A DARK CLOUD.
"Perhaps in Life's great tapestry, the darkest scenes are whereThe golden threads of Faith glance forth most radiant and fair."
THE sweet, fresh spring-time had come again. Violets were peeping modestly out in the woods, and opening buds were swelling on every tree, speaking to every thoughtful heart of resurrection life, bringing back to the mind of Priscilla Warner, as she walked across the common and through the little wood near the Grove, the last spring-tide, when her loved mother had been called to the home above.
Very pretty the young girl looked as she walked on that April day, bent on an errand of kindness to a neighbouring cottage. For, despite the sad memories that filled her heart, Priscilla's face wore a look of peace that had never been there even in her childhood's days. Ever since the October day when, through little Claude's accident, Prissy's eyes had been opened to see her own selfishness and sin, she had been a changed girl.
Not all at once had the victory been gained; again and again self rose up and became conqueror. The habits of years are not so easily overcome as some would have us believe. But the girl knew from that day where to seek strength to conquer. She knew that the indwelling power of Christ alone could do the work in and for her, and that in him she would be more than conqueror.
And the change told on all her actions. Ere Claude had fully recovered, he learned to look with pleasure for the visits of his sister, who willingly then laid aside her own pursuits to amuse him. And poor Miss Vernon, who had her own burden in life to carry, soon felt the difference in Priscilla's mode of acting toward her. And so, although, as we have said, the old spirit of ambition and self-seeking did from time to time assert itself, Priscilla was advancing heavenward step by step, kept by the power of God.
She was crossing the common on the day we write of, to carry some strengthening jelly to a sick child, stooping every now and then to pluck some opening spring flower to put into her father's study, so that when he raised his eyes from his books they would have something fresh and sweet to rest on. She had just spied some of the early golden celandine, and was going to transfer it into her basket, when she saw André M'Ivor coming towards her, and she went forward to shake hands with him. These two were old friends now; and André's mother and sister had become the motherless girl's most cherished friends.
"How are they all at the cottage to-day?" was her greeting. "I hope Mrs. M'Ivor feels stronger, and that Gabrielle's cold has left her?"
"My mother and Gabrielle are better, thank you; but—" and the lad hesitated ere he spoke further.
And his dark eye fell as he glanced at the peaceful face of the young girl; for well he knew the words he had to say would cloud that peace and bring a shadow over her heart. But they must, nevertheless, be spoken.
"Miss Warner," he said, "I was on my way to the Grove to speak to you on a subject that I fear will give you pain."
Priscilla started, "What is it?" she said. "Anything wrong with Austin?"
"No, not with him."
"Then it's Lewis?" she queried. "What of him?"
"Yes; it is of Lewis I came to speak. Miss Warner, something must be done, or your brother's whole life will be wrecked. Austin has done all he can; but he is a younger brother, and has no authority over him. Dr. Warner must be told. It is, believe me, mistaken kindness to conceal from him that Lewis spends his evenings with the most good-for-nothing set of fellows in the school; and latterly they have succeeded in enticing him to join them in associating with a set of gamblers, and I have learned for certain that your brother is losing money every night at billiards and cards."
Priscilla started. "Mr. M'Ivor," she said, "that is impossible. Where could Lewis get money to lose?"
"Ah, that I cannot say; but 'tis even so. And the rumour of it has reached the ears of the headmaster, and if steps are not taken immediately, he will make the whole matter known himself to your father."
"No, no, Mr. M'Ivor, that must not be. What can we do? Oh, if only my father could be saved this pain! He dotes on Lewis, and the knowledge of his wrong-doing will break his heart."
"Believe me, Miss Warner," said the lad in an earnest voice, "I would do what I could to save Dr. Warner and yourself a moment's pain, but I fear it is too late. I have spoken often to Lewis, and entreated him to give up his idle associates and spend his evenings as Austin does at home; but—"
Priscilla almost groaned. Too well she knew whose blame it was that Lewis had ever begun to go out in the evenings. Truly her sin had found her out; and she was learning, as so many have had to do, that the deadly effects of our past sins, even though we have repented of them and been forgiven, will crop up and bring forth fruit in others to our grievous sorrow. Oh, for Harry's counsel and help now!
Again she turned to her companion with the question, "What can be done?"
"I hardly know," was the reply. "I shall consult my father; but, meanwhile, is there no one to whom you could confide the story who might influence Lewis? I believe that if he would promise to begin a new course of life, Dr. Ashby, for his father's sake, would hush up the matter and give him a chance."
Priscilla thought a moment, then said, "I shall go to the vicar and ask his advice; he is a kind friend, and likes the boys."
"That will be well, Miss Warner; and in the meantime I will do what I can."
"Many thanks," said Priscilla, and turned off, taking the road which led to the vicarage.
A cloud had indeed fallen on her; the bright spring morning had lost its brightness for her, and her conscience was bitterly reproaching her.
The vicarage stood in the midst of rich meadow-ground, and in summer was over-canopied by leafy trees. In front was a carefully-kept flower-garden, and at the back a well-stocked orchard sloped down to the river. From the garden, the vicar saw the girl approaching, and went to the gate to bid her welcome. He had a warm heart to Harry's friends, the young people at the Grove.
