Mischief"You look as if you had been in mischief," she remarked.—p. 67.
"You look as if you had been in mischief," she remarked.—p. 67.
"You look as if you had been in mischief," she remarked.—p. 67.
"'Pologies is funny things," he said, pensively. "Mrs. Lytchett said we ought to be whipped when we made the peacocks scream, an' we 'pologises; and Charity boxed Dave's ears for treadin' on her fine newfrock, an' he 'pologised—an' the Dean 'pologised back for her crossness. An' now, seems as if 'pologies did 'stead of leavin' off doin' what you want. Them peacocks screamed again to-day at dinner-time, an' to-morrer we——"
A quick frown from his elder brother stopped the admission that was coming.
"Your morality, your deductions, and your grammar are equally matched, Sandy," said his father. "Who is going to carry this letter?"
"Me, me!" implored the baby, advancing a chubby hand, plucked from his mouth for the purpose. He looked like one of Sir Joshua's cherubs—nothing visible of him over the edge of the table but a round moon face of exquisite fairness, with a large background of soft white hat instead of cloud.
"You'll see that the boys behave and apologise properly, Marjorie," her father said, sinking back into his chair with such an expression of peace on his face as quite compensated his young daughter for the annoyance of the errand on which she was conducting her young brothers.
The surroundings of Norham Cathedral were the great attraction of the little town to Antony Pelham. Large, airy houses, set in gardens to match, with here and there a field running down to the street, formed one side of the main thoroughfare of the town. It was wide and shady, bounded on its other side by the Canons' Walk, a gravelled terrace, extending the whole length of the cathedral graveyard, over-arched by "immemorial elms," where the rooks, year after year, cawed their noisy affairs into the ears of those below. At the eastern end of the cathedral the Canons' Court terminated the Walk, and provided residences for the minor canons almost under the cathedral walls. The Deanery stood at one end of the Court, and the gardens of all the houses extended southwards to enclosed fields called the Parks, on which also the grounds of the old palace, on the southern side of the cathedral, abutted.
Beyond the boundaries of the Cathedral Precincts the town developed into a small, compact area of shops, and then sprawled on into suburbs. These, called respectively Easton and Weston, had little to do with each other, and less with the exclusive Precincts. They had a church and parish apiece, served by two of the minor canons.
The spacious houses round the cathedral had been built originally to serve as town houses for the county families. They were now often used as dower houses, or pleasant homes to retire to from the active work of life. Their owners formed a sufficiently large circle to make society pleasant, but they admitted no one into their midst who was not "one of them."
When old General Orme died, he left no one to occupy the fine old house on the hill called "The Ridges," beyond which the "Green," with its complement of houses—also old, but filling the more usefulrôlesof Grammar School, Sessions House, and such like—descended into the valley. Here, as far off as possible, the necessary lock-up and railway station hid their commonness out of sight.
It was with amazement, and incredulity at his audacity, that the news gradually was received of the purchase of "The Ridges," by Antony Pelham, a lawyer from the big town of Blackton, eight miles away. This manufacturing town had superseded Norham as the county town—since which it was scarcely ever mentioned, much less visited, by the Norhamites. Not only had he bought "The Ridges" but, with an extraordinary fatuity, he meant to go on with his business and travel backwards and forwards.
After hearing this, nobody troubled to make any further inquiries about him—he was beneath notice. It was stated by the neighbours whose grounds adjoined his that an army of workmen had been sent from somewhere, and were, of course, making a wreck of the beautiful old house. But no interest was taken in their proceedings, except by David and Sandy Bethune, who rapturously availed themselves of the kindly circumstances attending his advent. The short cut to school on the Green, up a gravelled path on the edge of the field, which the old General had put at the service of his friends who wished to visit the Green, had become lately to the Bethune boys a way to bliss. Marjorie and her brothers now slowly ascended the hill to "The Ridges" by this path.
As they walked along, more like owners than suppliants for forgiveness, David pointed out to his sister the hiding-places they had found convenient. Marjorie's own conscience was asleep on the matter, and she did not put herself out to rebuke him. The man was angry. Her father had written that his boys would apologise. She supposed they would. They were generally able to do so when necessary, without in the least considering themselves bound thereby as to future action.
Marjorie looked with interest at the places pointed out to her on the way up. She even enlarged a hole in the undergrowth to admit Sandy's plump body. But a vague irresolution and faint sense of discomfort came into her mind as the old red-brick housecame in sight, and a blaze of colour from the flower-beds before the windows struck upon her vision.
