fern Bank. As yet we had obtained no tidings of Blurdon, and it was believed that he had at once gone off up country, bribing and frightening the natives to conceal him in their cottages during the day, and travelling on in any fashion that presented itself during the night. On the evening of our coming home, however, uncle brought us back an account that was at once as dreadful as it was unexpected.
All who have lived at the Cape know that even in the daytime, and to those well-acquainted with the geography of the Table Mountain, it is extremely unsafe to attempt to cross it while enveloped in mist, as in many parts the ground breaks off precipitately to a depth of some hundreds of feet; and thesechasms or precipices, concealed by the clouds, have often proved graves to the ignorant and incautious. It was therefore with imminent peril that Blurdon endeavoured on that dark night to make his way over the mountain to the town. Nor did he escape the consequences of his wickedness and folly, for the furious wind that swept across the country made it still more difficult for him to find a way, and he fell over a height upon a bed of rocks, breaking his leg and arm and otherwise injuring himself.
Poor creature! Notwithstanding his ruffianly character, many a heart felt for him when his case was known. There he had lain for some time undiscovered on the rocks, alone and unaided in his agony. On the following evening, some negroes, taking advantage of the return of calm weather, were hunting on the mountain side for land crabs, and to their surprise and terror came upon the scarcely conscious form of the robber, whom one of them instantly recognized. With a compassionate care and gentlenesswhich in the days of his strength he would have scorned, they conveyed him to the hospital, where he was immediately attended to.
Uncle went there as soon as he heard of the circumstance, to satisfy himself that this was really the man who had robbed us, and he found that the doctors had succeeded in restoring him to consciousness, but not in reducing the inflammation and swelling in the fractured leg and arm. It was feared that amputation of one or both limbs would be inevitable, and the long-delayed care of his wounds had brought on symptoms that threatened even his life. Some of his ribs also were broken, on the same side with the arm and leg, and his head was frightfully bruised and cut. "Altogether," said uncle, "he presented the most deplorable appearance of any human being I have ever seen in my life."
"Did he remember you, uncle? Did he say anything?" questioned Charlotte.
"Yes, I think he remembered me. Heopened his feverish eyes upon me as if he did, but said nothing."
"Poor, wretched creature!" aunt exclaimed. "I trust he may not die. When you see him again, dear, which I hope will be soon, pray take the first opportunity to tell him how sincerely I feel for him, how deeply I regret the dreadful sufferings he has brought upon himself, and that, should it please the Almighty to spare his life, I shall not forget the promise I made him—nothing of the past will, by my means, be brought up against him."
"I propose going every day to see him," answered uncle, "until, at least, he is out of danger (if such a mercy awaits him), and will certainly deliver your message the instant I can do so unheard by others."
The next evening's account of the unfortunate Blurdon was, if possible, worse than the preceding—worse because hopeless. His life seemed now limited to a few days only. He knew it, and had been warned to employ, to the best of his power, the shorttime left him in this world, in seeking the mercy he had spurned or neglected.
"I told him all you said," continued uncle, "and after a moment's silence, during which his hard, dark face underwent several strongly-marked changes, he told me to bring him a coat which was thrown over the back of a chair. I did so, and then at his further desire passed my hand down between the lining and the coarse cloth almost to the bottom of the coat behind, and from thence drew out this chain and watch of yours, and these notes and sovereigns;" and uncle laid them all upon the table as he spoke.
"In a husky, broken voice he bade me return them to you. He had spent nothing out of it, he said; he has had no time. I promised to do as he requested. His voice and manner were full of a sort of reckless despair that to me was truly sad, and presently I spoke gently and kindly to him, as my little Mechie once did, and told him of the boundless love and compassion of our merciful Redeemer for even the greatest of sinners.Then I read to him about the thief on the cross, and concluded with a short prayer. I do not know what impression I made upon his darkened soul, or whether any at all; he said nothing, but lay quite still, his glittering eyes sometimes fixed on vacancy, sometimes on my face, though instantly averted if our looks met. As I rose to leave, saying I would, if possible, come and see him again to-morrow, he exclaimed suddenly, in a low voice, 'Are you her father? You speak and look just like her.' Guessing directly to whom he alluded, I told him no, but she was as dear to me as a daughter; did he wish to send any message to her? I would deliver it faithfully if he did.
