FRIENDS WORTH KEEPING.
"ROBERT," said a gentlemanly young man about Robert Taylor's own height
and age, laying his hand familiarly upon his shoulder, "my father says
it is a pity poor Matthew should be pining for his letter, though he is
so foolish as not to give his address to the postmaster; it may be some
time before he is able to go for it."
"He shall not pine long if it is there, sir," said Robert; "I am going
to inquire for it this evening after work; I told my mother this
morning not to expect me home until late."
"I thought so," returned the other; "and I mean to go with you, unless
you have better company, so expect to see me somewhere about the first
turnpike."
Robert was very well pleased, and having brought a change of dress with
him to the works, he knew that his companion need not be ashamed of his
appearance.
Soon after six o'clock, a light vehicle, capable of holding two people,
overtook him at the appointed spot.
Young Mr. Dixon drove briskly on for some time in silence, during which
we may take opportunity to say that he was now in partnership with
his father, a steady, active man of business, and greatly beloved by
all in his employ. The early affection he had felt for the son of the
respected foreman had ripened into a strong friendship, which nothing
on either side had ever interrupted, and which the excellent sense and
self-respect of the workman preserved from intrusion or presumption.
"Robert," said Mr. Archibald, after a while, "you have never asked me
anything about certain reports which you must have heard. Don't you
care what I do for myself?"
"Yes, indeed, I do care," exclaimed Robert, with a rush of bright
colour to his honest face; "and, if I hadn't felt good hope that all is
right for you, I should have risked even displeasing you by speaking;
but otherwise it was not for me to mention such a subject until you
gave me opportunity."
"That's like my honest friend," said the other; "but what is your hope
about it, on which you have settled down so satisfactorily?"
"That the young lady is a servant of the Lord Jesus Christ, and, by all
I can hear, worthy the love of a Christian gentleman," replied Robert,
promptly.
"Then you can congratulate me when I tell you that all is settled, and
that our God—yours and mine, Robert—is going to bestow on me His best
earthly gift, 'a prudent wife'?"
"Yes, I can and do, with all my heart, sir," said Robert; "I saw you
several times attending on that lady, and I could feel no rest until I
found out all I could about her."
"And what did you hear, may I ask?"
"Nothing but what is good and right?" said Robert, warmly. "That she
is a true Christian, with a sweet and gentle temper, is a self-denying
daughter, and an accomplished lady, kind to the poor, and thoughtful
for every one about her—such a person as your dear mother will be happy
to call daughter-in-law."
"Well done, Robert, I could not have made a better sketch myself," said
his gratified friend; "and had it been otherwise, you would have told
me your thoughts on a matter so important to my happiness."
"I would, sir: I could not have done otherwise."
"Then, Robert, you will understand the feeling which constrains me to
speak candidly to you. I am anxious about you, Robert, and some dear
to me are anxious too. Miss Eaton knows our regard for you and your
family, and is kindly interested in all I love. She employed a young
dressmaker lately, of whom in many respects she did not feel able to
approve, and was greatly grieved to hear your name mentioned as the
admirer of this pretty but indiscreet young woman. It had been, I was
going to say, boasted of before the servants, who told their mistress.
I know you too well to suppose you would trifle on such a matter, and I
want to know the truth from yourself."
"You shall hear it," said Robert, with a blush of annoyance and
indignation at the construction that had already been put upon his
conduct; "I do acknowledge that I was attracted by the beauty of Lydia
Brooks, and that I have tried to ascertain what sort of disposition
and principles belonged to it. I have no notion of falling in love
with what merely pleases the eye, but I can't tell what I might do if
further knowledge of character satisfied my heart."
"You would then yield the devoted attachment of that heart, I know,
Robert, and I want to have it worthily bestowed."
"I do not expect to have it called forth, Mr. Archy," said Robert. "My
good Aunt Hayes has taken up the cause, and circumstances are eliciting
sufficient to guide me safely, under God's kind providence."
"Then you are not hurt at what I have said? You know, Robert, I would
not speak or think disrespectfully of any one dear to you."
"I do know it, and thank you heartily for such real friendship, Mr.
Archy; and the only thing that causes me regret is to see a woman so
gifted with powers to please, and make somebody's life happy, set upon
throwing them away for a little idle vanity."
