A DISCOMFITURE.
THE young gardener felt he had made an awkward beginning to the suit
he had determined to press, and endeavoured to assure Milly that
respect for her excellent father had alone prevented him from using
arguments which would have convinced her of the superiority of the new
lights that were beginning to shine, and of the unnecessary strictness
of the old-fashioned theories of religion. But he "hoped for many
opportunities of discussing the subject with her."
"Not with my consent," thought Milly, and she hoped the young man would
leave them as soon as Robert had driven off with Mr. Hill.
But Lewis had no such intention. Milly had to go up to the house by a
long winding path, and he meant to escort her.
"It is our custom to have family prayer before parting from my
daughter," said Mr. Taylor, with simplicity. "Will you choose to stay
or not?"
"Oh, I shall be most happy to join you," said Mr. Lewis, pleasantly.
Mr. Taylor read a chapter and prayed, and though Mr. Lewis might have
heard the second chapter of Paul's first epistle to the Corinthians
many a time in his life, it never seemed to have so much point before.
"But then," thought he, "it is only the quaint, old-fashioned way of
putting things."
And he would not have heard the prayer at all if he could have helped
it; but he could not help it, and vainly strove to shake off the
solemnising consciousness that he knelt with one who was speaking, the
child to his Father, the Christian to his God, through the atoning
mercy and forgiving love that had made them one in Christ Jesus.
The object of his stay was, however, defeated by Mr. Taylor taking
Milly home himself, as he felt it was a parent's duty to guard the
fair character of his child, and, as far as possible, to choose her
associates. Never until he should yield up his authority to her husband
could he hold himself absolved from responsibility concerning her way
of life and her good name among those with whom she dwelt.
The young gardener was piqued at the rejection of his politeness, but
he walked by their side, saw the father press a loving kiss on the lips
of his child, and as Milly disappeared into the house, he again joined
Mr. Taylor, and without further hesitation asked his leave to address
her, with the view of making her his wife. He stated his means, which,
he said, were ample, though shared by his mother and sister, and seemed
himself much impressed with the favour he was conferring on his chosen
one, or rather, perhaps, on her family.
Great was his mortification and displeasure when Mr. Taylor, with the
straightforward simplicity which marked all his ways, informed him,
as kindly as he could, that he decidedly declined his proposal, and
would never bestow his Christian daughter on one whose principles were
opposed to the Word of God.
"Is that your only objection?" asked the young man, thinking it was a
very light matter and easily dealt with.
"It includes everything," said Mr. Taylor.
"Then," returned Lewis, eagerly, "I can safely assure you that it shall
never cause an instant's disagreement between us. In fact, so far from
interfering with your daughter's principles, I may perhaps feel more
perfect confidence in her character because of them, though I may not
actually share them."
"You say well," said the father, "for you evidently know that 'a woman
that feareth the Lord' is the true wife to be trusted as well as
'praised.' She only takes God's blessing with her as her best portion.
But it can only be by obedience to the command not to be unequally
yoked with an unbeliever, and I trust and pray that child of mine shall
never so dishonour God and wrong her own soul. Emily is a disciple of
the Lord Jesus Christ, Mr. Lewis; and whatever her lot in life, it must
agree with that first and holiest bond."
"Well, sir, I cannot pretend to understand such extreme views, but if
any one could instruct and win me to them it would be your daughter."
"Nay, you overrate even her power, were she dear to you as longer
acquaintance and closer communion might make her. Only the Holy Spirit
of God, by the Word which you disown, can win you to approve and love
the truth. It is not 'of the will of the flesh, nor of the will of man,
but of God.'"
Mr. Lewis carefully controlled the vexation and contempt he felt, but
he resolved that only from the fair girl herself would he submit to the
rejection of his suit.
"She will manage them all if I can manage her," he thought, "and to
baffle the old father as well as to win his sweet daughter will be a
racy sort of enterprise, and enliven the dulness of this stupid place
for a while. Then I will get a situation elsewhere, and carry her off
to see the world that yet she knows nothing about, poor girl."
On his return home, Mr. Taylor told Susan and Mrs. Hayes all that had
occurred, and the latter began to think there was no plan so effectual
as to take her young favourite away to the country at once. But the
parents thought they might trust Milly, and that it would be well for
her to remain at present where duty had placed her, and to let her
principles stand the test, if the suitor should choose to press matters
any further.
A morning or two after, as Mrs. Hayes sat knitting, a very pleasing,
neatly-dressed young woman made her appearance at the lodge, and
presenting a little basket of beautiful fruit, said that her brother
respectfully begged Mrs. Taylor's acceptance of some which he had
liberty to dispose of as he pleased.
"Who is your brother, my dear?" asked Mrs. Taylor, giving her a seat.
"I beg your pardon, I thought you knew him," she replied, colouring.
"Edward Lewis, the gardener at Lord Crewe's."
"We are much obliged to him," said Susan, "and I would not pain him by
refusing to accept what you have been at the trouble to bring, but I
must beg that he never sends anything again; he is aware that we cannot
welcome him here, and of course cannot receive his gifts."