"'Yes,' he answered, abruptly. 'Tell her Joe Blurdon wants her to come and speak to him again—just once more—as his poor old mother used to do. Tell her it won't be for more than once, maybe, for the doctors say my hours are numbered.'
"'God willing, I will bring her with me to-morrow,' I said. A softened light came upinto his hard features, but he remained silent; and wishing him good-night, to which he made no response, I came away. And now, my little girl," continued uncle, turning to me, "what do you say to the promise I have made this unhappy man in your name?"
"Say, uncle?" I repeated, my heart throbbing painfully from mingled feelings; "I am glad you answered as you did. Oh, I hope, I wish, I could do him good!"
"You can but do your best, my child," aunt said, encouragingly. "Our blessed Redeemer assures us that even a cup of cold water given in his name shall have its reward, and think you, my little Mechie, that your compassionate endeavours to save from utter starvation this famished soul will not be highly pleasing in the sight of our gracious Saviour?"
Early on the following morning I awoke, and could sleep no more from thinking of the coming interview. The sun was just rising, and his golden light glinted here and there through the closed venetians into our large,well-furnished bed-room. Rising, I comforted my disquieted spirit by earnest prayer, then went out into the garden. How cheering and soothing are the early summer mornings on the high parts of the Cape! The extreme softness and dryness of the air, owing to the sandy quality of the soil, the sweet, harmonious call notes of myriads of birds, the several sorts of gay-coloured and innoxious insects out at that time, whose appearance adds yet more of life and brightness to the radiant combination of flowers and sunbeams around, and then the splendid boundless view of mountains, valleys and water, the glittering ocean, whose subdued, treacherous voice mingles so musically from the distance with all the other pleasant sounds of that waking hour and penetrates to quiet spots removed beyond reach of the sight and the noise of life's great commercial stir and conflict,—these things altogether present a union of delights rarely to be found, and the more to be enjoyed because of the beauty also of the climate.
But the day passed, and the time arrivedfor my painful and yet anxiously desired duty to be performed. The carriage conveyed me to the town, where, according to previous arrangement, I met and took up Uncle Rossiter. In a little while we reached the hospital, and I was soon seated by the bedside of the dying man. Uncle, after a few kind inquiries and the brief remark that he had brought his niece according to Blurdon's request, left us together and went to the end of the ward to speak to another sick person with whom he was acquainted.
At the first moment a sensation of faintness came over me. How frightfully changed he was from that morning when, in all the pride and power of unbroken strength, he had scowled defiance at me as he strode wrathfully away with his spade on his shoulder! With a strong effort I mastered my emotion, but although the endeavour to do so saved me from the weakness of fainting, it could not restrain my tears, and for a minute or two I sat silent, choking them down and wiping my eyes.
"I am so sorry for you, Blurdon!" Iexclaimed, as soon as I could speak. "You have suffered so dreadfully! Let us hope that the merciful God, knowing the infirmity of our mortal nature and the temptations to forget him and to yield to sin to which your life has been more particularly exposed, has punished you so severely in this world in order that he may save your soul in the one to come."
He had watched me crying silently, and with a softening expression coming into his white face and his eyes fastened upon me, he said abruptly:
"Do you mind the other morning when I came after you on the Flats? I told him, and he believed me" (indicating uncle by a slight jerk of his thumb in his old fashion), "that I only wanted to ask your advice, but that was a lie—a lie as black as was my thought. I wanted to rob you—to take the chain and watch, and everything else you had about you." And as he spoke he seemed to experience a momentary relief from his confession, then again fell back exhausted andtroubled. I knew that but few words could be allowed in such a case.
"Though your sins be as scarlet," I whispered, "they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool."
He looked at me as if dimly understanding my meaning, but remained silent. For some time I sat by him with a strange confusion of thought, my heart beating violently and my prayers ascending in secret. Then I rose quickly, seized by a sudden, nervous desire to examine some bottles on a table near. He gasped and gazed after me as if he would have me stay. Again I sat down and spoke of the blood of Jesus Christ, which cleanseth from all sin, and I read to him the account of the Prodigal, his sin, his repentance and his return to his father. Then I turned to that other parable, so full of comfort to the repentant sinner, which tells of the labourers hired in the vineyard, and of those of the eleventh hour receiving in common with those of the early morning.
