IN CONCLUSION.
"THEY did eat, they drank, they bought, they sold, they builded, they
planted, they married and were given in marriage;" so said the Lord
Jesus, and He disapproved of none of those things. But He would have
His people do and possess and enjoy as travellers passing through a
foreign land, thankfully availing themselves of its accommodations, its
comforts, and even its luxuries, but never dreaming of settling there
for ever. It is not home, and the traveller has a home and a "native
land" elsewhere.
So the Christian journeys on towards his heavenly home. If he can find
a fellow-traveller bound for the same, well; and if on the way he can
pitch his tent in sweet resting-places, and make a little picture or
type of the heavenly hope, very well. He may do it, and delight in it
too, while the light of the Divine substance illumines the earthly
shadow, and keeps the holy model in constant view.
Something like this were the thoughts of Robert Taylor as he sauntered
along Lord Crewe's park towards the pretty little church which peeped
up from among the trees, and around which "the rude forefathers of the
hamlet" slept in peace.
It was the Sunday evening after Mrs. Lewis's "remains" (yes, it is a
suitable word for the empty worn-out cage, when the bird of paradise
has flown) had been laid among them, and it was suggested by some very
determined feeling, of which he had for many months been getting more
and more conscious, that the bereaved daughter must feel very forlorn
and alone in the world that evening, for her brother never went to any
place of worship, and his wife seldom, except she had some new fashion
to show to the village "ladies."
So after the service was over, he joined the mourning figure that
drooped along the walk, after turning one yearning glance towards her
mother's grave; and as she shivered and struggled against the choking
grief, she felt grateful for the kind support, as Robert silently and
gently drew her arm within his own. It was such a strong thing, a good
brave man's arm to lean on; and the strong man thought it would be
happy to bear that little burden always. And it came to pass that he
presently made her comprehend the fact, so that Rhoda was no longer
forlorn or alone in the great wide world, but had found the traveller
whose journey she was to share; and knowing his principles and his
character as son, brother, friend, she had no more hesitation about
trusting her happiness in his hands, and no more doubt of the reality
of every word he spoke, than if a voice from the sky above them had
said, "They two shall be one flesh."
"Oh, mother, dear mother!" thought she. "Do you know how God is caring
for your Rhoda? Is not this what you would bless Him for? Is He not
answering your prayers?"
And Robert felt that the vacant place in his heart was filled now; the
"help meet" was found, and his tent should be as much like heaven below
as love and sympathy and the blessed presence of the Lord God of the
families of the earth who trust in Him could make it. Thus building no
airy castle to fade away in descriptive vision, but a tower on a rock,
whose top should reach to heaven—a task that no Babel-builders ever
yet accomplished, but which the Spirit of God is doing by His people
in spiritual reality every day—they walked and talked until they found
themselves at Mr. Taylor's door.
"It is due to my father and mother and dear Aunt Hayes that we tell
them at once, dear Rhoda," said Robert. "They all love us both, and we
must have their blessing."
There was no hesitation in the welcome. Even Mrs. Taylor felt that she
could give up her son to such a wife, and his father saw himself and
his own dear Susan over again. There was not one in the family who
had not secretly wished that this very circumstance might happen, and
as old Mrs. Hayes took the maiden to her loving heart, she confessed
to "a piece of romantic folly," she said, "of which such an old goose
should have been ashamed, but she did think, the first time the sweet
face of the girl, with her sisterly love, and her Christian grace, and
her modest dress and manner, came before her, that just such should be
worthy to be Robert's wife."
"She has been tried and found true, dear Robert," she said. "Never did
dutiful, attentive daughter, and self-denying, self-conquering sister,
make aught but blessedness in her husband's heart and home. But she
must go with me to get back the roses. I'm not to be moved on that
point, and when you are ready, you may come and fetch her."
So Mr. and Mrs. Lewis, who had calculated comfortably on the
continuance of Rhoda's services, because, forsooth, "her brother was
her lawful protector," had the argument clean swept from their grasp,
seeing that a new claimant for the protectorate had presumed to come
forward, and they had no right to dispute her decision; they must
therefore fight the battle of life for themselves. Mr. Lewis insisted
upon it that he had never intended to marry a fine lady instead of a
working woman, and would not submit to the expense of even a small
servant at present; while poor Lydia, having the disposition of the man
who dreaded being "compelled to do a deed his soul abhorred," namely,
"to work," was so "put out," that she sulked and scolded and bemoaned
herself. They had been deceived in each other, and sometimes it was
hard to say which had the worse lot of the two.