"I am very sorry, ma'am," said the young woman, again blushing deeply.
"May I ask how my brother has been so unfortunate as to displease you?
He cannot have done so intentionally."
Mrs. Hayes looked very kindly on the girl; she liked the sisterly
question, and Susan felt that it must be answered. She would not expose
the brother's secret, but turning over the leaves of the large Bible
that lay open on the table at Aunt Hayes's elbow, she pointed to some
words, saying, "Did you ever notice this verse, my dear? I need not say
anything more if you understand me."
It was the second epistle of John, tenth verse, "If there come any unto
you, and bring not this doctrine, receive him not into your house,
neither bid him God speed: for he that biddeth him God speed, is
partaker of his evil deeds."
The maiden looked at the verses long enough to have read them many
times over, and then raising her eyes with tears gathering in them to
Susan's face, she said, meekly, "Then it is true; you are of those who
love the Lord Jesus. I am so glad, so very glad. But, oh, Mrs. Taylor,
don't refuse to let my brother come here; it may be the very way in
which our prayers are to be answered, my mother's and mine."
"Your prayers for what, dear child?" asked Mrs. Hayes, beaming one of
her tenderest looks on the damsel.
"For my brother, ma'am, that he may give up the bad books and notions
he has got hold of, and learn God's own truth in His own Holy Word,
that he may come to Jesus and be saved."
"That's what I call sound Christian English," said Mrs. Hayes; "and
now we understand each other, and I am sure you will not really wish
my dear niece here to 'do evil that good may come;' to risk her own
children's principles in hope to amend your brother's. He has Moses and
the prophets, and even Jesus risen from the dead."
"Yes, I am wrong and selfish," said the sister; "but when I heard that
you were Christians in real earnest, and that your daughter is an
attraction to my brother, I felt glad for his sake. I thought you would
do him good."
"Yes, you were selfish in that, my dear; but you see that it cannot
be. You would not wish our child to do what you dare not, I hope, do
yourself. How many a weak simpleton has fancied she was to be as a good
angel to her husband's soul, and has lost herself in his worldliness
and unbelief instead."
"Oh, you are right. I dare not blame you. So I can but ask you to
forgive my selfishness, and to pray for Edward sometimes, as one in
great danger and great sin."
"And what of your mother, my dear?"
"Oh, you would love my mother," she cried, with animation. "I wish you
could see her, but she is not able to go out, and has no one except me
to speak to about the things she loves best."
"I dare say she daily thanks God for giving her a daughter to whom she
can speak of what she loves best. It is a high honour for you that He
has made you understand her; and, my dear, don't let craving for more
make you unmindful of what is already given."
"My mother says that: oh, would you come and see her? It is not a long
walk, and it would cheer her so much."
"You may expect us very soon," said Aunt Hayes.
"And remember that you are welcome whenever you can come," said Susan,
kindly.
"I do not often leave my mother," she said; "but when I can, I shall
be thankful to come here. Will you call me Rhoda?" She added, simply,
"That is my name."
"Then tell me, Rhoda," said Mrs. Hayes, "have you always lived with
this dear mother?"
"Oh no, I was being taught under Lady Crewe's maid, and was to have
gone with her ladyship to Italy last winter as her only waiting-maid;
but my mother was taken ill, and though Lady Crewe would have paid a
nurse to take care of her, I could not think of letting a stranger take
the place of her own child. She had nursed and tended me for years of
childish helplessness and trouble, and I could not go and see beautiful
places and enjoy myself while there was her sick-bed to cheer and her
suffering to soothe at home. She wished me to go—dear, kind mother, she
would deny herself anything; but when I told her I had given my final
answer to her ladyship, I can never forget her look as she put her
feeble arms round me, and said,—
"'The Lord will bless my darling: she has done right in His sight.'
"Oh, I forgot all about Italy and Switzerland then! Edward is very kind
to me, and so long as our mother is so delicate, he would rather have
me for housekeeper than any servant or stranger. I do all the work,
and keep the house as nice as I can. But, indeed, I am not used to
chatter in this way," she said, blushing: "your kind interest must be
my excuse."
And responding to an affectionate farewell, she took up her little
basket and tripped away.
Susan returned to her occupation, and Mrs. Hayes took up her knitting,
but not a row did she make. In fact, she was unconscious of letting
down a stitch or two, and found herself roused out of a long gaze at
the fire, where she had seen nothing, by the horrible fuss of a meeting
of fire and water through the boiling over of a kettle which Susan had
asked her to mind. The unsavoury consequence greatly annoyed her: she
was not given to such neglectful things, and, after making the best she
could of it, and apologising to Susan very humbly, to Susan's great
amusement, she settled herself to recover the fallen loops, saying to
herself, with a jerk of her head,—
"There, there, you're an unbelieving old woman, Mrs. Hayes. What
business have you to be building castles that won't hold anybody? Let
the Lord do as He pleases, and then it will all come right. Aren't they
His, and must not all things—yes, all things—work together for good to
them that love Him?"
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