Spring had come, but the cloud still rested on poor Jane Bradly. True,
her heart was lighter, for she now believed with her brother that there
was deliverance at hand for her, and that the mists were beginning to
melt away. She was firmly persuaded that her character would be
entirely cleared. But when? How soon would the waiting-time come to an
end? And what good could come out of such a trouble? Here was the
trial of her faith; but she bore it patiently, and the chastening was
producing in her, even now, "the peaceable fruit of righteousness." She
began to improve in health and strength, and had lost much of the look
of abiding care; for the habitual peace of a mind stayed on God, and the
consciousness of innocence as regarded the wrong-doing of which she had
been suspected, kept her calm in the blessedness of a childlike trust.
But there was one who lived not far from her, a sister in affliction,
about whose sad heart the clouds were gathering thicker and thicker.
Spring, with its opening buds and rejoicing birds, brought no gladness
to the spirit of Clara Maltby. She was gradually wasting away. Change
of air and scene had been recommended, but she would not hear of leaving
home, and clung with a distressing tenacity to her round of daily
studies, shortening her brief time of exercise, and seeming anxious to
goad herself into the attainment of the utmost amount of knowledge which
it was possible for her to acquire, grudging every minute as lost and
wasted time that was not given to study. To shine had become with her
the one absorbing object; to shine, not, alas! for Christ, but for self,
for the world, that she might gain the prize of human applause. So she
was using the gifts with which God had endowed her, not to his glory, by
laying them at the foot of the cross, and employing them as talents with
which she was to occupy till the Master came, but as means whereby she
might win for herself distinction, and outstrip others in the race for
earthly fame. But such a strain on mind and body could not last; the
overtaxed faculties would assert their claim for the much-needed rest;
and so, in the early spring-time, Clara Maltby was suddenly stricken
down and lay for days in a state of half-unconsciousness.
At last she rallied, in a measure; and when she was sufficiently
recovered to bear conversation, she earnestly begged that she might be
allowed to see Thomas Bradly, and have an opportunity of saying a few
words to him in the presence of her parents, previously to her being
taken from home by her mother to the seaside, to which she had been
ordered by her medical man, as soon as she could bear the removal. So
one evening, after his work, Bradly, with a sorrowful heart, made his
way up to the vicarage, and was introduced by Mr Maltby into the inner
room, where his daughter had gathered together her own special library.
The patient lay on a low couch near the fire, which burned cheerfully,
and lighted up, though not with gladness, the care-smitten features of
the vicar's daughter. Close to her was a little table, on which lay a
small Bible, a pile of photographs, and a few printed papers. Her
writing materials occupied part of a larger table, and were flanked on
either side by heaps of volumes--scientific, historical, and poetical;
while beyond the books was a small but exquisitely-modelled group of wax
flowers, most life-like in appearance, under a glass shade. Over the
fire-place was a large water-colour drawing of Crossbourne Church, with
miniatures of her father and mother, one on each side of it. On the
mantelpiece was an ivory statuette, beautifully carved, the gift of a
travelled friend; and other articles of taste and refinement were
scattered up and down the room. But now the gentle mistress of this
quiet retreat lay languid and weary, incapable of enjoying these
articles of grace and beauty which surrounded her. There was a flush
indeed on her cheek, but no light in the heavy eyes. She looked like a
gathered flower,--fair, but drooping, because it can strike no root and
find no moisture. Thomas Bradly was shocked at the change a few days
had made in the poor girl since he last saw her, and could hardly
restrain his tears. At the head of the couch sat Mrs Maltby, with a
face sadly worn and troubled; and between her and the fire was her
husband, on whose features there rested a more chastened and peaceful
sorrow.
"Come, sit down, Thomas," said Mr Maltby; "my dear child cannot rest
till she has seen you, and told you something that lies on her mind. I
think she will be happier when she has had this little talk; and it may
be that God will bless her visit to the sea, and send her back to us in
improved health. I know we shall have your prayers, and the prayers of
many others, that it may be so."
"You shall, you do have our prayers," cried Bradly, earnestly; "the
Lord'll order it all for the best. He's been doing wonderful things for
us lately, and he means to give you and dear Miss Clara a share of his
blessings."
"Well," replied the vicar, "we will hope and trust so, Thomas. The
clouds have not gathered without a cause; but still, I believe that, as
the hymn says, they will yet `break with blessings on our head.'--Clara,
my child, it will not be wise to make this interview too long; so we
will leave the talking now to yourself and Thomas Bradly."