"So you perceive, Joe," I went on, "that while the holy Bible is abundant in threatenings and denunciations against the hardened sinner, it also abounds in promises and encouragements to the sorrowful and penitent—to those who, in true lowliness of heart, come to their heavenly Father declaring their utter unworthiness to be his sons and imploring him to receive them, if only as hired servants."
I did not dare to say much more, and it was almost a relief to me when uncle came to take me home. A tear I could not restrain fell upon the wretched man's hand as I rose to go. He noted it, and started.
"Ah, my friend," said uncle earnestly and slowly, "you felt that tear, but I say unto you, there is more joy in heaven over one sinner that repenteth than over ninety and nine just persons who need no repentance."
The week that followed my first visit to the hospital was full of painful excitement to us all. Blurdon lay for some days, and was at intervals able to converse. All the gloomy ferocity, the savage harshness of his tone, look and manner, which before so repelled and frightened me, had now given place to a subdued, contrite voice and expression, such as could not but strengthen my hope that his heart was changed. I need not dwell on those closing scenes. He gradually sank, and his last words were a petition for forgiveness.
Before his death the repentant man confided his history to Uncle Rossiter. He was the son of a pious mother, against whose counsel his restless spirit had early rebelled. "I am dying now," he said, "because I haveall along chosen to live without God in the world. I set off and followed my own way, against the warnings and guidings of as good a mother as ever son was blessed with; against the teachings of the best and wisest book that ever was written, the Bible; against a right good education; and lastly against the rein of that conscience which would often have held me in."
I can well remember how we all sat with a great sadness on our hearts and listened while uncle told the story.
"I cared for none of these things," said Blurdon to him—"that is, I came to care for none of them, for at first I did, but soon I didn't. And I came to think, or chose to think, that I knew better than the great, all-knowing God what things and ways were good for my happiness. That it was neither good nor necessary to be so particular as the Lord required was the first notion I took up, and after that the devil himself could not have wished me to go ahead faster. It was throwing the reins on the neck of a wildhorse. Folks talk of the downward road being bright and easy, but, to my shame, I know every mile of it only too well, and can testify that after a bit there is no road so rough and none so dark."
Uncle told us much more which I need not now repeat. "Poor fellow!" he added; "it was the downward road that led him over that precipice and brought him to his death. Children, take this lesson to heart: the downward hill to perdition is covered with paths, so to speak, some broad, some narrow, some straight, some winding, some smooth, some rough; but, varied though they all are, both in appearance and in apparent course, they every one lead to destruction. How many are tempted to set off down this great widespreading hill, each in pursuit of his particular employment or pleasure! and how many are thus hurried into danger and ruined for ever! It is a blessed thing to choose from the first the right path. Wisdom's ways are ways of pleasantness and all her paths are paths of peace."
My sister Charlotte had once gone with uncle to the hospital, and, tired of waiting in the carriage, thoughtlessly begged leave to follow him into the ward, but as she entered a faintness and horror seized her, and she realized the scene in a manner that had otherwise been impossible to her light-hearted nature. It was days before she could shake off the impression, and it seemed to create quite a deep feeling in her, making her unusually grave and sad. The tears filled her eyes now while Uncle Rossiter was speaking, and she told me afterward that then old Susan's words had come back to her with a new force, and she saw a resemblance in her own life and the same evil self-will at work as in Blurdon's early days. "Do you remember," she asked, "my once saying that everything pleasant seemed wrong, and everything wrong seemed pleasant? What was that but choosing the wrong path?" Dear Lotty! that day was a memorable one to her, for, by God's grace, it became the turning-point of her life.
