JANE SAUNDERS SEEKING LIGHT.
ONE morning in the ensuing week, as the young people were busily
engaged upon some elegant dresses for a ball about to be given in the
neighborhood, Miss Baylis hastily entered the room with a roll of black
crape in her hands.
"Young ladies," said she, in a voice somewhat agitated, "I am sure you
will be sorry to hear that the ball-dress for Miss M. is no longer
needed; she died last night after a very short illness."
The work fell from every hand, and looks of astonishment and regret
overspread every countenance.
"Dear, how awful!" exclaimed one. "And she was here only the other day,
looking so well and happy."
"It is quite a warning to us all, I'm sure," said Miss Baylis; "she
had everything to make her happy, and was only just come out too. Poor
thing! It is very sad indeed. Pray put away those flowers and ribbons
that she was going to wear, I cannot bear to see you do another stitch
at that ball-dress; and here, Miss Davis, begin immediately to cut out
crape bonnets and mantles for poor Mrs. M. and the little sisters. This
will throw several families into mourning, and I'm afraid we shall have
a great deal to do in a very short time."
And, with a few further directions, Miss Baylis disappeared.
It was not possible for kind-hearted girls, however thoughtless, to
hear with indifference of the sudden removal of one who had so lately
stood among them, giving her orders for this ball-dress with the
greatest interest and satisfaction.
They remembered how they had admired her beauty, and envied her rank
and station in life; how affably she had spoken to them, and how
they had watched her graceful figure as she remounted the beautiful
horse, which she told Miss Baylis was a birthday gift from her father
the day before; and how she had glanced up toward their window, with
consciousness that the eyes of some six or eight young people about her
own age were earnestly and admiringly regarding her. And now—ah, what a
painful contrast!
"I declare I feel quite melancholy and miserable," said Ellen Saunders;
"do make haste, Mary, and let us get over this gloomy work. I wish the
poor thing had not been here so lately, it makes one think so much more
about her."
"I wonder if she knew that text, Mary—my text," said Jane softly as
she helped Mary to fix the pattern about to be cut out. And in another
minute a tear stole down the young milliner's cheek, observed only by
the friend who understood and appreciated her feeling.
"Let us hope that she did, dear Jane, and learn ourselves to value it,
so as to be safe and happy in life or death."
"But if she did not know what your mother says all must know who are
saved, what then, Mary? So young, so pleasant, so happy!"—And Jane
paused.
"God's word must be true, Jane; we have nothing to do with applying it
to any one's case but our own: only we know that the Judge of all the
earth will do right. He has sent us a very solemn lesson, and our day
of salvation is now; let us not neglect it, for it may soon be over
forever."
[Illustration: Jane Saunders.]
It happened that Jane Saunders, being an excellent fitter, was sent
to Mrs. M.'s to take the pattern for frocks for the children. She was
shown into a large and handsome room, where the front shutters were
closed, and a large blind hung to the ground, at the back window,
excluding nearly all light, and the view of trees and flowers in the
garden to which it opened. Jane sat waiting some time, feeling very
sad and gloomy, and then the door was softly opened, and a little girl
stole in with a frock in her hand.
"If you please," said she in a low voice, "mamma cannot come to you,
but she says you are to make it like this."
"May I draw up this blind a little way, that I may see to take your
pattern?" asked Jane, moving toward the back window.
"Yes, I dare say you may, just for a minute, but there is no light
anywhere in the house more than this; and poor mamma is ill with crying
about dear Clara. Are you not sorry about her, too?"
"Yes, dear, I am indeed, very sorry," said Jane, in a tone of sincere
sympathy.
"But they say she has gone to heaven," said the child, "and everybody
is happy there. I don't feel so sorry since they told me that, for I
know who lives in heaven."
"Whom do you mean, dear?" asked Jane timidly.
"Why, I mean Jesus Christ. I have got a nice book that tells about him;
and it says he is so kind and good, and that he likes little children
to come to him, and to love him. So I shall go to him when I die; but
I must love him, and do what he wishes here first. I hope dear Clara
loved him, but she never told us. Do you love Jesus Christ?" added she,
turning round, and looking full into Jane's face.
"I—I hope I shall," said Jane, astonished and perplexed at the
straightforward question.
"Ah yes, I hope so: and then if you die, I can say that you loved him,
and I shall know that you are gone to heaven."