"Boys," she said, softly, "David, you will be nice, even if this man is a cad. Do you hear, Sandy?" she said more sternly, as Sandy panted to her side, returning from some exploration.
"All right," said Sandy; "there he is!"
They had emerged from the shrubbery path and had reached the edge of the lawn, which was divided from the long field by some white palings. Steadying herself by these, and an occasional grip at her father's trousers, as he walked beside her, was a little two-year-old girl. Her nurse was visible at some distance, sitting at needlework under the trees.
Sir"Father's put 'Dear Sir,' 'stead of 'Horrid Fellow,'" he announced.—p. 68.
"Father's put 'Dear Sir,' 'stead of 'Horrid Fellow,'" he announced.—p. 68.
"Father's put 'Dear Sir,' 'stead of 'Horrid Fellow,'" he announced.—p. 68.
Undecided whether to advance on to the lawn, or to go further and ring at the front-door bell, Marjorie paused. The man's back was towards her. It did not present the appearance she had somehow expected. Why her imagination should have invested the new-comer with the attributes of a vulgar old man she could not afterwards recollect. But she had expected this. Instead, the back was young, and slim, and well-coated; and the finely poised head above it was adorned with a crop of short dark curls. Seeing him thus, Marjorie was conscious of a little embarrassment. A filtering doubt, creeping through her mind, made her give a hasty glance round at her young brothers.
David's eyes were glaring at the figure of his enemy, his face wearing an expression of deep disgust. Sandy had put on the air of jaunty unconcern with which he always met a difficulty. Ross, aged four, was looking distrustfully at the baby, whilst only on little Orme's cherubic face was there any appreciation of the situation. He gave an exclamation of delight, unloosed his hand from therelaxing grasp of Marjorie, and hurried over the grass, head foremost, as was his wont when in a hurry. This youngest Bethune, like his brothers before him, had a sociable disposition; and was apt at making friends of every person, especially every infant person, he came near. From the private study of the Bishop—whereto his way was by a friendly window—to the cottage hearths he occasionally visited through convenient open doors when on his rambles—Orme Bethune was a welcome guest. To him girl-babies were a special fascination. He made advances to this one immediately.
Sitting down on the grass, to accommodate his three years to her two, he essayed to draw her nearer. She responded femininely. First she hid her face behind her father's legs. Then she unloosed his trousers and steadied her approach by the big brim of Orme's hat. With the other hand she rained blows upon his face. Bashing her dolls' heads was, with this baby, a preliminary to loving them. Finding this one to be flesh and blood, she crowed with glee, and sat down suddenly beside him.
Mr. Pelham had advanced a step or two on beholding Marjorie, her face an unexpected marvel of youth and fairness, against the dark background of the trees. Then his eyes fell on David's scowling countenance; he stopped, and his face flushed.
"Father has sent you a letter," Marjorie began. "Which of you has got it?" turning to the boys.
"Not me," said David sullenly, his manner conveying that no power on earth could have induced him to touch it.
"Nor me," said Sandy cheerfully.
"Surely you brought it?" Marjorie asked, a certain severity in her tone. "You, Ross?" hopefully.
Ross's face had just lighted up with the intention of making a trio of the charming duet on the lawn. He was slower than his more agile brothers—but sure, and none the less mischievous, for that his mischief was better matured beforehand. He opened his hands to show his innocence, and, murmuring "Me go find it!" he joined Orme.
Marjorie's eyes were lifted in an appealing fashion, the prettiness of which she would have been the last to believe, to the dark eyes somewhat haughtily questioning hers.
"My father wrote," she was beginning, when a skirmish and a squeal made her stop. Ross was rifling his little brother's pockets with an air of business. Orme was wriggling and fighting, and the baby was kicking and screaming in his defence, a vivid little vixen.
"Here," said Ross proudly, as having overturned Orme and left him prostrate, he held up Mr. Bethune's letter.
Marjorie's colour rose at the aspect of the dishevelled note. Its appearance, indeed, was not that of a missive calculated to appease the anger of an offended man. She watched a little amusedly the expression of the long fingers which daintily received and opened the crumpled paper. Then it struck her that in the character of suppliants they were not behaving properly.
She looked at David. His face now wore an expression of absolute vacuity. She wondered if by any possibility it would be taken for penitence. She hoped it might, as it certainly expressed nothing else. Laying her hand on his shoulder—after all, he was only nine, and could not have done much mischief, even if he had behaved badly—Marjorie gave him a gentle push forward.
"My little brother is sorry," she began, as the dark eyes, smiling now, were uplifted from the note.