"Thrice welcome," he said, "Miss Priscilla. How is Dr. Warner? Nothing wrong, is there?" he added, as he remarked the shade on the girl's face.
Then Priscilla told her tale, owned her own fault, confessed how far short she had fallen of her duties regarding her brothers, and told also of Harry's warning as he bade her farewell.
The old man listened attentively as she poured out the tale, interrupting her now and then by exclamations of sympathy or disapproval.
"And your father knows nothing of all this, Priscilla? Does he not sit with you in the evenings?"
"My father! Oh no, Mr. Lascelles. He is buried in his books the whole evening. You know he is engaged writing on mathematical subjects just now."
"Ah I true, true. I forget. Still, surely—ah! Well; one must not blame a father to his child. And Lewis? Why, he is the pride of his father's heart. I know your mother did fear he was a boy who would be easily led astray. And I fear—yes, yes—I too have done wrong. I should have looked after the boys a bit, knowing how absorbed your father was in his studies. Gambling too! Who would have thought of it? I wish Harry had been at home. I have no way, no influence with boys; but of course I'll see Lewis and talk to him. I will try this very afternoon to catch him as he comes out of school. I am so grieved. And, my dear, you also have been wrong, decidedly wrong. Still—" (and as he spoke he laid his hand kindly on the girl's shoulder) "you were young to have such a charge. But now let us go indoors, and we'll tell our heavenly Father all the trouble."
And he did; and the girl rose from her knees comforted, and saying good-bye to her friend, took her way once more to the cottage whither she had been bound, and after speaking a few kind words to the sick child and others there, went home longing for the hour of Austin's return, when she might take counsel with him.
As she neared home she met her father with a letter in his hand.
"Priscilla," he said, "I have just met young M'Ivor, and asked him to tell Austin I wished him after school to take the train and go to Garnet Hall to deliver a letter to my friend Mr. Harris, which I wish him to get this evening, as it is on a matter of importance. They are sure to detain Austin for the night, so you will understand his not coming home. Are you well, my daughter?" he added; for the girl had suddenly turned pale.
Austin away from home at the very time she needed him so much!
It was a trial; but she mastered herself, and said, "I am quite well, father; why do you ask?"
Her colour had returned, and as the professor looked again at her, he thought he had been mistaken, and said, "I see I was wrong. I thought you looked pale and tired; but no doubt it was my eyes. I often think they deceive me now-a-days. Ah, me! What would I do if my sight failed me? You won't expect Austin to dinner, at all events."
And he walked off, leaving Priscilla with a very heavy heart.
Just then little Claude, strong and healthy now, ran up to her, saying, "O sister, do let me see what beauties of flowers you have got in your basket."
And the child was not thrust away with an impatient "Don't be troublesome, Claude," as he would once have been, but stooping to him, Priscilla let him take a peep at the sweet, fresh spring flowers; then taking his hand, walked with him to the house.
As they were ascending the front steps, she caught sight of Lewis coming up the avenue. But he suddenly turned off, leaped over a low wall into a field which bordered the river, and was soon out of sight.
OUT IN THE WORLD.
"Oh the dire mistake! Fatal freedom to choose!Had he but taken a fair path, sheltered, level, and straight;Never a thorn to wound him, never a stone to bruise;Leading safely and softly on to the Mansion Gate."
IT was almost dinner-time when Priscilla, with baby Ruth in her arms, went downstairs to the drawing-room. Miss Vernon and her father were not yet there, and she stood for a moment looking out of the window, when suddenly the door opened, and Lewis entered, cap in hand. He looked flushed and excited, she thought, and she could almost have fancied he had been crying, his eyes were so swollen.
He came forward to her hastily and said, "I am going to dine out, Prissy, with a friend. My father knows. I have not a moment to spare.—Good-bye, little babsie," he said, giving the child a kiss.
Then, to his sister's utter amazement, he threw his arms round her neck, kissed her passionately, and saying, "God bless you, Prissy; don't let any one wait up for me," he ran out of the room.
Priscilla was going to follow him, when her father and Miss Vernon entered; and nurse having come also to take Ruth away, dinner was announced, and all three went to the dining-room.
Dr. Warner, when they were seated, remarked, "It seems Lewis is engaged to dine with a school friend, so we are not to have either his company or Austin's to-day."
"So he told me," said Priscilla. "Do you know, father, where he is going to dine?"
Dr. Warner thought a moment, then replied, "I think he told me, but the name has escaped my memory. Some school-fellow, I suppose. At all events I know it's all right. A steady lad like Lewis can be trusted; and he so seldom dines out, I thought it best not to interfere, though I fear he will sit up too late studying to make up for lost time."
Priscilla spoke not. She felt sick at heart as she thought of the shock her father would sustain if bad accounts of Lewis should reach his cars. Oh, if she could only save him that pain!
On leaving the drawing-room after kissing both his sisters in the impulsive way we have described, Lewis Warner ran up to his room—that pleasant room where Austin and he had slept from the time they were little fellows, proud of the honour of being transferred from the nursery to a room of their own. He shut the door, and hastily opened drawer after drawer, taking some article of dress from each of them, then packed them into a travelling-bag. Then going to the mantel-piece, he took from it two photographs which stood thereon, and put them also into the bag. At the one, which was that of his father and mother together, he did not trust himself to look, but at the other, he glanced for a moment. It was a picture of his brother Austin standing with Priscilla beside him.