"Dear, kind friend," began Miss Maltby, raising herself from her couch,
and leaning herself on her mother, who came and sat by her, "I could not
be satisfied to leave Crossbourne without seeing you first, as I want
you to do something for me in the parish which I cannot ask my dear
father to do. And I want to make a confession also to you, as it may be
the means of doing some little good in the place where I have left so
much undone, and as perhaps it may not please God that I should come
back again to my earthly home."
She was unable to proceed for a few moments, and Bradly dared not trust
himself to speak, while the vicar and his wife found it hard to control
their feelings.
"Thomas," she at length continued, her voice gaining strength and her
mind clearness under the excitement of the subject which now filled her
heart and thoughts, "I want you to say something for me to my class--at
least to those girls who belonged to it when I used to teach it. Say it
to them in your own plain and simple way, and I trust that it may do
them good.
"I want you to tell them from me that I have tried what the world and
its idols are, and I have found them `vanity of vanities.' Not that I
have been leading what is called a wicked life; not that I have loved
gay company or worldly amusements; not that I have lost sight of Christ
and heaven altogether, though they have been getting further off from my
sight every day; but I have been fashioning for myself an idol with my
own hands, which has been shutting out heavenly things from me more and
more. And now God has in mercy shattered my idol, and I trust that I
can see Jesus once more as I have not seen him, oh, for so long!
"I am startled when I look back and see how far I have gone astray, and
how I have let the devil cheat me with a thousand plausible falsehoods.
Oh, what a useless life I have been leading! What a selfish life I have
been leading! And yet I have been persuading myself that I was only
cultivating the powers which God gave me. But it has not been so; it is
as though I had been set to draw a picture of our Saviour, and had
ability and the best of materials given me for making a beautiful
likeness, and I had all the while gone on just drawing an image of
myself, and had then fallen down and worshipped it.
"Tell my girls, then,--for I may never have the opportunity of telling
them myself,--that there is no real happiness in such a life as mine has
lately been. It is really purely for self is this struggle after
distinction; God put us into this world for something far different. I
know, of course, that my scholars are not any of them likely to be
snared exactly in the same way that I have been. Still, they might be
tempted to think what a grand thing it would be to have the advantages
for getting knowledge and distinction that I have had. Ah, but what has
been my life, after all? Why, like that group of wax flowers under the
glass shade. Don't they look beautiful? But you see they are not real;
they have no life and no sweetness in them, and they can never make the
sick and the suffering happy as real flowers do. My life, with all its
advantages, and what people call accomplishments, has been as unreal, as
lifeless, as scentless as those wax flowers. It has not pleased God; it
has not made others happy; there has been nothing to envy in it, but oh,
quite the other way: it should rather be a warning. Tell my girls so,
for they have their temptations even in this direction; there is so much
attention paid now to head knowledge in all ranks and classes, and such
a danger of neglecting heart knowledge and Christ knowledge. Show them
how it has been with me. Tell them how I feel now on looking back.
"What have I really gained by this eager pursuit after earthly fame?
Nothing. I have strained body and mind in seeking it--strained them,
probably, past recovery. And what have I lost in the pursuit? I have
lost peace; I have lost a thousand opportunities of doing good which can
never be recalled; I have lost the happy sense of Jesus' love and
presence.--Dear father, would you give me that open book?--These words
just suit my life, Thomas:--
"`Nothing but leaves! The Spirit grieves
Over a wasted life;
O'er sins indulged while conscience slept,
O'er vows and promises unkept;
And reaps from years of strife--
Nothing but leaves! Nothing but leaves!'"
She paused, and hiding her face in her mother's breast, wept long and
bitterly.
Thomas Bradly had listened with deep emotion to every word, but had not
yet been able to command himself sufficiently to speak. But now he
stretched his hand forward, and took up the little hymn-book from which
Clara Maltby had been reading, and, as he turned over its pages,
said--"I don't doubt, dear Miss Clara, but you've just said the plain
truth about yourself; I've grieved over it all, and prayed about it.
But that's all past and gone now, and the Lord means to bring good out
of the evil, I can see that, and you'll let me read you these lines out
of your book, as I'm sure it ain't going to be `nothing but leaves'
after all. Listen, miss, to these blessed words, for they belong to
you:--
"There were ninety and nine that safely lay
In the shelter of the fold;
But one was out on the hills away,
Far-off from the gates of gold,--
Away on the mountains wild and bare,
Away from the tender Shepherd's care.
"`Lord, thou hast here thy ninety and nine:
Are they not enough for thee?'