Jane might have replied to one older; but to the simple, trusting child
she could not, dared not say that she knew nothing of Jesus Christ to
warrant a hope of happiness in heaven; and though she would gladly
have prolonged the conversation, she felt awkward and confounded, and
concluded her task in silence.
Miss Baylis was quite right in her anticipations of having a great
deal to do in a very short time; and Saturday found much work still
unfinished, which was expected by some of her best customers that
evening. What was to be done? There were some who would not be offended
if their dresses were sent in early on Sunday morning, rather than not
at all; and to secure the finish of as many as possible, Miss Robson,
the forewoman of the establishment and the expectant of a junior
partnership in the same, set herself diligently forward to accomplish
the wishes of her principals in the best manner their united wisdom
could devise.
It was very rarely that the young people were detained long beyond
their appointed hours; but when especially requested to remain, they
usually were willing to comply. Every day of this particular week
they had worked early and late, and were not prepared for the further
demands of the obliging forewoman.
"It will greatly oblige Miss Baylis if some of you will stay and work
until about eight or nine o'clock to-morrow morning, young ladies,"
said she, on the Saturday afternoon; "we can accomplish a great deal
among us to-night, and it is but once in a way as it were. The poor
M.'s, you know, must have their things; we cannot refuse what death has
required; and then you see the ball takes place on Monday evening, and
we may have alterations to make in some of the things."
"Indeed, Miss Robson, I am half asleep over what I am doing now," said
one of the girls, with a yawn; "I don't think Miss Baylis can expect us
to stay to-night. I mean to lie in bed all day on Sunday."
"Well, you can go to bed, you know, directly you go home. I am sure we
would not deprive you of the whole of your Sunday. It is as a favor
Miss Baylis asks it; she does not, of course, demand it, but, for my
part, I have great pleasure in obliging her, and have no doubt that all
who are living in the house will feel the same."
"I'm sure I don't though," said Ellen, unhesitatingly; "I don't like to
give up my own day to please any one, and I never thought we should be
asked."
"Only two or three hours of it, my dear," said Miss Robson, soothingly:
"in fact, I dare say we can have done all that is really wanted by
seven o'clock if we try hard."
"And what shall we be fit for after sitting up all night, I should like
to know?" said Fanny Ashton, laughing satirically. "However, my mother
would not allow it, so it's of no use to ask me, Miss Robson."
"Well, I will say no more than this," and Miss Robson looked round
with a meaning smile, "that I have always found Miss Baylis knows how
to appreciate an obligation; and those of the young ladies who do
nothing but lie in bed, or amuse themselves on a Sunday, might as well
do something useful for once to please another person. Miss Baylis
expressly said that she would not ask any one who she believes makes a
conscientious use of her Sunday, as Mary Davis does, going to church
and Sunday school regularly, and having a sick mother to attend to,
and so on, but only those who do not think it necessary to be so very
strict, and have nothing to do for others."
Mary Davis, it should be observed, was not present when Miss Robson
made her appeal, but was gone down to the shop for some articles
required.
"Then," said Jane, who had listened hitherto without making any remark,
"does Miss Baylis think that we, who are doing a little wrong to please
ourselves, might as well do more to please her?"
"Doing wrong, Jane Saunders? What a strange speech!" exclaimed two or
three at once. "We are doing right to claim our own day, and to keep it
too; but it is certainly wrong to work on Sunday."
"I am inclined to agree with Miss Robson and Miss Baylis," said Jane;
"and if I only wanted to please myself to-morrow, I don't see any great
difference in the wrong between my amusement and my work, and wouldn't
mind on that account working till noon, or all day."
"O, but we need not do that, Miss Saunders. You are very kind, and I'll
tell Miss Baylis what you say," said Miss Robson complacently.
"O no, pray do not, Miss Robson," exclaimed Jane, "for I cannot consent
to work after midnight. I wish to make a better use of Sunday now than
I used to do," she added, blushing; "and I hope never again to deserve,
as I have done, to be asked to work on that day."
"That's Mary Davis's doing," whispered the young woman who sat nearest
to Miss Robson.