"Poor Austin!" he said to himself. "Noble fellow! What I am going to do will almost break his heart. And Prissy—" Ah! It was well for Priscilla that she did not hear the muttered words—"it's no good blaming any one, but Prissy could have hindered this, if she had tried. Now, if mother had only been alive—"
But at these words the boy's voice failed, and a great sob choked his utterance. He stood for a moment beside his white-curtained bed, where she had often stood, and bending over him had "kissed him good-night" so many a time.
And whilst all the time knowing the evil he was premeditating, shall we condemn it as a strange inconsistency that he knelt down at that bed and sobbed out the words, "Our Father which art in heaven, forgive me, and bless them all"?
"That was no real prayer," some reader will exclaim. Perhaps not. God knows. But at all events it was a cry heavenward from a young, erring, saddened heart, not yet altogether hardened in sin, round which "trailing clouds of glory" from God still hung unwilling to depart.
He started from his knees, closed the bag, and going softly downstairs, once more entered the drawing-room and stood a moment, just a moment, before his mother's picture. He gave one look, stifled a rising sob, and with a half-uttered cry of "Mother! mother!" he left the room, went out of the house, and took a cross-road to the town.
Late that night Austin Warner returned to the Grove. He had done his father's business, and being anxious to be at school early the next day, had resisted Mr. Harris's kindly efforts to detain him all night, and had returned.
Priscilla and Miss Vernon had retired to rest ere Austin came back; and fearing to disturb his father at his writing, Austin went to his own room. Lewis was not there; but he had not expected that he would be so, and taking out a book, he began to study, awaiting his brother's return. Long he waited. One o'clock—two—three—four struck, but no Lewis came. Never before had he been so late, and Austin became alarmed. Where could he be? Alas! He knew well the set he was now associating with. Could they have detained him purposely?
Uneasy in reality now, Austin put down his book and began to walk up and down the room. As he did so his eye rested on the mantel-piece, and he observed that the pictures were removed. A terrible panic seized him.
He instantly opened the drawers. His worst fears were thereby confirmed: Lewis's clothes had been mostly taken away. What did it all mean?
Just this, that long ere the clock struck four, Lewis Warner and a companion in evil had left Hereford and were on their way to Portsmouth, where some days before, through a so-called friend, they had secured places on board a vessel bound for Africa. Poor Lewis! He cared little where he went, so that he could escape the shame and sorrow of seeing his father's grief when the news of his loved son's fall and disgrace should reach his ears.
In a moment Austin understood all, and at first remained motionless, struck with amazement and distress. Then he left the room and knocked gently at Priscilla's door.
THE SEARCH.
"As thy day thy strength shall be!This should be enough for thee;He who knows thy frame will spareBurdens more than thou must bear."
GABRIELLE M'IVOR was an early riser, and on the Spring morning following the evening when Lewis Warner had left his home, she had risen earlier than usual. For she had long ago discovered that if she desired a quiet time for study, she must obtain it ere little busy feet had begun to run about and little voices call out for "Sister Gabrielle."
She had just finished dressing, and had thrown up the window to admit the fresh air, when she saw Austin Warner coming quickly towards their cottage. She was the only member of the household yet astir (even their maid-of-all-work being still in bed); so knowing there was none else to do so, she ran downstairs to open the door.
"What is the matter?" she said, as Austin's pale face told too plainly something was amiss.
"Is Miss Warner ill? Or—"
But he interrupted her courteously but firmly.
"No, no," he said, "they are all well. But there is something wrong. Could I see your father for a moment, Miss Gabrielle?"
"Oh yes," she replied. "But come indoors, and I will get him directly. He is not yet dressed. Is there immediate hurry?"
"There is." And without another word, he followed Gabrielle into the sitting-room, and remained there whilst she went to tell her father.
"Mr. M'Ivor," said Austin, as that gentleman entered the room, "you love my father, I know. For his sake will you help us? Lewis has left his home."
Mr. M'Ivor stood aghast, hardly taking in the full import of the words.
"Left his home!" he repeated. "You don't mean he has run away?"
"Even so," said Austin.
And in a few words he told all he knew. The letter which the headmaster had received telling of Lewis's evil doings; the lecture he had that day given to Lewis, along with the threat of making all known to his father next day; the emptied drawers; the abstracted "photos;" Priscilla's account of his hurried embrace of herself and little Ruth—all was told.
Mr. M'Ivor was a man of deeds, not mere words. He moved towards the door, took his hat, and, followed by Austin, set off at once to the railway station. But there they found difficulty in tracing the fugitives.
The station-master, who knew the young Warners well, said he had not seen any of them for some days.
"What," asked Mr. M'Ivor, "is the hour of any London train after six in the evening?"
"Well," was the reply, "there's one leaves this about eight, and another at two A.M."
"Were there many passengers from Hereford by the eight o'clock one?" queried Austin.
"Well, yes, sir, there were a good many."
"Any young lads?"
"Three or four, I think."
"And Mr. Lewis Warner was not amongst them?"