Three years came and went after the foregoing visit to Rathfelder's Hotel and the consequent events I have recorded. Painful as the nature of those events was, I then saw that they were blessings productive of eternal good to Charlotte and me. To our great joy and comfort, dear Aunt Rossiter's health continued slowly to improve, but the feelings awakened in my heart and soul when first I learned how perilously in the midst of life she was in death never passed away. And good for me it was they did not—good in every way, as regarded this world and the next, making me more thoughtful, considerate and excusing toward those whom I loved, for, ah me! had I not learned that we know not what shall be on the morrow? "For what is your life? It is even a vapour, that appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away." And as for dear Charlotte, the death of Blurdon and all the circumstances attending it had left so deep an impression on her mind that even time was powerless to efface it. This influence cannot but be regarded asa divine interposition in her favour; for she confessed to me that at that period her soul was in a dangerously rebellious state against the all-wise, all-merciful Creator. When the truth suddenly flashed upon her soul she was terrified exceedingly, she said, and began from that hour to think as she had never thought before, and to resolve—yes, to resolve to live a new life.
"You see, Mechie," she added, "it was not of course that I thought I could live such a life as that poor creature did, or come to such an awful end, but there are few things which vary more than the ways of sin, or are more skilfully and amiably accommodating to every style of character; and therefore, while Blurdon took his course as it were down the hill of perdition, running, jumping, rolling, tumbling headforemost, I more slowly, less desperately, but equally surely, might even now have been pursuing one of its many flower-decked paths to ruin—quite as certainly in my way as that unhappy man in his."
And oh what an improved being darlingLotty has become! Old Susan used to say that heartfelt holiness made people a deal comelier, and I am sure it was so with Lotty when she put on that most adorning of all robes, the compassionate, self-sacrificing, humble religion of the merciful Redeemer. Instead of living solely to please herself and looking as though she did—a look which no device, no assumed good-nature can conceal or change the character of—she now endeavoured earnestly to obey the divine injunction: "In lowliness of mind let each esteem other better than himself," and, "Look not every man on his own things, but every man also on the things of others." The result was she seemed daily to become more and more all that is really beautiful and admirable in woman, and her handsome face, no longer marred by its former expression of selfishness and thoughtless levity, wore now a sweet, kindly gravity and care for the happiness and welfare of her fellow-creatures.
"What a very engaging-looking girl thateldest Miss Marlow has become!" a gentleman observed to another, one evening, when Charlotte and I were at a party in a friend's house. "I didn't think much of her a couple of years ago, but latterly she has bloomed out wonderfully. Her whole expression is altered. There used to be a vacancy, a want of something rather than the positive presence of anything defective in her countenance and manner, but that is quite gone now, and she looks sensible, thoughtful, and, it strikes me, in some way much more amiable."
"Yes, decidedly," rejoined his companion. "And now let me tell you, Hedding, that in your observations you have unwittingly admitted more in favour of the power of Christianity than you supposed."
"In favour of Christianity? What has that to do with Miss Marlow's improved looks?" exclaimed the other, scornfully.
"All—everything," was the unhesitating answer. "I am, as you know, an old and intimate friend of the Rossiters, and have known the two Marlow girls since first theycame to the Cape. There do not exist in the wide world more truly worthy, kind-hearted people than the Rossiters, but I could not help sometimes thinking that their management of the eldest girl was a mistaken one. She was to the last degree self-willed, pleasure-loving, and intensely selfish. Now, instead of enforcing a different line of conduct, they employed persuasion only, founded on good instruction—a mode of treatment which, while perfectly successful with the more pliable nature of the younger child, quite failed, so it seemed to me, in the case of the elder. Yet possibly they were right. Other circumstances have since occurred which have laid fast hold of her mind and heart, and the good seed they have sown has sprung up in an abundant harvest." Then followed a brief account of what I have related.
"But how do I know, or how can you be sure, that the change I see is the result of what you describe?" objected Mr. Hedding in a cynical tone. He was a man of infidelprinciples, and, for that reason, not an intimate visitor at Fern Bank.
