THE LETTER FROM PEKIN.
Mr. St. John might well look grave. "Upon the earth distress of
nations, men's hearts failing them for fear." Yes, this text was being
fulfilled. It was all very well for people in England to read of the
awful things that were taking place in China, but to be on the
spot--alone. Ah, there it was, therein lay the anguish--for he was not
alone, if he had been he would not have cared. But his wife and
children! it was the thought of them that caused him such unutterable
pain.
Abraham knew something of this agony when he got up early that morning
and saddled his ass. What a pathetic story! How difficult to read it
without tears. It was just because Abraham felt it down to the very
depth of his being, and yet never doubted God's love and God's power,
that he was called faithful Abraham--God's friend.
It is easy to talk of faith to others--and to have it ourselves when
everything goes well--but the faith which God approves is that which
casts its burden on the Lord, that cries, "Though He slay me, yet will I
trust in Him."
Mr. St. John was a man full of faith. He was also full of love, or his
faith could not have been so tried; and he was a man of prayer: that
disquieting letter from Pekin had been spread before the Lord, and he
got up very early so as to spend the morning hours in communion with
Him. He had made great drafts on God's Bank, and his face had regained
its usual serenity of expression. His heart, so torn and trembling
overnight, was now calm with "the peace of God which passeth all
understanding"--the peace which the Lord has promised to those who are
stayed on him.
There was a slight sound. He looked up quickly; it was Cecilia--St.
Cecilia the children called her--coming over the grass to meet him.
"Father, darling," she said, as she twined her arms about his neck, "I
do wish I could do something for you."
"But you do, dear child," he answered, tenderly. "Mother's right hand:
what more can we ask?"
"Yes, but father, _you_--you seemed so troubled last night."
"If I did, my darling, it was very wrong," he replied, gravely, "and
showed a great want of trust in our Heavenly Father."
"I could not sleep for thinking of you, and wishing I were older, that I
might really be able to help you."
"Poor little Cicely," he said, tenderly taking the sweet, earnest face
between his hands. "Poor little right hand--old before her time. You
must not take up our cares, darling. Indeed, if we older people had
more faith we should never fret or worry either, but, instead, cast all
our cares upon the Lord who cares for us."
"What are you and father talking about? You are both so grave," said
Rachel, as she came running up to them. "Cicely looks just like that
picture we have up in our room--St. somebody or other--I can't remember
the name. Not anybody in the Bible, you know," said Rachel,
garrulously, "but it's just like Cicely, when she is in white and grave,
isn't it, father? Only she's got no halo round her head."
"You little chatterbox!" said her father, laughing, "it's a pity someone
else has not a little more gravity herself."
"Oh, I can look very grave if I like, father. I practise sometimes in
front of the glass, and I make such a long face--really, yards long."
"Did you measure it with your yard measure, Rachel?"
"Oh, no. But you know what I mean--as long as yours, and mother's, and
Cicely's."
"Well, I am sure we all feel very flattered," said her father, smiling.
"What a little pickle you are."
"A pickle! what is that? I thought it was something to eat. Is it
nice?"
"Well, that is a matter of opinion," smiling. "Some people are very fond
of pickles; others find them just a little bit too hot and strong."
Rachel was silent for a moment, then she dismissed the subject with a
toss of her dark curls. "Father," she said, "do you know I am so glad no
one is coming to be healed to-day, so we shall have you all to
ourselves, and we can have some round games like Cicely says you had in
England."
Mr. St. John's face changed. "Rachel," he inquired, gravely, "how do
you know that no one is coming to be healed this morning?"
"Because Seng Mi said so, father. The people are angry about something,
I don't know what, but I am so glad. Cicely, why don't you say you're
glad, too, instead of looking like St. Cecilia at the piano?"
Cecilia flushed, and the tears came into her eyes. Her father took hold
of her hand and pressed it between his own.
"Father, darling," she whispered, "has it come already?"
"God only knows," he replied, sadly, "but we shall be ready, at any
rate, darling."
"Yes, father," she said, earnestly, lifting her sweet, grave eyes to
his. "Do you know--I have often wished to tell you--Jesus is so
precious to me that sometimes I long to suffer for His sake."
"My dearest child, God grant that He may be more exceedingly precious to
each one of us every day. God be with you all in the time that is
coming, and the dear native Christians. Ah, Cicely, my heart bleeds for
them."
"Why, father?" asked Rachel, who had caught the last words.
"Because, Rachel, I am afraid there is a time of great trouble in store
for them--terrible persecution. Indeed," he added, "it has begun
already; in the letter which I received last night from Pekin, your
uncle speaks of the dreadful suffering, not only of Europeans, but also
of the native Christians--there have been hundreds of martyrs for Jesus
already."
