A NEW TROUBLE.
NO sooner was Mabel freed from the anxiety concerning her music than
the ghost of another trouble rose before her. The silk dress she had
bought had not been paid for, and she did not know how the money was to
be obtained to pay for it.
A day or two before it was ordered, she had written to her mother,
vaguely hinting that she might want some money soon, as her aunt was
going to give a large party. But the letter was not answered at once.
And when the reply did come, Mabel was told that she must not grow
extravagant in her dress—that the blue silk, being fully trimmed, was
quite good enough for the party. And if new gloves were necessary, she
must buy them out of the money that was given to her before she left
home, for no more could be sent to her just now.
Mabel was almost stunned when she read the letter. Up-stairs in her
desk was the dressmaker's bill, amounting to nearly five pounds, and
she had scarcely as many shillings she could call her own. She did not
want any more breakfast, but sat toying with her bread and butter and
egg instead of eating them. Everybody else at the table was occupied
with their own concerns—her uncle with his morning paper, Julia and
her mother with their own letters, and Isabel was busy feeding her pet
spaniel, so no one noticed Mabel and her almost untouched breakfast.
The day was fine and bright, and they were to walk to nurse's cottage
as soon as their morning lessons were over. And Isabel was full of
eager anticipation, for she had not seen her old nurse for some time.
Mabel, on the contrary, was unusually quiet, scarcely speaking except
in answer to Isabel, during the whole walk.
Her cousin thought she understood this, and, as they drew near the end
of their journey, she whispered:
"Don't you hope Mrs. Barker will be at home, Mabel?"
"Mrs. Barker!" repeated Mabel, whose thoughts were busy over that
unpaid dressmaker's bill and her mother's letter.
"Yes, dear, have you forgotten?" exclaimed Isabel. "We are going to
ask her to tell us some more about that parable. I do so want to know
whether God plants this seed of himself in all our hearts," she added.
"I think we can learn such things at church," said Mabel a little
loftily.
"Yes, dear, you can, perhaps, but—but I have not been used to think
of such things. And I am not at all clever, and so I like somebody to
explain and make everything quite clear," said Isabel. "I—I thought you
would have done this for me," she added after a minute's pause and in a
lower tone.
Mabel's cheek flushed. Was it so then that she—she who had desired
above all things to make her life useful, to carry the message of God's
love to distant lands—should thus have missed the opportunity that lay
at her very feet, so that her cousin, who had been waiting to hear her
speak, was thankful now to turn to this old woman for instruction.
She made no reply to Isabel, and soon her thoughts wandered off to her
monetary difficulties again. These were too pressing just now to be
lightly dismissed, even for the all-important subject that now engaged
Isabel's attention. Not that Mabel had forgotten it herself. She had
practised too much soul dissection lately, turning herself inside out
as it were, to know whether she had received this seed of grace. And
the words, "'Tis a point I long to know," repeated themselves with
painful reiteration through the chambers of her brain.
They found nurse at home this time, and she eagerly welcomed her young
lady, and would have monopolized all her attention if she could. But
Isabel slipped away after a few minutes, on the plea of going to see
Mrs. Barker in her own room, as she had a bad cold, and could not come
down-stairs to-day.
"You tell nurse all about the party, Mabel, while I go and see Mrs.
Barker," she said, kissing her old nurse by way of reconciling her to
the plan. And then she ran up-stairs and eagerly greeted Mrs. Barker.
"I want you to tell me something more about that parable of the sower,"
she said when all due inquiries had been made and answered.
The old woman looked at the flushed eager young face and wondered.
"My dear young lady, have you not read it for yourself?" she asked.
"Yes, yes," said Isabel, "but I want to know the sort of people God
puts his seed into—the Holy Spirit that you told us about."
"The sort of people?" repeated Mrs. Barker. "My dear, the words are
plain enough. The seed fell on all sorts of ground—hard rocky soil,
loose stony soil, and soft earth, where it could sink down and grow.
So I take it that all sorts of people are meant—that God plants his
seed in the heart of every man, and woman, and child. And that if all
would nurture it—take away the weeds of pride and worldliness, so that
the sunshine of God's love could fall upon it and the rain and the air
which are so many influences from Him play about it,— then would it
grow in the hearts of all men, and the kingdom that we pray for would
come to each of us, and heaven be begun on earth." The old woman spoke
almost rapturously, and Isabel sat and listened with an eager light in
her eyes.