"I am myself a case of 'proof positive,'" replied Mr. Frere, with his usual imperturbable good humour. "More than two years ago, as you know," he continued, his voice failing, "I lost one to whom I was deeply attached—my wife. While under the influence of this heavy affliction my society, although every friend pitied me, was but little desired or sought after. I was only a cloud on their pleasures and naturally shunned by them as such, or, if not absolutely shunned, at least neglected or set aside for the time being as quite a useless member of society. But not so by the Rossiters—no. The very reason that rendered me unacceptable to the world made those truly Christian people take me at once to their hearts, and I may say to their home, for from that time, for nearly six months, I dined with them and spent almost every evening at their house. Now, see the difference between the two sisters, Charlotte and Maria Marlow. Mechie, who is acounterpart of her amiable benefactors, eagerly and warmly seconded their kind endeavours to draw me out of myself, and in her gentle way led me to submit more patiently to my sudden great sorrow. Charlotte, on the contrary, although she without doubt compassionated my case, evidently regarded my frequent presence in the house as oppressive and disagreeable, and avoided my society as much as she could. She generally kept apart with some young friend, of whom she had many, and often I only saw her at the meal-times. At last came the change in her feelings which, acting upon her whole nature, has by degrees wrought that marked effect in her appearance which excites your admiration so much, and then neither Mrs. Rossiter nor sweet Mechie was kinder or more thoughtful and considerate to me and others than she became. No longer seeking only her own gratification, she would remain with us of an evening, adding greatly to our cheerfulness by her pleasant conversation—for Charlotte is naturally endowed with very good sense and with avein of quaint humour—and often lightened the time by reading aloud, an accomplishment this piquant talent makes her perfect in.
"Very soon she opened her whole heart to me—young people are always willing to confess—acknowledging her previous utter want of religion, which made her, she said, the selfish, heartless, unamiable girl she was, and concluded by begging me to forgive her for all the unfeeling neglect—so she termed it—and want of kind consideration toward me which she had shown during my deep distress. She spoke with a gentle, blushing contrition of manner very unlike her usual self-satisfied style, and which to those who love and care for her was infinitely gratifying to witness. Nor have that winsome tone and mien passed away. In her case the seed had not fallen by the wayside, nor on stony places, nor amongst thorns, but on good ground, where it still grows and flourishes, abundant in blossoms and fruit and promise of rich future harvest."
"Hum!" ejaculated Mr. Hedding, apparently not very ready with an answer. "Idon't see, myself," he went on, after a pause, "that a girl properly brought up and taught to be polite and kind to her friends needs any other style of instruction, nor do I think she would. It's bad bringing up—that's the fact of it."
"Everybody can tell you—she can tell you herself," said Mr. Frere—"that, as far as advice, warning, instruction and the most perfect human example can go, Charlotte Marlow was, and that far beyond your limited meaning, properly brought up and taught to be kind and polite to every one. But it too often happens that the true significance and value of what we hear and see and receive every day is not recognized until some unlooked-for circumstance occurs which opens our eyes and makes us feel. Now such was Charlotte Marlow's case; and thus it comes about, doubt the truth as you like, that from having been an off-hand, unpleasing, selfish young creature, living entirely for her own gratification—as unpleasing at least as so handsome and not really heartless a girl could be—she has become a generous, amiable, sympathizing woman, herself, instead of holding as before always the first place in her thoughts, now occupying the second."
"Well," objected the other, but in a less confident tone, "I feel certain I could bring up a girl to be as kind and polite to every one without the least help from religion as any Christian of them all, and more so, for the matter of that."
"Yes, you might educate them to be perfect in politeness while the world's approving or condemning eye marks their conduct, but when position shuts that out, or time or circumstance renders it uncared for, what remains then to influence their feelings and behaviour the right way?"
"Habit," replied Mr. Hedding.
"Habit?" repeated Mr. Frere, laughing incredulously. "If you ever have met or ever do meet with a single young person, man or woman, who from habit only, when unseen by others, is amiable and polite in opposition to temper, interest or inclination, you willcertainly be the first man who has witnessed stability on a 'foundationless practice,' for that is all, in truth, which a habit formed on such principles as yours would or could be. Why, I have heard you yourself argue that no harm existed in any evil unless it was found out; and I know that that sentiment is entertained and practiced by many of your way of thinking—a sentiment which you must excuse my saying in plain, honest words is but the lowest quality of caution, and would ultimately degrade the immortal souls of men to a level with the mere instinct of beasts. Now you must be well aware that according to your own express opinions so you would educate a child, and, alter the deteriorating nature of things, so that child would unchecked become even worse than yourself. Is it likely, therefore, that habit of any kind, when interfering in any degree with pleasure or comfort, would have power to control a spirit under no rule but the world's opinion?"
At that instant other friends joined the twospeakers, and it was from them that I afterward heard what had passed.
