CONTRASTS.
ROBIN, after a brief rapid striding up and down deck, returned to the
side of his brother. The youth was flushed and excited.
"Harold, if that woman tack herself on to us during all the voyage,
what shall we do?" he exclaimed.
"Bear and forbear," was the quiet reply.
"That's easy enough for a calm, self-possessed, sensible fellow
like you, but not so for me!" cried Robin. "Of all things on earth,
what I most dislike is an elderly butterfly, with dyed hair, and a
mischief-making tongue."
"A species unknown to entomology," observed Harold.
The remark brought a smile to Robin's downy lip, and so almost restored
his good-humour.
"I am afraid that we shall have a very disagreeable voyage," said
Robin, "and the worst of it to me is—that I am to blame for all that we
may have to bear."
"How so?" inquired his brother.
"If I had not been in such a desperate hurry to join our father and
begin our work, we would never have embarked in this 'Alligator.'
Instead of waiting till the proper month, October, I was eager to start
in August."
"I was your partner in that piece of folly," said Harold.
"Then it was your kindness to me that made you choose a vessel for
cheapness rather than for anything else, so that what would have taken
you to India comfortably had you travelled alone, might cover the
expenses of two."
"If I thought that my boy's company would more than compensate for
petty discomforts, this second piece of folly must be entered entirely
on my side of the account," said Harold, looking with a loving smile on
his brother.
"I am afraid that we shall have more than petty discomforts," observed
Robin; "one can laugh at trials if they are confined to rough fare, bad
accommodation, slower sailing, or such-like trifles; but one cannot be
quite indifferent as to the company which one keeps. Miss Petty always
puts one out of patience, and from what I have heard and seen of the
captain, I am sure that he is neither a gentleman nor a Christian!"
"Dear old boy, I thought that you and I had resolved to speak evil of
no one," said the young clergyman.
"Ah! Broken resolutions! They vex me more than anything!" cried poor
Robin, throwing himself on the bench which Miss Petty had vacated.
Harold, more leisurely, took his seat beside his brother. "You know,
Harold, that we have lately been studying together the life and
character of St. John, and I have been setting that loved and loving
disciple before me as a model, determined that I would, by God's help,
try to be in every thing like the holy apostle. New, I have not been a
day on board before I have flared up like a fury, said bitter things,
and thought more bitter, just as if I were still just a foolish,
passionate child."
"My brother," said Harold, and he intuitively drew nearer to Robin as
he spoke, "do you think that the Apostle John was born a saint, or that
he developed into a saint?"
"I think that he became one by living very very near to His Lord,
resting on His sacred bosom, and learning love from close intercourse
with Him who is Love itself."
"John seems to have been naturally of a fiery disposition," observed
Harold Hartley. "Christ gave to him and his brother the title of 'Sons
of thunder,' and it is remarkable that it was the disciple whom we
commonly associate with ideas of gentleness and tenderness who proposed
to call down fire from heaven on an inhospitable village."
"It is some comfort to know that even the beloved disciple had
human imperfections," said Robin, "as it prevents our being utterly
discouraged at our own. But, Harold, some people, and good people too,
think that they can attain to perfection even in this life."
"It seems to me," observed the young missionary, "that they do so by
unconsciously lowering the standard of perfection which God has placed
before us. It is not even St. John, but his Divine Master, whom we are
to seek to resemble. It is indeed only a growing likeness, such as was
doubtless seen in St. John; but would not the apostle, even when almost
ripe for heaven, have shrunk from indulging such a thought as this: 'I
am as good, as holy, as perfect as was Christ, my Divine Master, when
on earth'?"
"John would have rejected such a thought as blasphemous," exclaimed
Robin. "St. John's words are, 'We know that when He shall appear we
shall be like Him, for we shall see Him as He is.'"
"And this assurance of future perfection in the Divine Presence made
the apostle add, 'Every man that hath this hope in him, purifieth
himself even as He is pure,'" remarked Harold.
Robin was silent for several minutes, and then observed in a different
tone, "It would have been much easier for me to have kept my good
resolutions, if I had not had Miss Petty for a travelling companion."
"Do you think that her being in the same ship is a matter of chance?
Is it not possible that she may have been made our fellow-traveller
without any choice on our part, on purpose to show us how imperfect
is our patience, and to give us an opportunity of improving it by
practice?" Harold smiled as he spoke, but his words were not uttered in
jest.
"Then you think that intercourse with those whom we naturally dislike
or despise may be an actual means of grace?" inquired Robin.
"Undoubtedly so, if we are enabled to conquer the inclination to
dislike and despise them," said Harold.
The conversation then took another turn. "If I can in the least,
judge of character by face, I think that there is one of our
fellow-passengers whom we shall like," observed Harold, glancing in the
direction of a lady, past middle age, who—clad in deep mourning—was
sitting on the other side of the deck, engaged in reading.
"What a beautiful chastened expression is hers!" exclaimed Robin.
"That is a face that can never grow old; it has the stamp of heaven's
loveliness on it. Do you know who the lady is?"
"One of our people," replied Harold Hartley. "I was so much struck by
her gentle meek dignity when Captain Gump spoke to her in his rough
way about her luggage; her mildness made me inquire about her. 'Mrs.
Evendale' is marked on her boxes, and I understand that the lady is the
widow of a missionary, and that she is going out to take charge of some
orphanage in South India."
"I shall try to sit next to her at table," said Robin; "one could
fancy Mary of Nazareth like our fellow-passenger, allowing for the
difference of costume, and the veil over the dark braided hair, and the
simple drapery of her dress, makes even that difference less striking.
The lady looks like one chastened by deep sorrow—sorrow borne in calm
faith; one who has trod a thorny path, but with heaven's brightness
upon it."
"My informant told me that Mrs. Evendale is not only widowed but
bereaved of her children," said Harold. "She received the tidings of
the death of one son by a fearful accident, when she was closing the
eyes of the other."
"I wish that I could be as a son to her," said kind-hearted Robin.
"Mrs. Evendale reminds me a little of our mother in expression, though
not in feature and colouring. Our mother was so fair, and Mrs. Evendale
looks like a daughter of Italy. Perhaps this fellow-traveller, such a
contrast to the other, may not have been sent to us by chance."
A sudden puff of wind blew away from Mrs. Evendale a packet of papers
which she had placed on the seat beside her, and sent them careering
over the deck. Robin sprang up and gave chase to the fluttering leaves,
glad of the opportunity of doing some slight service to the widow who
interested him so much.
When the youth had picked up the last paper, he courteously carried
all back to their owner. The lady thanked him in a voice which was
melodious as music. Thus began an intercourse between the elder and
younger traveller, which was to be fraught with consequences to both,
which,—could they have been foreseen,—would have sent a strange thrill
through their hearts. They now met for the first time, but they were
only to be parted by—but we must not anticipate the rest of the story.