But David, beating off her hand, said fiercely, "I'm not!"
"Oh, David!" said Marjorie, helplessly. "Then, if you aren't, why did we—you come?" a sudden passion in her tone.
"Margie! Margie!" called the cheerful voice of Sandy. And Marjorie turned her eyes hopefully to the speaker. He, at least, would not fail her in this emergency—he was always ready to say something nice.
Sandy was staggering towards them laden with the baby. His cap had fallen off, and she was alternately thumping his tight curls and laying her face down upon them in gurgling delight. This living head, with its silky adornments, was quite a new sort of toy in her hitherto child-solitary life.
Mr. Pelham made an alarmed step forward. He expected nothing less than the sudden destruction of his baby. But Sandy, grasping her tightly with both sturdy arms, eluded his outstretched hand and went on to Marjorie.
"Ain't she a nice baby, Margie? She's a girl. Don't you wish we'd got a girl 'stead of on'y boys? Can I take this'n home?" he demanded, suddenly fixing brilliant blue eyes on the baby's owner.
"Oh, Sandy, Sandy! are you as artless as you seem?" thought Marjorie, watching with sympathy the magnetic change on the father's face as he looked down at his child.
"I am sorry. I can't spare her," he said gently, looking kindly at the eager beggar.
"Can't you?" disappointedly; "I should like her ever so."
"Me, too," cried Orme, standing by with straddled legs and wide-open eyes fixed on Mr. Pelham.
"Me yike her ever so," chimed in Ross, ambling up and joining the group, murmuring, as no one attended to him, that he would carry her in his two arms.
StaggeringSandy was staggering towards them laden with the baby.
Sandy was staggering towards them laden with the baby.
Sandy was staggering towards them laden with the baby.
In her dark, flashing beauty this baby, with her vivid face, her quick movements, her vitality, her curious coquetry of advance and withdrawal, was a revelation to the little boys. Only David—silent and superior—still held aloof, till the baby suddenly saw him and claimed him for another slave.
"Up!—up!" she called, in the imperious monosyllables by which she declared her will, holding out her arms to David and beating an impatient tattoo on Sandy with her toes. No boy could have resisted the flattery—least of all David, whom his mother often set to "mind" the babes because he was so good to them. And David—a sudden flush and smile illumining his face—took her from Sandy's unwilling clasp.
No apologies were made that day. In David's arms the baby accompanied her new friends—all clamouring, all seeking to amuse—down the hill to the gate.
Marjorie and Mr. Pelham followed slowly. If the man found the young girl interesting, he was to her equally so. She had come across no one like him before. He had come out of a world of which she knew nothing—of which, until to-day, she had never thought. Not many working people had hitherto come under her notice.
"Have you pictures?" she had asked, in surprise at a remark.
"A few—I wish I had shown them to you, as you care for them."
"But you have altered the old house?" There was a world of reproach in her tone.
"Not for the worse, I hope. It has been most carefully restored."
"Ah, yes—restored!" said Marjorie slightingly. The word was an abomination, savouring of destruction, in Norham.
Mr. Pelham smiled. "Come and see some day," he said. "I should like Mr. Bethune's opinion. My friend, the architect, wondered that I had not claimed his counsel."
"Why didn't you? People do."
"I realised my—presumption," he answered, pausing a moment for a word.
Marjorie turned to look at him.
"My father——" she began; "you are laughing at us. I know what you mean. We are old-fashioned, behind the times, prejudiced, narrow—I wonder you came."
He laughed. "It was just for that I came. I wanted my little one to have, a beautiful home, and all beside that you have said."
"But you, of course, despise old things! Do you?" she asked—"even that!"
They had reached in their descent of the hill an opening in the trees whence across the field stood out blackly against the luminous western sky the stately cathedral. Fore-shortened against the sky, the great length of the building was not perceptible. But the twin spires, the great central tower, the dome of the chapter-house, and the length of the northern transept, suggested a building raised for all time, if not for eternity.
"That is old," said Marjorie, a world of possessive delight in her voice.
"You share your father's love for it?" he said, turning to look at the face beside him, its fairness accentuated by the evening glow.
"How do you know? You know my father?" And a man less acute than this one would have seen the way straight before him into the girl's heart.
"Don't you think you can know a man in his books?" he asked. "Even if I had not heard him read the paper, I think I should have understood by that little book how he loved the cathedral."
"I did not know you were that sort," she said slowly, as into her eyes there crept a friendliness, which the man, recognising, found very pleasant to meet.