"Not that I saw, sir."
Just then a porter came up, who said he believed he had seen the young gentleman, but he was not alone. He thought he got into a third-class carriage.
"Had he a bag with him?"
He rather thought so, but could not be sure.
"Do you know the name of the lad with him?"
"No, sir; I did not see his face. He had his cap slouched over his brow, and Mr. Warner wore his in the same way."
And that was all they could find out.
One thing was certain—Dr. Warner must be told all, and his advice taken as to what should be done. Priscilla had told Austin of her conversation with the vicar, and Mr. M'Ivor thought it would be well to get him to come with them and break the sad news to the father.
The professor had just entered his study, ready to begin his early morning reading and writing, when the door opened, and Mr. M'Ivor, followed by the vicar and Austin, entered.
It was Mr. Lascelles who told gently and briefly the tale. The professor sat like one in a dream, then started to his feet.
"Lewis," he said, "my boy, my noble boy, fallen a prey to sharpers! How can it have happened? There must have been great blame somewhere.—Austin, did you know? Did you let your brother be led astray (you know the finest natures have all their weak points, and perhaps even Lewis had his) without trying to help him? And Priscilla—she is no child now. Did she not try?—Spent the evenings, you say, gambling? Why, 'tis impossible. Was he not in the drawing-room every evening? Speak, Austin; tell them it is all a mistake; it could not be."
And the father sunk down into his chair and groaned aloud.
Mr. M'Ivor came forward, saying, "Dr. Warner, you must rouse yourself and act, if you would have your son restored to you. This is no time for throwing blame on others. But I must free Austin. He has acted well towards his brother, and tried all he could to keep him back from evil companions; and even in concealing the matter from yourself (which I fully admit was wrong), Austin meant kindly to his brother. What we have now to do is to decide whether you will at once send some one in search of your son; and if so, where? My own idea, and that of André's as well, is that he will likely have gone to some seaport town to try and get on board some foreign vessel, being anxious to escape the disgrace he knew would fall on him."
Whilst they were thus speaking, Priscilla entered the room, her face pallid and sad, but with a look of energy in it. She seemed during these few hours to have left her girlhood behind her, and stood amongst them as a helpful woman. She went straight to her father, and said, "Father, blame me, not Austin. I have sinned. Had it not been for me, Lewis would not have left his home. I might, had it not been for my own selfish ambition and pursuits, have made the evenings pleasanter for him, and so have prevented all this misery. Of late months I have tried to make things different, but it was too late."
Dr. Warner said not a word; conscience was whispering to him that he too had neglected his fatherly duty. He rose from his chair with a bowed head and trembling limbs; but it was on his daughter's not Austin's shoulder that he leaned for support.
All inquiries were made regarding the name of the lad who had left Hereford along with Lewis, but no clue either to him or the probable destination of the runaways could be obtained.
Telegrams describing Lewis were sent to London and one or two of the seaport towns, and at Dr. Warner's special request, Mr. Pryor himself, accompanied by Austin, went to London and made all inquiries they could concerning the fugitive.
But no trace of Lewis Warner could be found, and no word came from him to the friends whom he knew loved him well.
To the eye of man, the once cherished son and brother had turned his back for ever on his father's house, and gone far astray from the kingdom of God.
From the hour his favourite son had left his home, Dr. Warner became a changed man, and for a while even his loved studies lost their attraction. In vain Austin tried to interest him as of old, bringing many of his difficult problems to him to solve, and in all his varied studies seeking his help. Aid was always given, but the pleasure in so doing which he had once so keenly experienced was gone. And as time went on, both Priscilla and Austin grieved to see that even reading seemed an effort to him, and he would sit for hours with his hand covering his eyes, as if lost in thought.
Poor Priscilla! None can tell how she suffered as she witnessed his grief, and reflected that much of this bitter sorrow was, in part at least, caused by her wrong-doing.
Miss Vernon, to whom she now often turned for counsel, comforted her as best she could. But it was in Mrs. M'Ivor's motherly arms that Prissy sobbed out her grief, and it was Gabrielle's kind words and loving ways that cheered and brightened her path. Whilst the hourly increasing love which little Ruth showed to her was a source of untold pleasure.
And through those long months of trial, those who loved her most could see that the kingdom of God, which "cometh not always with observation, but which is within us," was indeed possessing more and more fully the heart of the talented girl.
HOME WORK.
"The trivial round, the common task,Will furnish all we ought to ask—Room to deny ourselves, a roadTo bring us daily nearer God."
THREE years had passed since Lewis Warner had left the Grove, and as yet, no news had been received of him.
When one morning in autumn, Austin, now a fine-looking young man of eighteen years, stood in his sister's boudoir.
"Prissy," he said, "I want to know if you have forgotten your mathematics and entirely given up your study of astronomy?"
His sister looked up with a smile. "Forgotten them?" she said. "Certainly not. I always intended to tell you, Austin, that shortly after Lewis left us, I had a long talk with Mr. M'Ivor on the subject of whether, knowing my father's prejudices on the matter, I should relinquish altogether my study of those subjects. He asked time to consider ere he would advise me. You know he is a 'canny Scot.' Well, next day he came and said he had thought over it, and he believed it was not my duty to give up studies for which I had a God-given talent (I should tell you he had examined me in both mathematics and astronomy), and for which he believed I would one day find a use. So, Austin, ever since then, with occasional help from André M'Ivor, I have gone on steadily with my studies, rising an hour earlier in the morning to find time for them, so that I might never again be tempted to neglect other duties."