After regaining her roses at the farm, Rhoda begged for a little
time to visit her brother, and try what she could do towards mending
the state of things; and a very uncomfortable time it was, but Rhoda
scarcely felt it in the beautiful sunshine of her own prospects, and
patiently bore with all she found.
Edward's associates were not low, drunken persons, who bring outward
disgrace and temporal loss on themselves or their associates, they were
men who read and talked over all the loose, infidel, immoral books and
opinions that Satan has got up to cheat sinners of heaven, and insult
the truth of the Most High God. They wanted no law but their own will,
admitted of no rights but their own gains, and worshipped nothing
higher than their own wisdom.
Ah, let woman beware of the influence of such views, and of those who
hold them; for while destroying souls, they are also undermining the
social position which Christianity has given her, and are preparing the
way for the downfall of all that makes her lovely and beloved, and for
the ruin of home blessings and family peace.
It was nearly a year from the time of Rhoda's first visit to the farm
when she entered the pleasant home which the affection and good taste
of Mr. Archibald Dixon had delighted to assist in adorning for his
friend Robert. There was everything that suited their position in life,
without assumption or pride; the substantial, and the ornamental that
none need affect to despise, and tokens of refinement that cultivated
minds could enjoy.
Well-educated young working men ought to eschew everything vulgar and
coarse, and the nearer they live to God, the creator of all beauty, and
the source of all purity and light, the more jealously they will guard
against everything in language, manners, and habits which pollutes
and degrades. The true gentleman and gentlewoman may dine at a little
deal table, and sit by the cosy hearth where the kettle boils, and the
loaf is baked, and the cat purrs inside the shining fender, and you
may see that there is no affectation of means or style above them; but
the table will be covered with a clean white cloth, the dinner or tea
service will be pretty and sound, the spare hour will be enlivened by
useful books and pleasant talk, and peace and love might fly many a
splendid hall to brood sweetly over the Christian home of the working
man.
Robert Taylor now realised the ideal of his heart's dearest wishes, and
the affectionate and gentle Rhoda was the fair centre whence all other
ideas diverged. Mrs. Hayes so heartily delighted in their happiness
that she decided to quit her farm-house and take a cottage in the midst
of those she loved best on earth. To select and prepare it for her
reception was the pleasant task of her rejoicing nephews and nieces,
old and young, and a glad day it was when the dear old lady assembled
them all around her, and praise and prayer consecrated the dwelling of
the righteous.
Milly had long since returned to her duties at Mr. Dixon's, and none
more truly than her young mistresses and their parents sympathised with
her in the pleasure of having her aged relative among them.
Matthew Hill was a welcome guest in each of the happy homes, and there
were times when he yearned with all his heart's longings for a similar
scene to call his own. But the possibility of such a thing had passed
from his mind with the hope of winning the love of Emily Taylor, and he
devoted himself to his daily work, his bright little boy, and his kind
landlady, to whom he became almost as dear as the son she had lost long
ago.
One day a visitor arrived at Mr. Dixon's, and singularly enough two
other visitors arrived soon after at Mrs. Hayes's. The guest at the
hall was Mrs. Oakland, the guests at the cottage were none other than
Mr. and Mrs. Field. It was a very pleasant holiday for everybody,
and if some good were not coming of it, everybody was making a great
mistake.
The Misses Dixon found opportunities to leave their maid to long
confidential talks with their respected guest, and Mrs. Field had her
for a whole afternoon all to herself.
What they all talked about was no matter to put in print, but as Aunt
Hayes sat down in her bedroom while Milly put on her bonnet to return
to the hall, she gently drew the yielding face to her arms, and,
kissing her fondly, said:
"Do you think, my darling, that you dare trust him now? Or must he go a
solitary man to his journey's end?"
"Has he got you all to do this?" asked Emily, timidly.