"But I am afraid I am not that sort," he said. "I am ignorant and he is learned. But I can feel the fascination of it. And I want my baby to grow up amongst it all—amongst you all," he corrected. "You remember what Ruskin says about homes? That passage after he has described what houses, homes, should not be, 'tottering, foundationless shells of splintered wood and mutilated stone, comfortless, unhonoured dwellings which men build in the hope of leaving.' Instead, I would have our homes like temples, built to last, and to be lovely, something God has lent to us for our life, and that our children will love." He paused. "That is the sort of home I want to make for my little one."
They had reached the iron gate leading into the road. Sandy, with an air of possession, drew forth his key and threw it open, and the action brought recollection back to Marjorie.
"Oh!" with a sudden start, "we came to apologise, and I forgot. Sandy, give Mr. Pelham his key, and remember——"
Sandy came forward, holding out the key with a twinkle in his merry eyes. "I 'pologise," he said.
Mr. Pelham laughed. "Keep the key, and come in and see my baby as you go backwards and forwards; she has no playfellows."
babyThe baby flashed her smiles and kissed her hands.
The baby flashed her smiles and kissed her hands.
The baby flashed her smiles and kissed her hands.
The baby from her father's arms flashed her smiles and kissed her hands, as the two stood watching through the gate the receding figures of the Bethunes.
"Marjorie, I've met the new man."
"What man?" Marjorie, sitting in the garden, looked up from the polishing of her poem at her visitor, a girl of about her own age, the Dean's only child.
"The man from Blackton. He dined with us last night. I made father ask him in the train. Oh—don't think I did it out of charity," she said, laughing. "He was staying at Oldstead—you know we've been there. Orme, you cherub! what cheeks you've got!" and she caught up the three-year-old and kissed him.
"He'll spoil your grand frock," cautioned Marjorie. "They've been making mud-pies in their hovel."
"Pies," said Orme, wriggling down from Charity's knee, and dragging at her hand; nor desisting, till she got up to accompany him.
Marjorie looked after her brilliant friend, who was adored by all the Bethune children in turn, until they reached the age of nine; after which their admiration congealed. Soon, she turned her thoughts again to her labour. It was difficult making sonnets, in her busy life. She had to snatch moments when she could.
"Of course, 'lone' would rhyme with 'atone,'" she murmured; "but it is so obvious. Love doesn't want a crowd—I gathered that from mother. Have you done your sonnet, Charity?" as the other girl ran back and sat down again, Orme and Ross following in pursuit, as fast as their fat legs would allow.
"My sonnet? Not I! I've been basking in the Duchess's smiles and wearing my new frocks. She asked after you; she didn't know you'd got back. I put on this new one to show you, Marjorie."
"You look very silvery and cloudy," Marjorie said. "It suits you, but it wouldn't stand much work."
"Neither should I. Oh, Marjorie—hateful word! Don't distil Mrs. Lytchett. I was forgetting Mr. Pelham. He sings divinely—a sort of baritony tenor, that floats, and melts—I can't describe it. What stupids we've all been about him!"
"How?"
"Thinking him so deep down in Blackton smoke. He knew all the people at Oldstead. Blackton seems the fashion there, like an East-End. It was too silly having to be introduced, when he lives on the other side of the road. He seemed to know you, Marjorie."
"Yes—I went there."
"You went there? To call?"
"To apologise, as usual," laughing; "the boys had been in mischief."
"Why, he said what jolly boys they were, and that his baby was quite happy with them; and he was so glad she should have some companions. I thought he little knew.'
"Yes—he forgave them."
Her visitor laughed. "Now, Marjorie, don't be so hoity-toity. Why did you go if you didn't want to be forgiven?"
"Why? To save father bother." Unconsciously, the young voice took a pathetic tone. "Do you think we would have demeaned ourselves otherwise?"
There was the sound of the clatter of voices. Marjorie sprang up to try and stop an excursion into the drawing-room. Her friend leant back in her chair, and looked after her.
"If Marjorie were well-dressed," she thought, "she'd be a beauty. That girl they were fussing after isn't in with her—only she's got clothes; clothes mean so much. Why, Sandy, what have you got there?"
Sandy panted to her side, both his arms laden with a baby. She did not appear to mind her uncomfortable position; but when deposited upon Charity's lap, bent her brows in a scowl, as she studied Miss Francklin's dainty finery.
"It's the baby from 'The Ridges'—she's got a name a mile long; we call her Barbe. We found her, so we brought her. We wanted a girl down here."
"You don't mean," said Marjorie, overhearing, and turning to David, "that you've brought her without leave? Oh, David!"
