as if a ray of comfort had come to her, "But Jesus can hear him, and
perhaps He will give him what he needs, though he didn't ask Him."
Lucy would hope so too, and agree with her that when he got to heaven
he would know better; for she had reason to believe, notwithstanding
Antonio's prayers to the Virgin,--the remnant of the superstitious
faith he had held from childhood,--that he was nevertheless gradually
coming to the knowledge of the Saviour as the only mediator and
sacrifice for sin. Nelly's treasured card was fastened up
conspicuously in their little room, and the rich colours in which the
text "Looking unto Jesus" was printed, pleased the Italian's southern
love of colour, and led his eye often to rest upon it, as he spent the
long hours sitting wearily in his chair. And gradually he came to
attach some real meaning to the words, which at first he had regarded
merely as a pleasant thing to look at. Nelly would sometimes tell him
some of the things Miss Preston said to her about it, which clung
tenaciously to her memory; and how the thought that Jesus was her
Friend and Saviour, to whom she must always look in her need, had been
her one comfort when left friendless and alone. She often read to him
a chapter out of the little Bible which was Lucy's parting gift when
she left Ashleigh, and had ever since been Nelly's dearest treasure.
And he would always listen with deep interest to the history of the
wonderful life which has come home to the hearts of thousands in all
the centuries which have elapsed since it was lived among the hills
and valleys of Palestine. He loved to hear Nelly sing, in her rich,
sweet voice, her favourite hymn, "I lay my sins on Jesus," and would
sometimes try to join in the strains himself as well as his feebleness
would let him. He showed his appreciation of the motto, in his own
way, by placing his crucifix above the card, and he would sit for
hours gazing silently at both.
Lucy, in her frequent visits, often read to him the passages which
bear most directly on the love of Christ, and the full and free
forgiveness of sin through Him; and she sometimes added simple
comments of her own, preferring, however, in general, to leave God's
words to work their own way into his heart. His church prejudices she
never ventured to touch, feeling that to do so might arouse them
against the reception of the simple gospel, and do him harm, by
exciting his mind injuriously and bewildering him with conflicting
opinions. She avoided all collision with ideas which had been so long
closely intertwined with the only ideas of religion he had, feeling
sure that the light of gospel truth, once introduced into the heart,
would sooner or later disperse the darkness of error by its own power.
Except for the one dark foreboding, that became, month by month, and
week by week, more distinct, these would have been very happy days for
Nelly. Her warm Irish heart found scope for its action, in
continually ministering to the comfort of one to whom she was bound by
ties of love and gratitude, and no harsh or unkind word now fell upon
her ear. The poor Italian, always of a gentle nature, except when
influenced by passion, had ever treated her with indulgent kindness,
and she had given him her warm affection in return. Her assiduous
attentions were labours of love, and so was the needlework at which
she stitched away with diligent though unpractised hands. Coarse, hard
sewing it was; but Nelly did not mind that, in the feeling that she
was earning something, however small. While she sat plying her needle
through the short days and long evenings of the winter, the invalid's
thoughts would wander back to long past, but unforgotten days, and he
would amuse Nelly with little bits of his past history. He would
describe, over and over again, his childhood's home in the lovely
_Riviera_, where the intense azure of the sky, and the pure sapphire
of the Mediterranean, contrasted sharply with the white glitter of the
rocks as they emerged in bold relief from their drapery of rich,
deep-hued vegetation. He would tell her about the white Italian
village, nestling among the vine-clad terraces and sloping hill-sides
clad with olive and myrtle, and about the trellised house where he was
born, and his father's little vineyard, where the rich purple and
amber clusters, such as little Amy now sent him as costly luxuries,
hung down in rich masses which any hand could pick. Such descriptions
were intensely fascinating to Nelly's quick Celtic imagination, and
she would speak in her turn of the breezy slopes by the sea where she
had so often played in days she could still vividly remember; of the
aromatic scent of the burning heaps of sea-weed, whose smouldering
fires she used to fan; of the fresh, bracing sea-air, and dancing blue
waves with their snowy crests of foam, and the distant white sails
winging their way to some unknown haven.