"It's unfortunate just now, at any rate," returned Miss Robson, in the
same confidential tone; "but you've no idea how highly Miss Baylis
thinks of Mary. She says she does not agree with her in some things,
but she would trust her for truth, and uprightness, and honesty and
all that sort of thing, beyond any young person she ever knew, and I
wouldn't say a word against her for the world. She has been pretty well
watched I can tell you though, and Miss Baylis says she does more work
and better than any of the others, and is always here first on a Monday
morning, looking so fresh and happy, while some of you come lounging
and yawning in as if you were tired to death."
"That's true enough," replied the other, laughing; "I always do feel
tired to death on a Monday, and I can't think why it is."
"Well, you had better get Mary's remedy then. But get on with your
work as fast as you can. I know one reason why Mary does a great deal
more than some. She never gossips away her time, for you don't hear
her voice once in an hour." And the forewoman, conscious that she was
not just then setting the best of examples, began to stitch away with
redoubled vigor.
On Monday morning Mary arrived at five o'clock, anxious to do her best
in the emergency. She found Jane in the work-room before her, and the
two friends who had honored God on Sunday, served their employers more
effectually on Monday than those who had yielded to Miss Robson's
proposal, for indolence could not very justly be reprimanded which was
declared to result from the overwork, and want of lawful rest.
Notwithstanding her good resolutions, Jane Saunders once or twice
yielded to Ellen's entreaties to join her and her companions in
Sunday afternoon excursions, but had not derived from them any of the
enjoyment so liberally promised. The fact was, that her conscience was
sufficiently awakened to perceive that their course was one of folly
and sin, and that there was evidently no fear of God before their eyes;
and if her heart did not at once candidly renounce their pleasures, it
was uneasy and disturbed while sharing them.
She saw that Ellen was absorbed in vanity and pride, elated with
flattery, and discontented and restless when any other seemed likely to
attract the attention she coveted.
Then Jane returned with thankfulness to her quiet afternoon with Mrs.
Davis. And after the sudden death of the interesting Miss M., she had
prevailed on one or two others to accompany her. These also, being
touched with the kind interest felt for their true welfare, and finding
themselves neither scolded nor lectured, repeated the visit, and soon
wished to follow Jane's example of learning a text every week.
Thus, the little party grew by degrees, until all Mrs. Davis's chairs
and benches were in requisition, and one or two friends in the town,
hearing from their young dependents of the Bible-reading at this humble
refuge from Sunday idleness and sin, sent now and then a little present
of grocery, or other useful things, that the widow might be enabled to
"show hospitality" without embarrassment or privation in the week.
"I wish, Jane," said Ellen, one day, "if you are determined to go to
that Mrs. Davis's, you would call for me at Mr. Ashton's on your way
home. I expect to spend the evening there, and they have so often asked
about you, that it seems quite disrespectful of you never to go near
them."
"I did go, you know, Ellen, once, to please you, and I did not like the
way you all behaved at all."
"Ah, that is your prim, precise nonsense, since you went so much with
Mary; but surely I have as much right to choose my friends as you
have," said Ellen, tossing her head; "but it is Mr. and Mrs. Ashton who
want to see you, or I'm sure I should not press it."
"I will call for you, and wait in the shop until you are ready," said
Jane; "I would rather not come in."
"Well, you will see how that will be; so I shall expect to see you."
And the sisters parted, one to giddy amusement and folly with a young
party bent on doing their own pleasure; the other to the happy little
group assembled round the widow and her Bible.
"You gave us so little to learn, Mrs. Davis," said Jane, "that I have
learned a long piece besides."
"I cannot find fault with that, my dear," replied Mrs. Davis; "but
the reason I gave you little was, that you might consider it deeply,
because the sentence, though so short, contains the pith of many a
volume."
"So you said; but really I cannot see so very much in it. They
crucified Him; what is it but a statement of a fact?"
"It is, as you say, a statement of a fact, and how solemnly important a
fact, I hope you will learn to understand. But I want to tell you, dear
girls, about a friend of my early days, who found a great deal in that
text. She was, as you seem to be, anxious to be what she called 'very
good;' but I hope your efforts will be more Scriptural toward that end,
than hers were in the beginning of her course.
"She was a warm-hearted, spirited girl, brought up by worldly parents,
and allowed to do very much as she pleased in most things. After she
grew up to womanhood, it happened that she heard some startling sermons
from an eminent preacher of the Gospel, which convinced her that there
must be something more interesting in religion than she yet understood,
and a great deal more to be done than she had ever attempted. So she
resolved to renounce 'the world,' which, in her view, consisted of
amusements, visiting, gay and expensive dress, and novel-reading, all
of which she rigidly denied herself, and thought she was wonderfully
successful in attaining an exalted position among the people of God.