"No, dearest, he knows nothing about it, but we are all sorry for him,
and these friends of his wished to tell you his story themselves."
"But most likely he has given up wishing anything about it," said Emily.
"Fie, Milly, you know better than that; but he has behaved nobly, and
I think, and your dear father and mother, and Robert and Rhoda, all
think, that he might be allowed once more to plead his cause with you.
I think it, my precious child because I believe if your own heart might
speak, it would plead for him too, otherwise I would never have named
the subject again."
Milly kissed her aunt, but said nothing, and went to bid good-night to
the party below. Mr. Hill was there, and his little boy, and when she
stooped over the child with her usual caress, but not her usual smile,
his affection took alarm, and clasping his arms round her neck, he
whispered, rather loudly, "What's the matter? Are you angry with me?
Father's sure to ask."
"No, no," said Emily; "good-night."
Robert was about to accompany her, but Matthew, seized with a sudden
impulse, stepped forward, "May I?" said he. "Robert has to go the other
way afterwards."
"I'll go too; oh, please let me," cried Josy, rushing to the door, but
Robert caught him in his arms.
"You'll stay with us till father comes back, if you please, my man."
And, in the meantime, Milly had passed out, followed by Mr. Hill,
who, agitated and astonished at himself, felt only that she had not
forbidden him.
Doubtless it was a long and difficult walk that evening, for Matthew
was a great while away, and when he at last came back, there was such
a radiant joy in his face that Mrs. Hayes and Rhoda nearly broke down
with a rush of delighted sympathy.
"Robert, dear Robert," faltered his friend, as they parted company
after a long talk that night, "help me to thank God. Oh, shall I indeed
have a home of my own once more?"
Yes, nearly four years of a calm, consistent life had passed over
Matthew since he came among them; and though he had never attempted to
excuse or justify his sinful conduct at the expense of another, his
friends had no scruple about telling the truth from their point of
view, and Emily consented to trust him, while together they would both
trust Him who has said, "My grace is sufficient for thee."
The happiness of little Josy was perfect. To him the first syllable of
that uncomfortable word, which often carries such a painful impression
to affectionate hearts, meant nothing but joy and love. His own mother
she could not be, yet the child gained in every way by the transfer of
his dutiful affection to one who would take his mother's vacant place.
And though Emily had heard how trying often is a stepmother's life,
and she might not always be sure that even the advocate in her own
heart of true affection for both father and child would save her from
every possible risk or mistake, she knew that by following closely the
precepts of her Lord, by "watching unto prayer," by yielding to the
instincts of Christian love, and subduing those of unworthy self, she
might be all and do all with the motherless one that even the God whose
name is Love would desire.
Oh, what a mercy or misery may a step-mother be! It seems hard to find
so little sympathy accorded to such a position, but, unhappily, it is
because so many step-mothers have dishonoured it. Yet there is scarcely
any condition in life so needing sympathy, kind counsel, forbearance,
and above all, high Christian principle.
Let one so chosen to fill a grievous blank to a widowed heart, and
a fearful need to a young family, count well the cost before she
ventures. But, once satisfied that God, and friends, and affection, and
good judgment are on her side, let her not be afraid, but daily, ay,
hourly depending on Him who does ever stand by them that ask His mighty
help, enter upon her touching charge, and so walk before her adopted
ones that they may never need to know that it is not their lost one
back again, endued with even stronger devotedness and wiser love.
William and Susan willingly bestowed their daughter, and another happy
home was added to the family ties, wherein their younger children might
see the example of their parents reproduced.
If anybody had thought proper to put Emily Taylor's name in a
conspicuous column of a newspaper, it would have been for the last
time, though not in the obituary, and certainly no member of the Dixon
family is likely to have the pleasure of recording her services as she
once predicted.
And dear Aunt Hayes, in her beautiful and revered old age, was quite
satisfied to live amongst them all; but when the last wedding party of
which we venture to certify in these humble chronicles had surrounded
her table, she retired for a little into the deepest depth of her
widowed heart, where one dear memory was fondly enshrined, and murmured
softly, "It's all come out right; and now, dear Jonathan, it doesn't
matter how soon I come to sing praises with thee in the Paradise of
God!"
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