"She was sittin' in her carriage, all silks and satins, and we saw the nurse's petticoats whisk in; so we just ran the pram down the hill, and left it inside the gate. That nurse finks a deal too much of herself," explained Sandy.
"You'll have to go this very minute and say where she is," said Marjorie. "Go, David, both of you—run!" she urged, remembrance coming of the father's face as he looked at his child.
"I'll go with you," Charity exclaimed good-naturedly, springing up. "Come, boys—hadn't we better take her back with us, Marjorie?"
"Perhaps you had," said Marjorie. "But why should you trouble?"
"It's no trouble. I wanted to go to the Green, and I am ready."
The four disappeared, chattering and laughing,and Marjorie once more applied herself to her poem. Her eyes rested vaguely on the flowers before her. Her thoughts would not come. Instead, came others—on dress, and the inequalities of life. Charity looked very fluffy and soft—very different her dress was from Marjorie's green linen. Marjorie looked down on her skirts disparagingly, not exactly envying the soft summer dress of her friend, but seeing the contrast. Charity could have everything she wanted. Money was never lacking, and she had an indulgent father. Marjorie's father—here the girl's face took on a tender look—had no money to spare. The two boys at Winchester cost so much, and there were the others to follow. But not for a moment would Marjorie have parted with one of them—pervasive, noisy, unsettling, costly, too, though they were. Her thoughts ran on, finishing at last with: "You've got to face facts. Charity is Charity, by herself. And I am I, one of seven. I had better brush my frock."
BishopThe Bishop passed on to greet Marjorie.
The Bishop passed on to greet Marjorie.
The Bishop passed on to greet Marjorie.
The Precincts, as they gradually thawed to the new-comer, reprobated his choice of companions for his little daughter.
"The Bethune boys are the last you should encourage," said Mrs. Lytchett to him, the night he first dined at the Palace. "They've had no bringing up. Their father doesn't look after them, and their mother can't, poor thing. Marjorie is a spitfire, and has only just left off mischief herself—if she has. There's nothing they're not capable of—nothing!"
"Your little girl is a delight to the Bethune boys," the Bishop said in his kind tones, later. "They brought her to see me this morning. Oh! they won't do her any harm, just the contrary," in reply to an anxious question, "if they aren't led away by their adventurous spirits. They are honest, plucky boys, and chivalric in a peculiar manner. And their sister—ah! there she is!"
The Bishop passed on to greet Marjorie, without the meed of praise he was on the point of bestowing; but Mr. Pelham, watching them, gathered that Marjorie was a favourite. She was looking well, distinguished, in her youthful, immature way, in a graceful, soft dress, whose clinging folds suited her height and slimness. Charity's pink prettiness, aided by every careful detail of dress and ornament, faded to nothing beside her. Marjorie had not been dining, but had come in through the conservatory, her wrap over her arm. There was a look of grave purity and freshness about her, that sort of expectancy on a young face which gives a beholder a pang, knowing how soon it will be disturbed by the wisdom and cares of the world. But the beholder to-night thought it beautiful. It drew him to her, more than any mere beauty would have done. "Just like that"—the unspoken wish arose in his heart—"may my little one grow up!" Another thought followed, stabbing him for a moment with a pang.
He was roused by Charity's soft blandishments.
"Will you come and sing with me, Mr. Pelham? Mrs. Lytchett wants some music. It is such a comfort to have another good tenor, instead of only Mr. Warde. That is he," she said softly, directing his glance to a man who had just joined the Bishop and Marjorie.
"Who is he?" he asked, something in the manner of the lingering handshake, some air of possession, striking coldly on Mr. Pelham.
"One of the minor canons. He is very well off and, as you see, good-looking, andfancies himself a little." Charity laughed lightly. "Also," lowering her voice, "he is said to fancy Marjorie. I believe it is an understood thing. He wanted her a year ago, but she was only seventeen. She is a year younger than I am, but you wouldn't think it, would you?"
Mr. Pelham, as he turned with Charity to the piano, felt a sudden wrath at the man—a man much older than himself—who had the insolence to pretend to claim that slim girl.
A little later he made his way to the sofa, where Marjorie was sitting with Mrs. Lytchett. That lady, full of kindliness to Marjorie, fully intending to chaperon her during the winter to all the festivities, yet liked to remind her pretty frequently of her, as yet, unintroduced and unimportant condition. The skirmishes between them were hot; and Marjorie had just flashed out, "After all, mother has her wits, even if she has to lie on her sofa," when Mr. Pelham said:
"The Bishop has asked me to persuade Miss Bethune to play to us."