"I have tried, Austin, to make home different for you and the younger boys, and so help on the kingdom of God. Would that I had done it always; then perhaps Lewis would never have left his home, and my father would not have been the heart-broken man he now is."
Austin put his arm kindly round his sister's shoulder. "Indeed, Prissy," he said; "you have succeeded in making our home life very different from what it was. Archie and Claude will have no excuse to spend their evenings in bad companionship. Your playing and singing, our various readings and pleasant games, render our evenings at home, as the M'Ivor boys say, 'regular jolly ones;' and I own I am glad you have resumed your studies, for the fault lay not in your devoting time to mental improvement, but in your doing so in a wrong way and from a wrong motive."
"But my reason for asking specially about it is this: you know that to-morrow I set off for Cambridge, and if you can spare an hour three times a week, I am going to ask you to carry on a work I have been doing for a week past. You know Joe Anthony, the carpenter's son, who is confined to his couch? Well, the lad has a great love for study, and at his urgent request, I have been teaching him mathematics; and if you, dear Prissy, would continue to do so, he would be so thankful."
Prissy's eyes glistened as she replied: "Oh, I will do so gladly. I can now easily give the needed time; and I am so thankful that an opening has been given to me to use my talent to help a fellow-creature, and not merely to gratify my own ambition."
"That's all right then, Pris," said her brother. "I'll tell Joe to-day, and show you afterwards how far he has advanced in the study of mathematics. But there is my father calling for me. I must be off now; and I want to run down to the M'Ivors to say good-bye." And so saying, he ran off.
Priscilla then went to her book-case, and with a heart full of joy, took down some of her loved books, and began to glance over the earlier lessons in Euclid. She had just seated herself for a quiet hour of study, when some one knocked at the door, and Archie and Claude bounded in.
"O Prissy, this is jolly! Dr. Sparling has given us a holiday, at the request of Major Wright, who has just returned from India, and who was head-scholar at the school before he went away. Isn't it first-rate, Prissy? And it being Austin's last day at home too makes it all the better. We want to go some good expedition; and the M'Ivors are to join us. And you'll come also, won't you? And, Prissy, do get us some sandwiches and biscuits, for we will be away nearly the whole day. Hurrah! Hurrah! Three cheers for Major Wright!"
Adieu now to Prissy's quiet hour. But if she was disappointed, no trace of so being was allowed to be seen by the boys; but with a good-humoured, "Well, well, if holidays are the fashion, I'll take one too," she put back her book on the shelf, and set off to see to the filling of a basket with eatables for the hungry boys—returning, ere she went downstairs, into the nursery for one minute, to comfort herself with a kiss of little four-year-old Ruth, the pet and plaything of the whole household.
The next morning, a large party of friends met at the railway station to bid adieu to Austin Warner, as he set off for his first term at Cambridge University. He went followed by the good wishes of all who knew him. He left Hereford as the head-pupil of its principal school. His abilities, said Dr. Sparling, were of a high kind, specially as regarded mathematics. Dr. Warner, truth to say, had been greatly surprised at the development of Austin's talents, for, in his undue love to Lewis, he had failed formerly in doing him justice; and it rejoiced Prissy's heart to see that now, in spite of himself, he was beginning to mark with interest and take pride in his son's scholarly attainments.
Father and daughter walked slowly home together, Dr. Warner's thoughts turning to the son so dear to his heart, of whom he had heard nothing for three long years. Where was he now, and what sort of life was he leading?
He startled Prissy by the sudden question, "Priscilla, have you observed how like Archie gets to poor Lewis? There are times when the likeness almost pains me. And—" he paused a moment—"he resembles him in character likewise. He is easily led by companions; Dr. Sparling told me so to-day. MY daughter, we must see to it that he is not compelled by the dulness of his home to seek bad society."
Prissy coloured. It was the first allusion her father had made for years to the part she had had in helping Lewis in his downward course, the first time he had mentioned that son's name for long months.
"O father," she said, "I do not think you need fear for Archie in that way. He dearly loves his home, and our quiet, happy evenings. But I do fear he will miss Austin's company, and the assistance he has given him in his studies."
"Ah, there it is again!" said the professor. "My time is so occupied just now, what with writing and correcting proofs of my new book, that I fear I shall not be able to give Archie the help he requires, specially in his mathematical studies. Besides, my eyesight is not so good as it used to be. Surely my spectacles are not strong enough. There are times when I can hardly see to read at all."
Prissy looked up alarmed. "Why," she said, "did you never tell me that before? Ought you not to consult an oculist about it? Perhaps you should rest your eyes a while. Father, can I not help you? Surely, at least, I can assist Archie. Say I may; do say so. Let me at least read to you."
Her father patted the girl kindly, saying. "Nay, nay, Priscilla; I did not mean to alarm you. I daresay my eyes are just wearied; and I am getting old, you know. And, my daughter, as to your reading to me, I fear treatises on mathematics and astronomy would soon weary you. They are rather uninteresting subjects to those who comprehend them not."