But the Shepherd made answer: `This of mine
Has wandered away from me;
And although the road be rough and steep,
I go to the desert to find my sheep.'
"And all through the mountains, thunder-riven,
And up from the rocky steep,
There rose a cry to the gate of heaven,
`Rejoice! I have found my sheep!'
And the angels echoed around the throne,
`Rejoice, for the Lord brings back his own!'"
"Thank you, Thomas, thank you most sincerely," cried the sick girl,
raising herself again. "Yes, I trust that these beautiful words _do_
apply to me. Jesus has gone after me, a poor wandering and rebellious
sheep, and brought me back again. Do then, kind friend, tell my dear
class for me that I have found all out of Christ to be emptiness, and
that there can be no true happiness here unless we are working for him.
"Of course, I might have pursued my studies innocently had I given to
them leisure hours when other duties had been done, and then they would
have been a delight to me, and a source of real improvement. But
instead of that I made an idol of them, and they became a snare to me.
I lived for them, and in them, and all else was as good as forgotten.
Yes, even my Bible, that was once so precious,--it might as well have
lain on the shelf, and indeed, latterly, it has seldom been anywhere
else. I had no time for reading it; earthly studies absorbed every
moment. But now it has become to me again truly my Bible; it has shown
me, and shows me more and more plainly every day, my sin and my neglect.
Ah! It is an awful thing when the struggle after this world's honours
and prizes makes us thrust aside thoughts of God and of the crown of
glory. It has been so with me. I have been chasing an illuminated
shadow until it has suddenly vanished, and left me in a darkness that
might be felt.
"Tell my girls, then, dear friend, to take warning from me. Tell them
how I mourn over my wasted life; but tell them also that I have a good
hope that God, for Christ's sake, has forgiven me, and ask them to pray
for me. The great lesson I want you to impress upon them from my case
is just this, that no knowledge can be worth having that interferes with
our following our Saviour; that no pursuit, though it may not be
outwardly sinful or manifestly worldly, which unfits us in body or mind
for doing our duty in that state of life to which it has pleased God to
call us, can be innocent, for it robs Jesus of that service which we all
owe to him.
"And now I am going to ask you to give these photographs, one a piece,
to my girls: they will value them, I know, as the likeness of one who
was once happy in being their teacher, and who hopes, should God spare
her, to be their teacher again; a better instructed teacher far, I hope,
because taught in the school of bitter but wholesome experience to know
herself."
These last few words, uttered with deep feeling, made it necessary for
Clara to pause once more. So Thomas Bradly, seeing that her strength
was well-nigh exhausted, simply expressed his hearty readiness to comply
with her requests, and was rising to take his leave, when she signed him
to remain.
"Just one thing more, dear friend," she added, as soon as she was
sufficiently recovered.--"Nay, dearest mother, you must let me finish
what I have to say. I shall be happier and calmer when I have told
all.--O Thomas! I have been on the very edge of a dreadful precipice;
nay, I almost fear that I have scarcely avoided beginning the terrible
fall. Finding myself unequal to the full strain which my studies
imposed upon me, I began to have recourse to intoxicating stimulants,
first a little, and then a little more, till at last I got to crave
them, oh, how terribly! And, alas! alas! worse still. As I was ashamed
to bring such things openly into my father's house, I have employed a
servant once or twice to fetch them for me, but simply as a medicine,
and I have found myself scheming how I might do this to a still greater
extent without detection. Oh, to what a depth have I fallen! But I see
it all now; the Lord has opened my eyes. What I wanted was rest, not
stimulants. And surely nothing could justify me in putting such a
strain upon my mind as to make it needful to fly to such a restorative.
"I don't ask you to mention this to my girls, nor to any one else, for
it might not do good, and might be a hindrance, in a measure, to my dear
father in his work; but I tell it you to ease my own heart, and that you
may pray for me, and that you may hear me now, in the presence of my
beloved father and mother, declare that from this time forward I
renounce all such study, if God spare me, as shall unfit me for a loving
service of Jesus, in my home and out of it, and that I have done with
all intoxicating stimulants, the Lord helping me, now and for ever."
"Bless the Lord!" said Bradly to himself, as, after a silent pressure of
Clara Maltby's hand, he stole out of the room. "All's working for good,
I'm sure," he added, as he walked homewards. "We shall do grandly now.
One great stone has just been struck out of our good vicar's path.
Satan's a queer, knowing customer, but he often outwits himself; and
there's One wiser and stronger than him."