Any appearance of remonstrance or opposition on the part of her
indulgent friends made her declare herself firm and ready for martyrdom
in defense of her new opinions. You do not need me to tell you that her
religion was as much opposed to the pure Gospel as her worldliness,
and more dangerous to her soul; for she was building herself up in
self-righteousness, while the religion of the heart, and the teaching
of God's Holy Spirit, were still unknown to her.
"One day, during a course of lectures on the history of the Lord Jesus
Christ, Elizabeth's favorite minister took for his text this short
passage, and she sat ready, as usual, to listen and admire, proud of
her ability to appreciate what she called 'a good sermon.'
"'How clever!' thought she, as she prepared her pencil and paper to
take notes. 'What can he say about such a little text as that?'
"And now I am going to read to you what she was able to remember
afterward of the sermon.
"'They crucified Him.'
"'They,'" repeated the preacher, pausing on the word, "who were they?
'Crucified,' what was it? 'Him,' who was He? Let us answer the last
question first.
"'God who at sundry times and in divers manners spake in time past unto
the fathers by the prophets, hath in these last days spoken unto us by
his Son, whom he hath appointed heir of all things.' 'Who, being in
the form of God, thought it not robbery to be equal with God: but made
himself of no reputation, and took upon him the form of a servant, and
was made in the likeness of men: and being found in fashion as a man,
he humbled himself, and became obedient unto death, even the death of
the cross.'
"He was the same of whom it is written, 'The Word was with God, and the
Word was God;' and 'the Word was made flesh, and dwelt among us . . .
the only begotten of the Father, full of grace and truth.'
"But how came this wonderful person in company with thieves, enduring
a disgraceful death, a public execution? He was not personally guilty,
for no charge deserving of punishment could be proved against him. He
was not powerless, for he could heal the sick and raise the dead; and
angels who were eagerly looking into the events of his extraordinary
career, would have sped to do his bidding.
"The ignorant taunt of his enemies was, 'He saved others, himself
he cannot save,' which was only true because he did not choose to
take himself out of their hands. The crowning act of his earthly
ministry must be performed; and while 'by wicked hands' the Son of
God was 'crucified and slain,' the eternal purpose of redeeming love
was accomplished; and that sinners might be saved, Christ died. He
was 'made sin,' 'numbered with transgressors,' 'endured the cross,
despising the shame,' and 'lifted up, that whosoever believeth in him
should not perish, but have eternal life.' So 'they crucified him.'
"Had the Jews been his executioners, they would have stoned him; but
being condemned by the Roman governor, the Roman punishment must
be inflicted. A painful, lingering, and cruel death; nay, more, an
accursed death, for it is written, 'Cursed is every one that hangeth on
a tree.'
"God had manifested his displeasure against sin by casting out of
heaven rebellious angels, 'who kept not their first estate,' and by
pouring out a destroying flood upon rebellious men; but now he was
declaring 'the riches of his grace,' in his kindness toward us by Jesus
Christ; and drawing the eye of faith and the affections of the heart
to 'the Lamb of God, which taketh away the sin of the world.' So 'they
crucified him.'
"'They.' Again let me ask, Who were they? You reply, The Roman soldiers
crucified him; and so they did, aggravating with every ingenuity the
sorrows they could not understand. But who put Jesus into the hand of
the Roman governor? The chief priests and scribes, who scorned his
instructions, envied his influence, and detested his purity. 'What will
ye that I shall do unto him?" asked the irresolute governor. 'Crucify
him,' shouted the false-witnesses and their angry masters. So 'they
crucified him.'
"And are we to stop there? O no! 'Forasmuch as ye know,' some of you
at least, 'that ye were not redeemed with corruptible things, as
silver and gold . . . but with the precious blood of Christ, as of a
lamb without blemish and without spot.' Then, what if, passing by the
actual hands that struck, and the voices that shouted, we pass along
the stream of time, during which multitudes that no man can number
have been saved and blessed through this solemn fact, and consider
ourselves at the present moment, you and I, did we not crucify him? 'He
was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities:
the chastisement of our peace was upon him; with his stripes we are
healed . . . and the Lord hath laid on him the iniquity of us all.'