Prissy bit her lips. This was not the time, she felt, to tell her father how much she understood of both sciences. It was a temptation to do so, but the discipline of the past years had worked its end. She could now in patience possess her soul. The kingdom of God, the spirit of meekness, long-suffering, and love, was growing in her heart. The great lesson, which all God's children have sooner or later to learn, "to be still and wait," was being learned by her.
So now she only said, "Well, father, when you think I can help you, do ask me; and, in the meantime, promise me not to overtask your eyesight."
"Poor Priscilla!" said her father. "I believe you would help me if you could; and in one way you do, my daughter—you do. Now that Miss Vernon has left us, I could have little comfort in studying, if I did not know that you were keeping all straight in the house. No want of love towards you now, Priscilla, on the part of the little ones."
He said this with a smile, as Claude and Ruth came bounding up to their sister.
Prissy's heart was too full for speech; any words of commendation from her father were precious to her.
They walked home almost in silence after that.
Then nurse having come to take the children off for a walk, and Dr. Warner having gone indoors, Priscilla set off to a neighbouring village to visit some poor people, amongst whom, by her kind words and actions, she was helping on the kingdom of God. In more than one family she had acted as a peacemaker; and there were little children there into whose young hearts she had dropped a seed of heavenly love, which already had proved to be the beginning of that kingdom of God which is within us.
Into one house she entered—a small, poor cottage, but spotlessly clean. A widow woman, with a baby in her arms, stooped over a bed where lay a little boy of some five years. She raised her head as the step drew nearer, and a look of pleasure and relief shone in her eyes as she recognized the visitor.
"O Miss Warner," she exclaimed, "I be so glad to see ye! Charlie's worse, the doctor says. He's as bad as can be. And oh, but, miss, my heart's broke! My pretty lamb! I can't part from him, the darling!"
"I am so sorry, Mrs. Watts," said Prissy. "Has Charlie been long ill? Why did you not tell me sooner?"
"Well, you see, miss, I'd none to send. And when he was first took ill, he called for you—he did. But now I scarce think he'll know you."
Priscilla bent over the dying child and spoke some words to him; but the little fellow's face was turned away, the bright eyes closed in unconsciousness. It was the mother, not the child, she had to comfort that day.
She knew, although their eyes were too dim to see them, angels were round the little sufferer, helping him and ministering to him; and, better than all, the loving arms of Jesus were extended to receive the soul of the little one to himself.
Ere the child's spirit passed to glory, whilst he lay pillowed in his mother's arms (for Prissy had taken the baby from her), he opened his eyes, and with a sweet smile said, "Mother—lady (the name by which he always addressed Prissy)—Jesus."
Then, folding his little hands in prayer, he said, "Our Father which art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come." He could add no more.
The mother's eyes met those of Priscilla, and in a moment, both knew the little one was already in that kingdom to which Jesus hath said the children who have come to him belong.
It was Priscilla who finished the next clause of the prayer—"Thy will be done."
"Little Charlie is with Jesus now," she whispered.
And the mother dried her eyes as she said, "And it was your hand led him to Him, miss—your voice that taught him to sing the hymns he is singing to-day in the kingdom of God."
If that were indeed so, had not Priscilla Warner done a work far exceeding that which would have gained her any earthly fame—a work which, as Harry Lascelles had said, angels might envy her the doing of?
AT THE GOLD DIGGINGS.
"More and more my eyes were clouded,Till at last God's glorious lightPassed away from me for ever,And I lived and live in night."
FAR away from the quiet English shire of Hereford, under a burning Australian sun, a group of people of all ages, and from all parts of the world, were gathered together hard at work digging for gold. Not long before, a vein of the precious metal had been discovered at Kiandra, and a crowd of people from all parts of the world had resorted thither, allured by the hope of making a fortune.
Gold to be had for the picking it up, or at least by simply digging for it! Such was the idea which had impressed the mind of many who had rushed to the Kiandra gold-fields. Little had they reckoned on the hardships before them—days and nights of toil spent standing above the knees in water; laborious digging, only to be rewarded, in most cases, by small nuggets of gold which, when separated from the dross mixed with it, often proved of little or no value. Whilst provisions, and even the bare necessaries of life, could be obtained only at fabulous prices. Add to this a climate more changeable than that of almost any other part of the world, and you will scarcely wonder that, although in some few cases large nuggets were obtained and the coveted fortune made, to the great majority of diggers, the gold-fields of Kiandra brought only disappointment, and in many instances ruined health and an early grave in a foreign land.
But on the warm day we write of, hope was filling every breast, and work seemed light under its influence; for that very morning in one of the claims, some specially good nuggets had been found, and visions of abundance of gold rose before many eyes. The burning rays of the sun struck fiercely on the workers; but they heeded it not, led on by the thirst for gold. But in the group a momentary lull came, and the word rung out—
"Carry him into the shed, lads. The sun has been too much for him. Carry him in, I say."
The speaker, a pleasant-looking man, putting down the "cradle" in which he was washing the gold, went forward and helped to lift a young lad who had fallen prostrate to the ground in the midst of his work.