"She is a selfish, giddy, vain creature, so far as Miss Eaton can
ascertain," said Mr. Archibald, warmly; "and to see you choose such a
woman would distress me. But we can trust your good Aunt Hayes, and of
course I ought to have trusted you also, never to attach yourself to
a woman who does not fear God. Only one sees such strange miserable
things in this queer world sometimes. I have not selected my wife for
her beauty, Robert, though she is lovely enough in my eyes."
"And in every one's else," said Robert, smiling, as he sprang out at
the post-office to inquire for the expected letter.
By the open window of the bedroom over Miss Lydia's special apartment,
and in spite of the advice of his landlady, sat the invalid lodger,
looking very pale and weak yet. His usually curly hair hung lank about
his brow, and an expression of anxiety was on his countenance; his
tall figure drooped wearily, and altogether Matthew Hill was very much
changed for the worse in appearance.
It was a sweet, calm evening, the soft air refreshed him, and many an
effort he made to give attention to the little book that lay open on
the table at his side.
"It's of no use," he thought at last, closing the book, "I can't
pretend to care as I ought for the news from a better world, while I'm
longing so hard for some in this." And again he gazed along the road
wishing for restored strength to try another journey to the post-office
at B—. His young friend had not been to see him either that day, and
Mr. Hill felt alone in the world.
Presently, however, a little carriage drove up, and in a few seconds,
up three steps at a time came Robert Taylor, and laid two letters
before him.
"How kind! How thoughtful!" murmured the grateful man, as he clasped
Robert's hand. "Don't go until I have opened them."
"They have been lying for some days," said Robert. "I will wait and see
whether you want to answer them to-night."
But Mr. Hill did not hear. He was gazing in mute surprise upon the
seven words in printed letters which me his eager eyes on tearing open
the first letter.
"DEAR FATHER, COME HOME, DAISY WANTS YOU."
It was some minutes before the other letter, written by Mr. Field,
was opened, and its contents, though cautiously and hopefully worded,
impressed the unhappy wanderer with the conviction that some untold
evil had befallen.
"Will you have pen and ink? Shall I post a letter for you?" gently
asked Robert, thinking the fit of musing had lasted long enough for an
invalid.
"To-morrow, if I cannot travel, but I must try," said Matthew. "I
cannot say anything now. Will you pray for me? For I am very very
miserable, and I deserve it all."
"I don't like to leave you miserable," said Robert, kindly; "but though
I can't help you, I know who can. He says,—
"'Call upon Me in the day of trouble, I will deliver thee, and thou
shalt glorify Me;'
"'Cast thy burden upon the Lord, and He shall sustain thee;'
"'Come unto me, all ye that are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give
you rest.'"
And with the last words, Robert softly closed the door, leaving the
sick man still gazing on the printed sentence before him.
Left alone, Matthew Hill tried to think, and found the effort only
further exhibited the confusion of his mind. Yet over the chaos seemed
to float in tender tone the last words of his young friend,—
"Come unto Me . . . I will give you rest."
"Come unto Me."
"Oh, I must. I cannot bear this.
"My God, teach me, hear me, help me!"
He cried, in an agony of distress, and sinking on his knees by the
chair in which he had been sitting.
Tears, bitter, miserable tears, forced themselves into his eyes,
his hand pressed hard on his burning forehead, and he was conscious
of nothing for some time but an intolerable load of remorse and
wretchedness.
Was it strange that he thought not now of others' faults or tempers or
unkindnesses? He saw something of himself, his cruel desertion of duty,
his stubborn pride, his former odious self-indulgence.
"Oh, what a sinful wretch I have been!" he murmured. "Can the good God
ever pity or forgive me? Oh! May I but see them again—my poor wife,
my darling children! Shame, shame on me, for an unnatural father, an
unfeeling husband. Can they ever love me any more?"
Now was poor Matthew indeed humbled. He saw himself now in the light
of God's holy word, and lay with all his pride, and self-will, and
crushing sense of utter worthlessness before the Cross of Christ. And
that was the right place to find help; there hung the only arm that
could raise up the fallen. And now was felt the "repentance" that the
Prince and Saviour was "exalted" to give. "Remission of sins" was in
twin-relationship with "godly sorrow."
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