And now I must lay down, my pen, having completed as far as necessary the little account of our visit to Rathfelder's Hotel.
It is now many years ago. I do not know if Rathfelder's Hotel still remains, or what changes may have taken place in that region, but there must be some of the older residents of Cape Town who remember the incidents of the latter part of the narrative. This record of former days I give in the sincere hope that it may in the perusal prove of some benefit to those young readers who, as Lotty and I were, are living in any way without proper thought of God or of their earthly benefactors, be they parents, relatives or Christian friends. They are blessings—the greatest blessings heaven can bestow—and as such should be regarded. In no slight degree do Charlotte and myself thus consider dear old nurse Susan, who still continues, in as high force as heretofore, our friend andservant. Nor does she with advancing years hate an iota of that authority which her long established rule over us has given her, and which authority seems to increase in its influence, instead of lessening. Good, excellent old body! may God's blessing ever be with her!
"See what I have bought for somebody!"
Uncle John held out in his hand a morocco case lined with dark blue velvet, containing a small watch, while his nephew and two nieces, John, Emma and Maud, came closer to get a better look, and uttered exclamations of surprise and delight.
"Who is it for?" said Emma, "Is it for brother?" asked Maud in the same breath; though John, feeling very certain that the watch was intended for him, remained silent, anxiously awaiting his uncle's reply.
"I can't tell yet," said Uncle John.
"Not tell, uncle? is it a secret? Isn't the watch yours? and can't you give it to any one you please?" asked John, hastily.
"The watch is mine, I bought it, and I can give it to any one I please; and I will tell you now how I shall please to give it. I intend staying with you two weeks, and at the end of that time this watch shall be given to the child I find the most truthful."
"Oh, uncle," interrupted Emma, "none of us are liars!"
"I hope not, my dears. But I shall be very particular, and watch closely for the slightest deviation from the plain truth, and will give, as I have said, the watch to the child I find to be the most truthful."
"You will have to give us all one, then," said his namesake, "for I am sure I speak the truth, and Emma and Maud are very truthful, for mamma has often said so."
"I always try to be," said Maud in a low voice.
"Well, well, we will see," continued Uncle John. "And perhaps I will have to give you each one like this." He closed the case and put it out of sight, and John marched off to school thinking how grand he would feelcarrying the watch around with him to show to his admiring friends, and even hinted the probability to some of them. His Latin lesson was not perfect, and after recitation his teacher called him:
"John, will you promise me that this lesson shall be learned for to-morrow?"
"Oh yes! I will certainly study it to-night, and know it perfectly," was John's ready reply.
That night his father inquired about his lessons. John coloured a little as he said: "I knew all but my Latin; I promised I would study that to-night." He intended doing so, but left it until the last, because it was the hardest; then a friend came in, and John went with him to the parlour, where the family were sitting, to show him a new book.
"What time is it?" asked Emma.
"I did not look at the clock when I came down," said John.
"When you get your new watch you won't have to stop to look at the clock," said his friend.
"His watch!" exclaimed Emma; "he is not certain of getting it."
"Oh!" said the friend; "I thought his uncle had promised to give him one."
"Not exactly," interrupted John hastily, knowing that Uncle John could hear all that was going on. "There are certain conditions."
"Oh!" And his friend said no more.
"How about the Latin lesson to-day?" asked Uncle John, the next evening, to his nephew's great confusion, as he replied:
"Well, uncle, the truth is, I forgot it last night, but I mean to take it up the first thing this evening." And he did so, finding that the hardest lesson is the easiest when learned first. "I know it perfectly, perfectly. Emma, just hear me, and see if I do not."
Emma was standing by the window as she took the book and heard it for him, and they stood together looking out at the passers-by.
"Here comes Mary Baker, I do believe," said Emma. Maud ran to the window, andwas very much disappointed when she did not see her friend coming, as she expected.
"April fool!" said Emma. And they both laughed at Maud's disappointment.
"But it is not April, brother," said Maud in an aggrieved tone.
"Why, you silly little thing," exclaimed Emma, "I was only in fun. If I were to say, 'Here comes Queen Victoria,' you wouldn't be goose enough to believe it, would you?"
"No; but you see Queen Victoria would not be walking down the street, and I have been expecting Mary every minute;" and Maud's eyes were almost filled with tears.