"Yes, Marjorie, go and play one of your little pieces," Mrs. Lytchett said, dismissing Marjorie and her flash of temper as she would have sent off a child.
Marjorie got up immediately.
"No, thank you," she said, sitting down before the piano, and smiling up at Mr. Pelham standing beside her. "My little pieces are here," lifting slightly the slender hands resting on her knee.
Wondering what this girl could have to say in such a language, unwilling to hear anything crude or jarring that should spoil the perfection of simplicity he was beginning to see in her, Mr. Pelham moved aside, his eyes resting disappointedly on her bent head. She raised her hands, and struck the opening notes.
The Bishop sank down into a large chair near, with a soft sigh. The buzz of conversation slowly died away. A delicate melody, in some unaccustomed minor mode, stole through the vaulted room, and Mr. Pelham drew a breath of relief. He need not have feared. There was nothing crude or jarring here.
After a few minutes her hands fell, with the lingering soft repetition of an unfinished phrase, and Marjorie lifted her eyes, liquid and dreamy with the thoughts that filled her mind. They met a look from dark unfamiliar eyes, never again through all her life to seem to her as the eyes of a stranger. They held her own, fascinated, arrested, almost like a voice speaking through the silence.
Her lips parted, as with a soft little sigh, her eyes fell.
rememberingRemembering she had stood there with him.
Remembering she had stood there with him.
Remembering she had stood there with him.
"Is that all?" the Bishop asked, disappointedly.
"Yes, that is all."
Antony Pelham's heart, as he walked up the hill in the moonlight, was full. He was only twenty-eight, and desperately lonely, after the year of brightness and delight he had shared with his young wife. Marjorie reminded him of her in some strangely familiar way—in her simplicity, her immaturity, her withdrawals. He turned to look at the cathedral, shining white in the moonlight, remembering that she had stood there with him, and that their talk had been about a home.
"I will win her," he said, as he turned, and set his face to climb the hill.
END OF CHAPTER THREE.
creation
By The Rev W.W. Tulloch, D.D.
"In Christ—a new creature."—2 Corinthians v. 17.
"In Christ—a new creature."—2 Corinthians v. 17.
II fancy that we have all felt the need of a change of air, of life, of our physical surroundings, our mental and moral environment; and we have experienced the good that such a change has done us. We have toiled on through the bad weather, the hard work, the much worry of a long winter; or we have been kept at our post and laboured listlessly through a hot and oppressive summer. The wheels of life have dragged slowly. We have felt below par. Everything has been more or less a trouble to us. The routine of daily duty has become dismally monotonous. The zest has departed. Our very sleep is not refreshing. We lie down with our weariness and trouble about us and in us, and when we awaken we are still surrounded and dominated by it. The burden seems no lighter for our repose. No new strength seems to have been gained to face the calls of the new day—a day which it is a trouble even to think about.
I fancy that we have all felt the need of a change of air, of life, of our physical surroundings, our mental and moral environment; and we have experienced the good that such a change has done us. We have toiled on through the bad weather, the hard work, the much worry of a long winter; or we have been kept at our post and laboured listlessly through a hot and oppressive summer. The wheels of life have dragged slowly. We have felt below par. Everything has been more or less a trouble to us. The routine of daily duty has become dismally monotonous. The zest has departed. Our very sleep is not refreshing. We lie down with our weariness and trouble about us and in us, and when we awaken we are still surrounded and dominated by it. The burden seems no lighter for our repose. No new strength seems to have been gained to face the calls of the new day—a day which it is a trouble even to think about.
Well, we are ordered a change, or, driven by our instincts, we seek one, or the blessed holiday season comes round at last. We go away, and in fresh air, in a change of occupation, amid new interests and associations, we begin to feel quite different. The old lassitude and weariness have passed away. We have not been long in our changed place of abode, when we begin to say to ourselves and to write home that we feel quite new persons—a different man, a different woman. And when we return our very appearance, our talk, the whole attitude in which we regard life, the eagerness with which we take up the old task, tell to all who are interested in us how much improved we are, how much healthier and better we look. More to the purpose, we ourselves feel better in every way. The change has done us ever so much good. In it we have found our old self and yet a new self, and we rejoice and are glad.
A somewhat similar experience often comes to us after reading some book which has influenced us strongly. It has opened to us a longer vista and a higher reach of life. It has given to us new views, new ideas, new aspirations,and made us live with a higher ideal before us. "It has made a new man of me," we say. Old things have passed away. Or we have come under the influence of some pure love, some self-sacrificing devotion, such as made the late Professor Tyndall say in writing of his wife to a friend that she had given him quite a new idea as to the possibilities of human nature. Or in daily association with some active brain, some large-hearted companion, we have formed at once new motives and new interests. All things have become new.