"And you think God has really planted this seed in my heart?" she said
in an awestruck whisper.
"I have not a doubt of it, my dear."
"But—but I am so unworthy, so ignorant, so—oh, I don't know what it
means hardly," said Isabel in a tremulous voice.
"My dear, if God waited until we were worthy before giving us this
precious gift, I am afraid very few would have it."
"And if there is not time for the seed to grow and have fruit, you
think He will not be angry if there are only green blades?"
"My dear young lady, God only expects green blades in the spring of
our life, but it is just then that it needs the most nurture, and the
weeds the most persistent rooting up. And so if He sees we are watching
and praying, rooting up the tares of our pride and self-will, be sure
He will take care of the rest—He will make the seed to grow. For after
all we cannot do His work, remember, we can but clear the ground to let
His rain and sunshine—the influences of His Holy Spirit—play around the
garden of our heart."
"Thank you," said Isabel with a deep-drawn sigh. "I almost wish I could
live to be an old woman that I might bear some fruit," she said in a
whisper.
Mrs. Barker looked at her in astonishment. She had often heard nurse
say how very delicate Miss Isabel was, but she had no idea that the
girl herself knew it.
"I—I don't think we ought to trouble ourselves about such things as
that," she said, scarcely knowing what to say.
"Oh, it does not trouble me," said Isabel. "Of course I may live
for years and years, but I do not think I shall. Only; please don't
tell nurse of this, for dear nursey would fancy I was going to die
directly," said Isabel quickly.
And the next minute the door opened, and nurse with Mabel came into the
room.
"Well, I'm sure, Miss Isabel, you have quite forsaken your old nurse,
it seems. What can you and Mrs. Barker find to talk about, I wonder?"
she said, looking from one to the other as though she thought they had
been hatching some plot between them.
"There now, you dear, jealous old nursey, you are not to ask any
questions," said Isabel, laughing and kissing her.
Nurse looked from one to the other as though she did not half like
it, because neither seemed inclined to repeat their conversation.
But Isabel soothed and coaxed the old woman into a better frame of
mind before she went away, although Mabel still looked unhappy and
preoccupied when they left the cottage.
On their way home, Isabel told her cousin what she had learned.
"And Mrs. Barker thinks God has surely planted this seed in my heart;
that my very anxiety about this is a proof that it is alive and
growing. Oh, Mabel, to think this great thing should have happened to
me and I did not know it!"
But Mabel was too much vexed to be as pleased as her cousin expected
to see her. And another thing, she was not at all sure that this was
the right way of receiving instruction, and so she said something about
going to church, and learning there whether Mrs. Barker was right in
what she had taught her.
Isabel looked disappointed. "You see, I cannot often go to church, it
is so far-away, and the carriage cannot always be spared. And then papa
always wants me on Sunday."
"The Lord Jesus says, 'Whosoever loveth father and mother more than me
is not worthy of me,'" said Mabel severely.
This question of going to church had been one of frequent discussion
between the cousins. Isabel had not been brought up to go to the house
of God with anything like regularity, while to Mabel a Sunday at home
was a very rare occurrence, and "going to church" had drifted into a
mere formal observance with her—a cold lifeless service, but one which
she never omitted if she could help it.
"But what am I to do?" said Isabel in a pained voice. "You know I
cannot walk so far, and can very seldom have the carriage. And then
papa likes me to read to him or walk about the garden with him on
Sunday; it is the only day we have together."
"I don't think the walk to church is much longer than our walk to-day,"
said Mabel, "but where there's a will there's a way," she added tartly.
"Well, dear, I will try to go to church if you think I ought."
"Why, of course you ought to go," said Mabel in a tone of superiority,
"especially if you want to learn—"
"Oh, but, Mabel, that is just it!" interrupted her cousin. "I am not
clever, and I have not been used to going to church as you have, and
it all feels so strange and far-away that I am like one bewildered in
church."