They carried him to a canvas hut, and laid him on a low bed there.
Presently he opened his eyes and looked around.
"Where am I," he said, "and what has happened?"
The man who had so kindly helped to carry him to the hut said cheerily, "Don't be frightened, Will; you're in good hands. 'Twas just the sun was a bit too hot for you, and you fainted, that's all. You'll have to lie still a bit, my good fellow; but I tell you what, if a nugget falls to my share I'll halve it with you. I'm not one to forget the good turn you did me, Will, in keeping me from the gaming-table the week we spent together in Sydney. Thank God you did, my boy, for I know what it would have led to now."
The boy groaned, and turned uneasily on his bed, then said, "Alick, don't say you or any one else owes anything to me; only, God helping me, I'll never touch a card in my life again, nor let any one do so, if I can help it."
"There now, Will," said his friend, "you must not be speaking too much, nor vexing yourself over the past, whatever wrong you may have done then. You're none so old yet, my boy, that you can't retrieve the past and live a useful life in the future. Just wait till you and I get enough of gold here, then we'll away from the whole concern, diggers and all, and either settle in Sydney or go home to dear old England again and join our friends there."
At these words, the lad gave a half-stifled sob; and the digger, thinking he was best to remain quiet awhile, withdrew without saying another word.
But once outside the door he said to himself, "Poor boy, poor boy! I can't think his sin can have been a great one, but it troubles him sorely. I wish he would tell me all about it, and also what his real name is, and then I might help him more. He is but a slip of a lad yet, and a clever one too. He should not be here, 'tis plain; for, as a rule, they are but a rough lot of men we are amongst."
When Alick Barton returned from his day's work to the hut which he shared with Willie Smith, he found the lad much worse, and for many days to come Alick watched beside his friend as he tossed about in the delirium of fever. Many names escaped his lips, but they conveyed little information to the kind watcher, saving that he was sure the lad's father must be alive, for again and again he had called on him, once saying:
"O father, forgive me, only forgive me, and I'll never, never touch a card again!"
Weeks passed, and Barton, as he was called by his mates, was no longer to be seen at work in the claim. It was whispered amongst the diggers that he had been successful in obtaining some large nuggets, and gone off to Sydney along with Will Smith to spend them there.
Others contradicted that story; but one thing was certain, that both Barton and Will had disappeared from the Kiandra diggings.
After many weeks had elapsed, a digger, who had lately come from Sydney, told that the day he had left that city, he had seen Barton going up the steps of a large hospital there. And such was the case. Barton had realized enough at the gold diggings to enable him to take Will Smith along with himself back to Sydney. The lad, although he had so far rallied from the fever which had kept him in bed for weeks, still remained so languid and weak that his friend had become alarmed about his state, and resolved, if possible, to remove him from a place of which neither the climate nor the work was suitable for him.
When he first broached the subject to his companion the lad refused to go.
"No, no, Barton," he said; "I'll not hear of your relinquishing all your prospects of making a fortune for my sake. Never mind me, my good fellow; I'll get better by-and-by, and though I fear I will never make a digger, or get money in a gold-claim, I need not either beg or be a burden to you. Several of the men have asked me to give them some lessons in reading and writing in the evenings, saying they will pay me well for it; for they say, 'What's the use of getting gold and setting up as gentlefolk if we can neither read nor write?' And you know, Barton, there are lots of them can do neither. So you see I'll just stay here and turn schoolmaster. Doesn't that sound grand?"
But the laugh which accompanied these words was so bitter and unboy-like that it grated on the ear of his friend, and his only reply was—
"I tell you, Will, stay here longer I will not; so if you wish to keep school you can try your hand at it in Sydney."
Will Smith held out against moving for a while, but he had to yield at last, and he and Barton began by easy stages the journey to Sydney.
When they reached it, Will was so exhausted that his friend's first care was, through the influence of a doctor there, to get him admitted into one of the best hospitals of the city, where every care and attention would be paid to him. And there, surrounded by every comfort, the lad lay for weeks, having time for serious thought, and experiencing evidently bitter remorse for past sin, learning, as so many have learned, that "as we sow so shall we reap."
It was in the hospital that he confessed to Alick Barton that Smith was not his real name, and that he had left his home to escape the disgrace of being found out to have been a companion of sharpers and a frequenter of the gaming-table. But not all Barton's entreaties could get him to disclose the name he bore, or induce him to write and tell his friends where he was. Not yet would the lad humble himself to confess the sin committed against an earthly father; not yet had he as a little child entered into the kingdom of God.
THE SECRET DISCLOSED.
"Wait; yet I do not tell you,The hour you long for nowWill not come with its radiance vanishedAnd a shadow upon its brow."
A YEAR had passed since Austin Warner had become a student at the University of Cambridge. The name and character he had earned at the Hereford Grammar School had been nobly sustained by him, and the better set of young men soon gathered around him and became associated with him in many a good work.
He had been twice home for a short holiday, but during the chief part of the long vacation, he had been engaged as tutor to a young nobleman. The resolve, made years before, that by God's help he would try to promote the interests of his kingdom, had been carried out; and there was more than one young lad at the university who confessed that Austin Warner, by his consistent character and gentle warnings, had saved them from evil-doing.