Or, again, we have found a new vocation. The consciousness of the possession of higher powers, of perhaps our real powers, has come to us. We have discovered that we have been endowed with the possession of some gift of which we were not aware. Some power has been lying dormant. It has now been awakened, and upon the very threshold of what we feel must now be a better and a higher life, we realise that we are new creatures.
I was lately reading the life of a famous singer, Jenny Lind, "the Swedish Nightingale," as she was called. She had been singing in public for some time, but she had only been feeling her wings, as the saying goes. But on a certain day there came the moment of moments. "I got up that morning one creature," she herself often said; "I went to bed another creature. I had found my power." And all through her life she kept that day with a religious solemnity. She would ask to have herself remembered on it with prayers. She treated it as a second birthday. And rightly, for on that day she awoke to herself. She became artistically alive. She felt the inspiration and won the sway she now knew she was given to hold. And this consciousness was not merely the recognition that she was singing better than ever. It was more of the nature of a new fact in her life, a disclosure, a revelation. "It was a step," says her biographer, "into a new world of dominion. She knew at last where it was that she stood and what she was to do upon the earth. She learned something of her mission. For to her religious mind the discovery of a gift was the discovery of a mission. She saw the responsibility with which she was charged, through the mere possession of such a power over men." The singer with the gift of God—that was what she became on that evening. She became a new creature.
Well, all these are only illustrations of the greatest truth in the world—that in Christ we may all become new creatures or a new creation.
We are prone by nature to do what is wrong rather than what is right; we are born with passions wild and strong, and early give the reins to evil desires. By the strength of our animal propensities we are often carried to ruin unless we are arrested in our headlong and miserable career. Sometimes—nay, thank God, often—we are thus arrested. For a time, the voice of conscience may have been hushed. Our heart is cold and dead, and there is no spring of life in it at all. But something happens. We are led to think. We come to see the evil of our ways, the ruin that we are bringing on others as well as ourselves—on the wife whom we swore to love and cherish, the children whom we are neglecting, perhaps starving.
And then, all at once, it is borne in upon us that we must change our life's course. A bolt from heaven descends on us in the shape of some punishment or affliction. Our darkness and distress are revealed to us.
We seek the only refuge for the sinner. We flee to Christ, as the belated and weary traveller would flee to a hiding-place from the wind, a refuge from the storm, a covert from the tempest, the shadow of a great rock in a weary land. We become converted. In Christ we become a new creation. Oh, happy is it when we do so! Appalling and terrible it is when we do not. How sad and awful is the fate of one given over to the slavery, the bondage, the tyranny of some wicked habit! Unless such an one is visited by the grace of God, unless the heinousness of his guilt is brought home to him, unless divine light strikes in upon his darkened life, he will sink deeper and deeper into degradation, until, perhaps, he is driven to self-destruction like one of whom I lately read, and who left these terribly touching words behind him. "I am now about to finish a revolting, cruel, and wretched existence by an act of my own. I have broken every law of God and man, and can only hope that my memory will rot in the minds of all who knew me. Drink has brought me to this fearful end. I am dying hopeless,friendless, penniless and an outcast." And it might have been so different! Oh, that all who are giving way to any sin would listen to these terrible words of warning, that they would close at once with Christ's offer to make their lives different, to make them new creatures—once more fresh and fair creatures of God, that the old man with his corrupt affections and desires, be put off, and the new man in Christ Jesus be put on, that they would be in Christ!
To be in Christ—you know what is meant by that. You are in Christ if you are living in and by His Spirit; if you are breathing it into your life; giving it forth again, if your life is engrafted on His life as a branch is engrafted upon a tree. He is the Vine; we ought to be as the branches which thus derive their vitality, their beauty, their power of bearing leaf and fruit from the tree. The same soil nourishes it; the same dews feed it; the same breezes fan it. So we ought to have our life fed through Christ from God. If we are in Christ, we shall have the same hatred of sin as He had. We shall be removing ourselves further from evil; we shall ever be getting more like Christ, ever increasing in personal holiness and helpfulness to others, ever also willing to accept whatever He sends us, subordinating our weak, wayward wills to His holy and perfect will. If we let these words of charm, "In Christ," be written over our lives, we shall feel the old fetters fall off, the old unhappiness disappear, the old insubordination cease to assert itself.