"Oh, Isabel, if you would only try, you could learn things much better
at church than listening to an old woman like Barker," said Mabel. For
this was what had vexed her so much, that her cousin should have gone
to this old woman for instruction.
"Well, dear, I will go to church. I'll go next Sunday, if you think I
ought."
"Yes, and we'll read a chapter of the Bible together every day," said
Mabel in a more pleasant tone. "And if there is anything you cannot
understand, I daresay I can help you."
The two girls began their Scripture reading that very evening—not that
it had been wholly neglected before, for Mabel had always read a few
verses as a sort of task she must get through, while Isabel had read a
chapter here and there occasionally while her governess was with her,
but with no thought that it had anything to do with her.
But in the light of what Mrs. Barker had told her, the story of the
life of Jesus Christ had altogether a new meaning, for this life was
to be translated into her life; this was the holy seed—"the true light
which lighteth every man that cometh into the world," unless it is
buried in selfishness and sin.
"But, Mabel dear, I have buried it in selfishness and sin," said
Isabel sadly, as they were talking over this passage. "I may not have
committed any great sin, but I never thought about this holy seed—this
'true light,' and so it has been buried in me all these years. What
shall I do?"
"'The blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth us from all sin,'" said Mabel,
scarce knowing what she ought to say to comfort her cousin under this
new distress. She felt vaguely uneasy herself, for if her cousin had
such a sense of sin, because she had unknowingly buried this "true
light" all these years, how much greater must her sin be—she who had
been so carefully instructed from her earliest infancy. Sometimes
lately she had tried to shelter herself under the thought, painful
though it might be, that God's special grace had not been given to her
yet, but in some future time she might hope to have this, and then her
life would be different.
But if Mrs. Barker's reading of the parable of the sower was true, she
could not shift the responsibility of her failure in this way, for
she knew that her life had been a failure lately—God's grace had been
given, but she had let the wild weeds and tares almost choke it. She
read the parable of the sower for herself over and over again, hoping
to detect some corner out of which she could creep, but she found none.
There was the plain declaration—the seed was sown in all sorts of soil,
leaving her without excuse if she neglected this salvation.
Not that she came to this conclusion all at once, or did not try to
wriggle out of it at first when she did see it, but Isabel's talk, and
what she herself read of the teaching of the Lord Jesus Christ Himself,
shut her up to this view of the matter, and she saw that there was no
royal road by which self-denial and struggle might be evaded if she
would live a truly useful life.
But, meanwhile, this was not the only care that oppressed her. The
winter passed into spring, and brought with it fresh wants in the way
of dress. Her mother was not unmindful of these, for she sent her what
she thought would be an ample sum of money to provide all she would
require.
Now, the bill she owed the dressmaker amounted to about the same sum as
her mother had sent for her spring outfit. And this burden of debt had
proved so intolerable to Mabel that she went at once and paid it, never
thinking of her two brown dresses that would now have to last until
midsummer.
At first she assumed a stoical indifference when Julia and Isabel
donned their pretty spring attire. Her younger cousin had put off doing
this as long as she could, in the hope that Mabel would also lay aside
her winter garb, which, however comfortable and suitable it might look
in winter time, was certainly out of place now. But to all her hints
upon the subject, Mabel only gave short snappish answers.
Isabel was puzzled. She knew some money had been sent for Mabel to buy
new dresses, and why they were not bought, she could not tell. All
thought of the dressmaker's bill that had been such a haunting care to
Mabel the last few weeks had entirely passed from her mind. Mabel had
sent it to her mother, she supposed, and it had been paid long ago, and
why she should prefer to wear dull dowdy dresses in the bright spring
weather, when she had the money to buy others, was a riddle she could
not solve.
One morning, after Mabel had left the breakfast-room, Julia made some
remark about her cousin wearing her winter dresses still, and Isabel
hastened to defend her. "She doesn't think so much about dress as you
and I, Julia," she said laughingly.
"Oh, I know better than that," retorted her sister. "Look at that new
evening dress she bought. I am sure she could have done without it.
The blue silk she brought with her would have done very well for that
party." Julia had made this remark before, when the preparations for
the party were being discussed. And Mabel had overheard it, and it was
this more than anything else had made her decide to have the new dress,
and taste the bitterness of being in debt.
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