Their talk always took a sadder tone when the Italian spoke of his
later life, and told how he left his quiet village, hoping to make his
fortune in the great world as a musician; how his hopes had been
gradually crushed down, and he wandered from place to place till he
emigrated to America, where the deadly cholera carried off his wife
and her infant boy, leaving him only his little daughter; how, since
then, dispirited and weary, he had managed to pick up a living as best
he could, gradually forsaking more ambitious instruments for his
barrel-organ, till the tide of life, gradually running low, was
reduced to its lowest ebb by the shock of his daughter's death,
superadded to the decline which had long been insidiously undermining
his system.
"But it will soon be over now, my child," he said,--"all the trouble
and the nursing. You have been very good to the poor _forestiere_
since the _povera_ went to the blessed saints. I shall soon see her
again, and Anita, and the little Giulio, in the better country that
the _signorina_ was reading about,--better, she says, than the
_patria_ itself, with its olives and vines. Ah! I think I see it
again, when I dream."
Such a speech as this always melted poor Nelly into tears; and, seeing
the pain it gave her, he did not often refer to his approaching death.
To Lucy, however, he sometimes spoke of his concern for the future lot
of his adopted daughter, who was again to be left desolate. Lucy
herself had been thinking a good deal about it, and wondering whether
she could induce her aunt to take Nelly. Amy, however, arranged the
matter unexpectedly. She had been asking Lucy, with great earnestness,
what poor Nelly would do when the organ-grinder should die; and when
Mrs. Brooke next came into the room, she surprised her with the
question, "Mamma, may Nelly come and live here when the organ-grinder
dies?"
Mrs. Brooke looked bewildered, until Lucy explained the matter. She
hesitated, and would have put Amy off with the promise that she "would
see about it." But Amy was so anxious to have the point settled, that
her mother at last gave the absolute promise she asked; and Lucy had
the satisfaction of announcing to poor Antonio, the next time she
visited him, to his great relief and satisfaction, that Nelly's future
home, so long as she desired it, should be with Mrs. Brooke.
XVI.
_Darkness and Light._
"Tell me the old, old story,
If you would really be
In any time of trouble
A comforter to me."
Fred came to town for a few days in his Christmas vacation, just as
Stella was beginning to recover from the severe attack which had
prostrated her. Mr. Brooke's house being so full of sickness, Lucy,
though very unwilling to leave Amy, thought it best, on Fred's
account, to accept an urgent invitation from the Eastwoods that they
should both spend a week at Oakvale. He would thus have a pleasanter
vacation than under the circumstances he could have at his uncle's,
where he felt himself in the way, and where Lucy had so many demands
upon her time that she could see but little of a brother whose visits
were so rare. The change of scene was very much needed by her, for the
confinement and fatigue of her sick-room attendance had had a
depressing influence on her health and spirits.
It was certainly, in spite of all her anxiety about Amy, a very
enjoyable change to the bright, cheerful, Christian atmosphere of Dr.
Eastwood's house, and the bracing influence of the outdoor exercise in
which the others made her participate. She felt as if it were wrong to
enjoy it so much, when Amy, she knew, was dying, and Stella as yet in
so precarious a condition. But God sometimes gives, in very trying
circumstances, a buoyancy and cheerfulness of feeling quite
independent of the circumstances, which seem specially sent to
communicate a strength that will be greatly needed in approaching days
of trial,--a pleasant "land of Beulah," before the watchers stand
quite on the shore of "the dark river." And it can never be right
sullenly to close the heart in determined sadness against the cheering
influences of God's light, and air, and bright sunshine; nor can we
usually, if we would, act so foolishly and ungratefully. That happy
week at Oakvale often seemed to Lucy a sort of oasis of sunshine, as
compared with the depressing weeks that preceded and followed it.