"Have there, father?" Rachel's gentian-blue eyes were very wide open
indeed--"I haven't seen anybody being persecuted here yet."
"No; but my dear little Rachel, it has not reached us yet, God be
praised for that; but it may come any day--it might even come to-day."
Rachel was silent for a moment, and then suddenly reverted to what had
been uppermost in her mind--of paramount interest to her: "About the
games, father," she said, coaxingly, "if mother will give us a holiday,
will you come and have some games with us? I should like blind man's
buff and hide and seek; Cicely and I will hide, and you shall find us."
"Rachel," said her father, gently, "I should like to do what you wish,
but first I must tell you a story, and then you shall decide yourself
about the games afterwards."
"Oh, a story, father, I shall like that; let's sit down here under this
banyan tree, and then we can listen nicely," and Rachel flung off her
big, shady hat, and settled herself down by her father's side, prepared
to drink in every word. With the dark curls tossed back from her
little, eager, upturned face, and her sparkling blue eyes, she made a
pretty picture, and formed a pleasing contrast to her equally lovely
sister--indeed, Cicely's was the lovelier face of the two, for God
Himself had taken up the brush and been the Painter there.
[Illustration: "Rachel flung off her big shady hat, and settled herself
down by her father's side."]
"Once upon a time--that is the correct way to begin, Rachel, is it
not?--there lived a very wicked and cruel Emperor, so cruel that his
name has become a proverb."
"Nero," exclaimed the children in one breath.
"Yes, that is right," said Mr. St. John, continuing his story; "there
were a great many Christians then; they were people who loved the Lord
very dearly, for in confessing Him they ran the risk of the most awfully
cruel death--Nero had his spies everywhere."
"What is a spy, father?"
"You will see, dear; they were people who pretended to be what they were
not; they professed to be friendly with the Christians--even to be
Christians themselves sometimes--and they would go to their secret
meetings held in the catacombs."
"The what?" said Rachel, "what long words, father."
"The catacombs were vast dark passages underneath the city where the
Christians used to meet and worship God; but you ask so many questions,
Rachel," said her father, smiling, "that I lose the thread of my story."
"You were explaining about the spies, father," put in, Cicely, gently.
"Oh yes, to be sure; well, these spies got to know all about the
meetings, and they came too, pretending that they were Christians
themselves, and then denounced everyone who was there to the Emperor."
"How dreadfully mean," said Rachel, her eyes flashing.
"Yes, dear; well on one occasion when a great many of these followers of
Christ were taken prisoners, Nero gave a large entertainment, and
actually lighted his gardens with their bodies. Now, Rachel, part of my
story is true and part is imagination--that part, I grieve to say, is
true. Now I want you to think of a man, a Christian man, who lived with
his wife and family some miles from Rome in comparative safety; this man
knew--his children knew what their fellow Christians were suffering, and
yet that very evening they made merry and had games, and a feast in the
garden."
Rachel's eyes were full of indignant tears. "How could they, father?"
she said, "how could they? I should have cried all the evening! I
couldn't have helped it."
"Just so, dear," said Mr. St. John, gently, and he laid his hand
tenderly on the child's hair. "Last night I got a letter from your
uncle from Pekin--it's a sad letter, Rachel; Christians are being
tortured and killed to-day in China, just as they were 2,000 years ago
in Rome. And I know my little girl would be the last to wish to make
the day that is bringing so much sadness and pain to our brothers and
sisters in Christ a gala day with us."
"No," said Rachel, with a great sigh, "of course I shouldn't like that,
but oh, how I wish the Christians were not being killed, because it
would have been so nice to have had you to ourselves for a whole day,
father."
"Now, my dear little girls," said Mr. St. John, rising, "I am going in
to get some breakfast, if mother will give me some; you had yours long
ago, I know, but I have been out here and not thought much about the
time; then I should like to have a big prayer meeting; we must try and
get the dear native Christians together--they will need all our love
to-day."
"Yes, father," said Rachel, "may we go and ask them to come, I should
like that," she added, dancing and skipping about.
"Ask your mother, darling, she must decide. Christine," he said, as his
wife came up, "do you think it would be wise for the children to take
round the invitations for the prayer meeting?"
"I hardly think so," replied Mrs. St. John. "The village is in the most
unsettled state, and there seems to be danger of a general rising."
"I must go and find out what it all means," said Mr. St. John, quietly.
"Oh, my dear husband, do be careful. Do not run into any danger."
"I shall not, my dearest; never fear."
He kissed her and the children tenderly. But even as he spoke, he heard
in the distance a murmur like the roar of the sea, and there was Seng Mi
standing in the doorway with a white, scared face.