"If Jesus had not died, we could never have been saved; if Jesus had
not died, man could never have estimated in any degree the depth and
power of that infinite love from which the plan of salvation sprang.
It was not that God needed to be appeased, 'for God so loved the
world, that he gave his only begotten Son;' but it was that his moral
government being thus righteously upheld, the lost might be sought
and found, and his love commended to us, 'in that, while we were
yet sinners, Christ died for us.' It was not that God was angry and
implacable, but that man, being redeemed by the blood of Christ, was to
be won and reconciled to him. It was the setting up, as it were, of an
eternal altar, on which sinners, feeling helpless and undone, might lay
their load of sin and care, and on which the one is consumed and put
away forever, and the other is changed into sanctifying discipline.
"If your sins be not repented of and confessed, and blotted out there,
they are yet on your own heads; and unpardoned sinners must die, for
'the wages of sin is death.' O, it is an easy thing to read and believe
a history, and give a sigh to the fate of an unjustly condemned and
persecuted man, and this may be done sincerely by an amiable, kind
heart that is never influenced beyond the moment by the fact; but, it
is quite another thing to take God at his word, to receive his message
of mercy and love, and, believing in his love to you, to yield up
in return the affection of your hearts, and the grateful service of
your lives. I would solemnly ask you to go to your closets, search
and see what is your real position before God, look to Jesus who was
lifted up that he might draw all to him; and then, in penitence and
self-renunciation, you will learn who 'they' were that 'crucified him.'"
Mrs. Davis paused, and left the minds of her young friends to meditate
for a little while on the truths she had read. She observed with
encouragement that no head was turned to question the impression made
upon another, and, perhaps, in that silence each, at least for once,
looked anxiously into her own heart.
Then she resumed. "Elizabeth had prepared to follow the preacher with
her ready pencil, that she might enjoy over again, or detail to others,
the eloquence she so much admired. Soon, however, her hand paused, the
paper remained blank, and her eyes rose with astonishment and alarm to
the face of the earnest speaker.
"At first she struggled proudly against the thought that she, if a
believer, could have anything to do with the death of Jesus. The
personal application of such a fact had never entered her mind before,
and yet the frightful alternative was not to be endured for a moment.
She meant to be saved, she must be saved. She could not, she would not,
cast in her lot with the enemies of God, with unbelievers, with lovers
of pleasure, and of the world which she thought she had renounced.
"What then must she do? Lay aside her self-complacency, her
self-denials, her religious observances, her charitable acts, her
readiness for martyrdom, and take up 'only her sins,' and carry them to
Jesus? Must she be like the penitent Magdalene, the convicted Peter,
the man who would not so much as lift up his eyes in the temple, but
smote upon his breast, crying, 'God be merciful to me a sinner?' Yes,
she must do thus if she would be saved, because it was for sinners
that Jesus died. It was sin that crucified him, and the utmost daring
of her self-righteous spirit had never gone so far as to assert, or to
imagine, that she had not sinned.
"She had a temper, and a tongue, and vanity and pride that could
have contradicted, at any moment, such self-complacent thoughts. She
had therefore always made the condescending admission that nobody is
perfect, that all have failings; but she hoped she was a great deal
better than many, and was doing something occasionally to commend
herself to the favor of a discerning God. And now came this humbling
Scriptural declaration of atoning merit and forgiving love, proclaiming
to faith and penitence a complete salvation, the effect of which
uproots the love of sin, dethrones self, and secures a loving obedience
to lawful authority; frees the toiling slave, and makes him an adopted
child.
"Elizabeth went home sad that night; the words she had failed to
write on paper sinking into her proud heart and probing its secret
depths. She tried to pray as usual, but now it seemed no prayer at
all; she had to learn as a little child, and to seek a Divine but ever
ready teacher. I need not describe to you the exercises of her soul
under the unexpected light that had dawned upon her; but she was not
able to fight long against the sacred truth, that 'not by works of
righteousness which we have done, but according to his mercy he saved
us;' and then she saw how grateful love would seek to render every act
righteous, and impress every thought and feeling with the beauty of
holiness, not merely to save self, but to glorify God.