Oakvale looked scarcely less beautiful now that the surrounding hills
wore their white mantle of snow, contrasting with the intense blue of
the winter sky and the dark green of the pines, while the little river
lay, a strip of glittering ice, under the trees, leafless now, which
overshadowed its ceaseless ripple in the warm summer days. The young
party had pleasant sleigh-rides to see old favourite spots in their
winter aspect, and Fred joined the younger children in their skating
and snowballing, though he enjoyed much more the walks in which he
accompanied his sister and her friend. Mary and he got on as well as
Lucy had expected, although she was disappointed that, after their
visit was over, she could not draw from him any enthusiastic praise
of Miss Eastwood; at which she would have been a little vexed, but for
the reflection that Fred, unlike most people, never said the half of
what he thought. He did not, however, leave Oakvale without a promise
to renew his visit during the summer vacation.
Lucy, on her return home, found her little cousin evidently sinking
fast. Her strength was almost exhausted, and she suffered a good deal
from pain and restlessness; but scarcely a complaint ever escaped her
lips. She often talked now about going to Jesus, the thought on which
her mind seemed most to dwell. Mrs. Brooke, seeing this, at last sent
for the minister whose church the family usually attended on Sundays,
that being the extent of their connection with it. But he was a
stranger to Amy,--for his ministerial visits had never been desired or
encouraged,--and though she was grateful to him for coming to see her
and praying beside her bed, she could not speak to him, as she could
to Lucy, about her willingness to go to the happy home which her
Saviour was preparing for her. Still her visitor could see enough of
the change God had wrought in her heart, to make him marvel, as he
took his leave, at the wonderful way in which God sometimes raises up
to Himself a witness in the most worldly homes, and perfects praise
"out of the mouth of babes and sucklings."
The little invalid was sometimes slightly delirious when the hectic
fever was at its height, but her wandering fancies were always of
gentle and pleasant things. She would ask if they did not hear the
sweet singing in her room; and when Lucy would ask what was sung,
would say, "Jerusalem," meaning "Jerusalem the Golden," her favourite
hymn next to the one she loved best of all, "I lay my sins on Jesus."
One night, when she had been asleep for some time, with Lucy only
watching beside her, she suddenly awoke, a flash of joy lighting up
her face. "Lucy," she murmured faintly; but when Lucy bent over her,
she could catch but one word--"Jesus." Lucy saw a change come over her
countenance, which she had seen once before, and ere the others,
hastily summoned, could be with her, the little form lay lifeless, its
immortal tenant having escaped to the heavenly home, whither she had
been longing to go.
No one could help being thankful that the sufferings of the patient
little invalid were over. Indeed, with the exception of Mrs. Brooke,
Lucy, and Stella, no one showed any profound grief for the death of a
child who had always been very much secluded, and but little
appreciated. But Mrs. Brooke's sorrow was mingled with some
self-reproach that she had not been to her departed child all that a
mother should have been, and she suffered now for the wilfulness
which, when deprived of one blessing, had turned petulantly from
another. Lucy constantly missed her little favourite, and her sorrow
for the loss of her father, never quite removed, seemed revived anew
by her cousin's death. But she could feel that Amy was infinitely
happier in her heavenly home than she could ever have been on earth;
and she felt not only that she should join her there, but also that
there might be an intercourse and communion of spirit in Christ,
incomprehensible to those who look only to things "seen and
temporal."
It was Lucy's greatest solace to visit poor Antonio, and speak to him
of Amy's concern for him, and her desire that he should find rest and
peace in the love of that Saviour in whom she had so fully trusted. He
was deeply touched on hearing some of the things she had said, and the
tears came to his eyes when he spoke of her kindness in sending so
many things for his comfort.
"But," he said with deep feeling, "it was very different for a
blessed, innocent child like her, and a sinful man like me." Lucy
explained that all are under the condemnation of sin, since none are
without it; and that no sins are too great to be taken away by the
Lamb of God once offered as a sacrifice for "the sin of the world." He
listened silently, while an expression of hope stole over his haggard
countenance; and Nelly told Miss Lucy, with much pleasure, that after
that he prayed much less to the Virgin, and his prayers were more
generally spontaneous ejaculations, expressing the deeply-felt need of
a Redeemer.
Stella's grief for her little sister, partly owing, perhaps, to her
physical weakness, had seemed more violent than that of any one else.