The winter term had just commenced, when Priscilla entered her father's study early one morning, anxious to hear the contents of a letter from Austin which her father had just received.
She started as she entered at finding her father sitting with bowed head and the half-opened letter in his hand.
"O father," she said, in an alarmed tone, "what is wrong? Is Austin ill? Oh speak, do speak; tell me what it is!"
He laid his hand tenderly on her shoulder, and said, "No, my daughter, there is nothing amiss with Austin. But—" and, strong man as he was, a tear fell on the letter he held—"Priscilla, it is best you should know it. I can no longer read his letter. God has stricken me sorely. I am blind—I fear hopelessly blind."
"O father, poor father!" said the girl, as she threw her arms caressingly round him, "Is it possible? Why, oh why have you concealed this from me? Blind! But do not say hopelessly so. You have seen no oculist yet; it may be only—"
But her father stopped her.
"Nay, Priscilla, I have seen an oculist; M'Ivor went with me to one and heard his opinion. He told me I would soon be entirely blind, and now I am almost so. It has come sooner than even he expected it would. It is hard to bear. My last work on mathematics was almost finished; and now, without the help of some one who fully understands the subject and can carry out my ideas, it must be given up. Austin has not the time to do so; and Lewis, poor Lewis, is perhaps no more. But God's will be done!"
At these words Priscilla rose. Her timidity, her fear of her father's prejudices all vanished. With one short cry for help to her Father in heaven, she spoke out boldly.
"Father," she said, "the time has come when you must listen to me. The mathematical talent God gave to you I have inherited. I could not stifle it, though, knowing your dislike to women pursuing such studies, I have latterly tried to do so, but failed; and almost unaided, I have continued the study, till now I know, father, I can help you in any work of the kind you wish to carry on. It was my passion for this study, my sinful, selfish ambition to prove to you and the world what a woman could do, that led me soon after my mother's death to neglect other and more important duties. Ay, and with deep sorrow I confess it, it was my being so absorbed in the study of mathematics that made home so cheerless for my brother, and brought such bitter sorrow on us all."
Dr. Warner started, but said not a word for some minutes; then pushing a slate and pencil which lay near into Priscilla's hand, he said, "Let me try you."
And for more than an hour, he tested her with the most abstruse problems. They were all, to his utter amazement, carefully solved.
"And you have had no teacher, you say?" he queried.
"Only as regards the rudiments of the science, father," she answered. "Austin taught me those."
"Austin! Then he knew?"
"Yes, he did; but at my request, he kept my secret."
"Was that right, Priscilla—a secret from me?"
"You forget, father," she replied, "how often you spoke with contempt of women meddling with subjects out of their sphere. You remember how angry you were when you found I had begun to study astronomy; and how, when I asked you to try me as regarded my knowledge of that subject, you refused to do so. O father, I could not after that tell you."
Once again the professor examined his daughter, and after hearing her correct answers, he bent his head on his hands, and, as if speaking to himself, said, "God be praised that one of my children has so fully inherited my father's talent, though it is only a girl."
And drawing his daughter into his arms, he kissed her as he had never done since her birth.
From that day Priscilla could no longer complain of her father's disparagement of her talents. Many pleasant hours were spent in his study, sometimes transcribing for him or reading aloud some book on his favourite subject. And after studies were ended, Priscilla would open the Book of Life and read aloud of Him "in whom are hid all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge," and yet who hath declared by his Spirit that "the wisdom of this world is foolishness with God," so that "he that glorieth, let him glory in the Lord."
And the old man as he listened became more and more as a little child, and as such more fully entering the kingdom of heaven, led therein by the hand of his daughter, who on her part was becoming day by day liker the Master she loved and served, seeking not her own but her neighbour's good.
Shortly after the scene we have written of, Prissy wrote the whole account of it to her loved brother, ending her letter by saying: "And now, dear Austin, I can see God's over-ruling loving hand in causing so many stumbling-blocks to have arisen in the way of my prosecuting my favourite study. It was indeed well that it should be so, for pride and foolish ambition were the sources of my desire to excel in it. Now, I trust, I can truly say the talent which he has given me I have laid at, his feet and consecrated to his service. And in being able, in however small a way, to help my father, and Archie, and Joe Smith in their loved study, I am more than satisfied. And I realize every day more and more what Harry Lascelles and you, dear Austin, have done long ago—that the noblest work that man or woman can be engaged in on earth is, by the prayerful performance of daily duties, to seek to extend the kingdom of God."
Blindness was indeed a sore trial to Dr. Warner. His whole life had been spent in study; books constituted his world, in the reading of which he had spent so much of his time that he had neglected too much his family and social ties. Now he was compelled to rest. True, with Prissy's assistance, he continued the book which he was engaged writing; but hours once devoted to study were now spent in comparative idleness. In everything he turned to Priscilla for help, and was becoming almost too dependent on her.
Sometimes Prissy's numerous duties almost overwhelmed her, for in addition to her household cares she had to superintend almost entirely the education of the two little ones.
One day when she was teaching Claude, wondering how she would get through the day's work, a light step ran up the stair, and the door opening displayed the bright face of Gabrielle M'Ivor.