Tulloch(Photo: J. Moffat, Edinburgh.)THE REV. W. W. TULLOCH, D.D.
(Photo: J. Moffat, Edinburgh.)THE REV. W. W. TULLOCH, D.D.
(Photo: J. Moffat, Edinburgh.)
THE REV. W. W. TULLOCH, D.D.
We shall hardly know ourselves, the joy of the new life is so great. It is a joy, too, which we cannot keep to ourselves; we wish others to share our happy experience. We are constrained to wish this by the new and imperial impulse by which we are dominated. Because we carry heaven in our hearts we wish that others should do so, too. We look upon the sinner as upon some streamlet of water which is dwindling away day by day and will soon be dried up and the rocky channel left bare. Why? Because it is cut off from the fountain head, from the source away up in the hills near God's sky. And what we wish to do is to open the connection between the two, so that the stream may be fed and do what it is intended to do—flow along in full volume, making melody as it goes and fertilising the region through which it passes. In Christ, we are like the stream connected with its source: like it, we live melodious days and carry music to others. Or look at that branch separated from its parent stem; it is withering, it is dying. Again, a planet cut off from the central force and power—the sun—rushes through the dark night and is lost. So—if we be not in Christ, if we be separated from the true fountain, the living root, the centrifugal force—we shrivel up, we wither, we go to ruin here and hereafter, we die to all that makes existence tolerable and of value; and it might have been so different!
Shall we for the future, if need be, try to make life different to ourselves and others?
Then, if any of us become new creatures, the fact is at once recognised. People ask—What has come to So-and-so? His very appearance is changed; his gait, everything about him is altered for the better. He is regularly at hiswork and in his place in church. He has a pleasant smile and a kind word for everybody. His wife, who used often to look dull and unhappy, is now bright and cheerful. His children are better dressed than they were; they are more frank and free with him; they take his hand; they go to meet him when he comes home; they consult him about their little joys and sorrows. He is altogether quite different. What has come over him? Oh, the explanation is a very simple one: he has ceased to do evil, he has learned to do well. He has left some course of sin; he is following after a life of holiness. He has left the service of a bad master—the worst of all masters; he is now serving a new master—the best of masters. He has made the friendship of the best of friends; Christ is his master, his friend, his example. He is in Christ. That is the reason of the change, of the new creation. That is the reason of the sunshine he carries about with him, and which he scatters on others. He is like Christ Himself, for all true Christians carry Christ with them, wherever they go; just as every leaf we take off some plants, put into soil, will become a plant exactly like the parent stem from which it is taken, so the Christ-life in a man, if it be genuine, will reproduce its source and origin. The least tiny speck of musk, carry it where you may, diffuses the same kind of fragrance as the plant from which it came. So lives thus hid in Christ with God will be redolent of Him in all places and at all times.
Let us, then, if we would be happy in our present lives—happy in the memories we leave behind us—happy in the great Hereafter—see that we are now in Christ, that we now know the glory and joy of feeling a new creature. It is a great joy to think that old things have passed away, that all things have become new. Then the very earth upon which we live will have a new beauty for us. We shall look upon it as the creation of our Heavenly Father, as the place in which we are to work for Him, making our little corner of it better, happier, more blessed than we found it. Then, too, we shall regard our fellow-men and women quite differently. We find that they are related to us in new ways and with holier, more sacred ties; they are our veritable brothers and sisters in Christ Jesus. We can do them no harm, injure them in no way; rather shall we find it to be our highest duty and privilege to be helpful to them. Then, too, will pain and sorrow assume a different and new aspect. They cease to be altogether evils; they are seen to be blessings in disguise—crosses, indeed, but only sent to bring us nearer to God and to Christ; bitter medicine, indeed, but needed for our spiritual health.
Lastly, death itself, the old foe of the human race, as he is supposed by many to be, takes a new form. The awful and awesome shroud in which he seems to be enveloped falls off, and what we recognise is not the spectral skeleton with the hollow eyes coming to consign us to darkness and to death, but a radiant angel, a sweet, blessed messenger from the Father, bidding us come with him to our happy and eternal Home to meet our loved and lost, to be in Christ and with Christ for ever, with no chance any more of breaking off from Him or losing Him. And, recognising this, we shall go with him with the eagerness of a child to begin a new life, to enter upon a higher existence, to do nobler work with a more untiring zeal and energy, to love with a greater love; and as we stand for a moment to look back upon our earthly life, in the freshness of the Eternal Morning, in the beauty of our new Home, we shall realise that in Christ's Heaven, which through His great mercy and sacrifice we have reached, we are to be new creatures for evermore.