The paroxysms of hysterical crying which frequently came on, and an
aversion to take necessary nourishment, very much retarded her
recovery, and prevented her regaining strength. As the acuteness of
her sorrow gradually wore itself out, the unaccustomed feelings of
weakness and depression brought on fits of fretfulness, in which all
Lucy's forbearance was called for; but she remembered how
good-naturedly her cousin had borne with her own fit of nervous
irritability, and she generally managed to soothe and pacify her, even
when she was most unreasonable, and tired out the patience of both
Sophy and Ada.
After the first few weeks had passed, the shadowy hush and solemnity
brought by death gradually passed away, and except for the deep black
crape of the dresses, and the abstinence from all gaieties, the family
life seemed to have returned to its former tone. So far as external
signs went, there was no more realizing sense of that invisible world
to which one of their number had gone--no more "looking unto" Him who
had been her support in the dark valley--than there had been before.
And when a bereavement does not draw the heart nearer to God, there is
every reason to fear that it drives it farther from Him.
But another heavy sorrow, to one at least of the number, soon
followed. One wild, stormy morning in March, when the letters were, as
usual, brought in at breakfast-time, Sophy quickly looked up for the
welcome letter, with its firm, manly superscription, which regularly
appeared twice or thrice a-week. There was one with the usual
postmark, but in a different handwriting, and addressed not to her,
but to Mr. Brooke. Sophy's misgivings were awakened at once, and on
seeing her father's expression as he hurriedly glanced through the
letter, she forgot her usual self-control, and exclaimed in agitated
tones, "O papa, what is it?" But his only reply was to lead her from
the room, signing to his wife to follow.
Sophy did not appear again that day, and the atmosphere of gloom
seemed again to descend over the house. Lucy waited long alone, not
liking to intrude upon the family distress, till Stella at last
returned, still hysterically sobbing.
"They say 'troubles never come singly,'" she said, "and I'm sure it's
true. Poor Sophy! Mr. Langton has been killed by the upsetting of his
carriage. The horse ran away, and he fell on his head, and never spoke
again. Poor Sophy is almost insensible. I don't believe she
understands yet what has happened. Oh, what will she do?"
Lucy's heart was repeating the same question. All her sympathies were
called forth by so crushing a sorrow, and as she could do nothing else
for her cousin, she prayed earnestly that He who could, would bind up
the broken heart.
Sophy remained for two days in her own room, and then came down again
to join the family circle, evidently trying her best to avoid any
outward demonstration of sorrow, though her deadly paleness, and eyes
which looked as if they never closed, told how acutely she was
suffering. She was not of a nature to encourage or even bear sympathy,
and almost resented any instance of special consideration which seemed
to spring from pity for her great sorrow.
It was only when shut up in her own room that she gave way to the
bursts of agonized feeling which, to some extent, relieved the
constant pressure upon her heart. When in the family, she seemed to
seek constant employment, not in the light reading in which she had
been accustomed to indulge, but in books requiring much more thought,
and even some effort to master them. Lucy's class-books were called
into requisition, and her drawing was resumed, though she now shrank
from touching the disused piano. She had a good deal of artistic
talent; and had art ever been placed before her as an ennobling
pursuit, she might have attained very considerable excellence in some
of its departments. But hitherto she had confined herself to the
execution of a few graceful trifles, since her drawing-lessons had
been given up on leaving school. Now, however, she seemed to have
taken a fresh start, and copied studies and practised touches
indefatigably, without speaking or moving for hours.
She would sit, too, for half the morning apparently absorbed in a
book; but Lucy noticed that, while thus seemingly occupied, she would
gaze abstractedly at a page for long intervals without seeming to turn
a leaf or get a line farther on. Lucy longed to be able to direct the
mourner to the "balm in Gilead," whose efficacy she knew by
experience,--to the kind Physician who can bind up so tenderly the
wounds that other healers cannot touch without aggravating. But she
dared not utter a word of the sympathies of which her heart was full,
and could only pray that a Higher Hand might deal with the sufferer.