"Come, puss, don't think any more about it." John put his arm affectionately around his sister's neck. "Emma, what has that man in his wagon?"
They were both looking with great curiosity at the wagon coming toward the house when John heard his father call him.
"In a second, sir," he replied; but sixty seconds passed, and he heard his father again."Yes, yes, sir, in a minute;" but five minutes were gone before he obeyed, and then he found that his father had left.
"There! you don't know what you missed," Emma said, significantly. "I heard father say he had something in his pocket for somebody."
"It was not for John, you know," interrupted Maud, "for we heard mother say so."
"Well, little telltale, we must be on our p's and q's before you, my darling."
The day before Uncle John's visit ended he was sitting in the bay window, partly concealed by a curtain. It was twilight, and the three children came into the room together. On the centre-table there were some wax flowers covered with a glass case. Their mother prized them very highly, and had repeatedly told the children to be careful and not touch or knock the table.
"Oh, I wish I could bring Carlo in here," said John, "just to show you how the boys have taught him to stand on his two hind legs and beg. There he is in the hall now."
"Don't call him in," Emma said. "You know mother don't like it."
"No, I sha'n't call him, though I know he would not hurt anything."
John did not call him, but he gave a low whistle. Carlo understood it perfectly, and came bounding into the room. "Out, out, sir!" and John tried to order him back, but Carlo thought this was mere play, and jumped and frisked about until he came near the table, when away went the flowers and case with a crash. The children looked at each other in dismay.
"Oh, John, what will mother say?" said Emma, reproachfully.
"It is not my fault, Emma."
"Yes, but you whistled for Carlo."
"I did not know he would come in, though." And John tried to drive Carlo out in earnest, and succeeded after a good deal of shouting and scampering, and the children left the room unconscious that Uncle John had witnessed the accident.
"I am very sorry this has happened," saidtheir mother at tea-table. "Carlo must not be allowed to come in the hall. Of course, I cannot blame any of you, as you did not call him in, but I am very sorry it happened."
"So am I," said Uncle John—"very sorry indeed. What has Maud to say about this?"
"Maud I did not ask. She was in the room, and Emma and John told me how it happened."
"Maud, my dear," Uncle John said, "did any one call Carlo in the room? Look straight in my eyes and tell me, little one."
Maud's cheeks became rosier; she hesitated a moment, and then said softly: "Brother whistled, but he said he did not mean that Carlo should hear him."
"You should have told me this before," said their mother, reproachfully. "I always want to hear the whole truth."
"So do I," said Uncle John. "And now I will put on my spectacles and read you all a few notes I have taken during my visit, and then we shall decide who deserves the watch. Let me see, John is oldest: I willread what I have against him: A promise to a teacher to study a lesson—did not do it. He tells a friend he is to have a watch at the end of two weeks—that remains to be seen. He tells his father he will come in one second, then in one minute—did not go for five or ten. He whistles for a dog to come into the room, and, I fear, would let punishment fall on the poor animal, and by silence implies falsehood. That is all I have against him. Now for Emma: I heard her telling her mother she did not have a minute of time to spare, and was idle for an hour after; said her biscuit, one morning, was burnt as black as a coal—it was only very brown; said one time she was roasting, another time starving, and again dying, and one day was in dreadful agony when she scratched her finger; one morning tells Maud that her friend was coming up the street when there was no person in sight. Come! I await the verdict: to whom shall I give the watch? Which of you thinks you most deserve to have it?"
"Oh, Uncle John, we did not mean to tellstories," exclaimed Emma and John, with burning cheeks.
"No, my dear; I am glad to say neither you nor John have been guilty of telling lies, but I promised to give it to the most truthful."
"Maud deserves it," cried all.
"Yes, Maud deserves it. Here, little one; we know you would rather not take it, but it belongs to you. I do not want to be severe, but I love and prize perfect truth above everything else. And if we are truthful in small matters, we can never be false and dishonest in great ones; but if we allow falsehood to take even a small lodging-place in our hearts, it will be a plague-spot that will spread and poison the soul and ruin character. Whatever it may cause you at the time, cling to the truth, and you will never regret it, for it is the sure and firm foundation-stone of every noble character."