One wet Sunday evening in April, Lucy came down in her waterproof
cloak and rubbers, ready to set out for the neighbouring church, the
one to which she had gone on the first Sunday of her arrival, and
which she frequently attended when the weather was unfavourable, or
when she had to go alone. She was not sorry when circumstances made
this desirable, for she enjoyed the service and the sermon more than
she did at the church the family usually attended. The words of the
preacher seemed to come with more power and tenderness,--perhaps
because he had himself been brought through much tribulation to know
the God of all consolation, and had thus been made able to comfort
others "by the comfort wherewith he himself was comforted of God." At
all events, it was certain that of the consolation abounding in Christ
he was an earnest and able expounder.
"What! are you going out when it is so very wet?" asked Stella, as her
cousin entered the room. Sophy, who had been gazing moodily into the
fire over the book she was holding, started up, saying, "I think I'll
go with you, Lucy. Wait a few minutes for me." Her mother remonstrated
a little; but Sophy's restless longing for change and action of some
kind was often uncontrollable, and the two girls set out through the
wind and rain, clinging closely together to support each other on the
wet and slippery pavement.
How earnestly Lucy prayed in silence, as they traversed the short
distance, that the preacher they were going to hear might have a
special message to the troubled, heavy heart beside her, and how
intensely did she listen to the prayers the minister offered up, to
catch any petitions that might seem suited to her cousin's need! She
was slightly disappointed when he announced his text, "O Israel, thou
hast destroyed thyself, but in me is thy help found," for she had
hoped that it would be one of the many beautiful, comforting passages
in which the New Testament abounds. But her disappointment wore off as
he proceeded with his discourse.
He first briefly sketched the history of the rebellion of Israel in
departing from the God of her help, and in transferring to the idols
of the heathen the allegiance which was due to the living God. He
vividly described the "destruction" which must be the natural result
of such a departure from the source of her highest life. Then he spoke
of the means by which God sought to bring her back,--of the purifying
judgments which He sent, in love and mercy, to restore her to
spiritual health, and of the inexhaustible supply of "help," of tender
compassion and restoring power, with which He was ready to meet her on
her return.
Having finished this part of his subject, he drew a striking parallel
between the ancient Israel and the multitudes of human beings in every
age, who, instead of loving and serving the living God with all their
soul, are continually setting up for themselves earthly idols of every
variety, which fill up His place in their hearts, and exclude Him from
their thoughts. Wealth, splendour, position, power, fame,
pleasure,--even man's highest earthly blessing, human love
itself,--were set up and worshipped, as if they contained for their
worshipper the highest end and happiness of his soul. What was the
cause of all the broken hearts and blighted lives from which is
continually ascending such a wailing symphony of sorrow without hope?
What but the perverse determination of the heart to find repose
elsewhere than in its true resting-place,--to set up the very
blessings which flow from the hand of its God in the place of the
Giver?
Then, in a few touching, earnest words, he showed how God must often,
in mercy to the soul, send severe judgments and afflictions to bring
the wanderers back to their "Help;" and of the depths of compassion,
of love, of tenderness, of healing, of purest happiness, which were
to be found in that divine Helper, who hath said, "Come unto me, all
ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest."
Never had Lucy heard the speaker more impressive, and she thanked God
in her heart her cousin should have been brought to listen to truths
which she had probably never before heard with any real understanding
of them. Sophy sat back in a corner of the seat, her head resting on
her hand, and her face hidden in her thick black veil. She remained
almost motionless until the sermon was concluded, and then they
silently left the church, Lucy not daring to speak to her.
Before they reached home, however, Sophy suddenly broke the silence by
saying, in a low, agitated voice:
"Lucy, you seem to be what people call a Christian. Can you say, from
your own heart and experience, that you believe all that is true about
Christ giving such peace and comfort in trouble?"
Lucy replied, earnestly and sincerely, that she could,--that she had
felt that peace and comfort when sorrow had been sent her.
"And how does it come? how do you get it?" Sophy asked.
"I don't know any other way, Sophy dear, than by going to Him and
believing His own words. They often seem to come straight from Him, as
a message of comfort."