"O my dear young friends, never suppose that God calls you to do
anything by way of merit in order that you may be saved, for there is
no merit in penitence or faith. And if you ask,—
"'Must we not give up our gaiety, and our amusements, and our love of
dress, and our Sunday excursions, and our thoughtless, or envious, or
unholy talk,' or any other things in which you allow yourselves?
"I answer, you are not told to think about giving up anything, except
as the proper fruit of faith and love to God and Christ, which the
Spirit of God has implanted in your heart; so that it is no longer
pleasure, but pain and grief, to do anything that is inconsistent with
obedience and devotedness to him.
"It will then no longer be,—
"'"Must" I give up this? Or deny myself that?'
"But rather—
"'What shall I render unto my Lord for all his benefits toward me? I
will take the cup of salvation . . . I will offer to thee the sacrifice
of thanksgiving, and call upon the name of the Lord. Whither he leads,
I will go; what he loves, I will love; and what he bids, I will do; his
friends shall be my friends, his foes my foes, his word my delight.'
"It shall no longer be,—
"'How near may I remain to the world, and yet be a believer in Him?'
"But,—
"'How far may I get from worldliness, and how closely may I walk with
Him?'
"The love of Jesus and the love of dress and vanity cannot agree
together in the same heart; the love of Jesus and the practice of
Sabbath-breaking cannot exist in the same person; one must exclude the
other, and the way of holiness will be found the way of true enjoyment."
"How I wish," said Jane Saunders to herself as she walked along,
according to promise, to call for her sister, "how I wish I had not to
call for Ellen to-night. I want to go and be alone and think, but she
will not let me. Why should I be troubled about her?"
Then memory recalled, like a still small voice of gentle rebuke,
a portion of a chapter she had learned: "He first findeth his own
brother Simon, and saith unto him, We have found the Messias; . . .
and he brought him to Jesus." She admired the brother's love: should a
sister's love be less zealous?
When Jane was announced at Mr. Ashton's, a rush was made from the
sitting-room, which opened by a glass door into the shop, and before
she could express any will or wish upon the subject, she was dragged
into the midst of the party assembled there, who seemed to be about to
sit down to supper.
"Ellen," said she, "I have called as you bade me, and we have only just
time to get home by nine o'clock. Will you get ready at once?"
"Why did you not come earlier then?" said Ellen, vainly endeavoring to
conceal her annoyance. "But it will not matter for you to be a little
late for once; Miss Baylis will excuse you, I know."
"I hope not to give her any cause for excusing me, Ellen; so be quick,
there's a dear girl, and let us go. Mrs. Ashton, I am sure you will
think it quite right for us to obey Miss Baylis's rules." And Jane
looked pleadingly toward Mrs. Ashton.
"Certainly, my dear, certainly; we will not ask you to stay to-night. I
am very sorry, Miss Ellen, but I see we must not have the pleasure of
your company and your sister's to supper."
"Pray do go and put on your bonnet, Ellen," whispered Jane, earnestly.
"Really, I am quite sorry," said Mr. Ashton, rousing himself from a
doze in his easy chair; "one so seldom gets a sight of you, Miss Jane;
but you are quite right about minding rules. I'm a great advocate for
punctuality and obedience myself; there's no managing young people
without them. Well, but you can come in and spend next Sunday with us
instead."
"O no, indeed, sir, thank you; I cannot indeed," said Jane quickly.
"Cannot? Why who is to hinder you?" asked Mr. Ashton, looking at her
with some surprise.
"I—I mean—I should say—I am very much obliged to you, sir, but I would
rather not," stammered Jane, coloring deeply.
"O, that's another thing; will not and cannot have rather different
meanings, Miss Jane; but I hope you don't think there's any more harm
in coming here, than in going to visit some other friends on a Sunday.
We hear that you are turning religious, and we think it a pity you
should wish to grow dull and formal."
"O, I am not religious," said Jane; "and I never knew, until I went to
Mrs. Davis's, what a happy thing it is to be so, at least, to have such
religion as hers. If Fanny and Ellen would come only once, they would
soon see that we are not dull and formal."
"Well, well, my dear, I'm afraid you are getting on fast; but every
one to his taste. I'm sure I shall never persecute any one for his
creed, for everybody has a right to judge for himself, according to his
conscience, I think."
Jane felt exceedingly uncomfortable, but she did not know how to reply
to a sentiment which, nevertheless, she knew to be false and dangerous.
At last, however, summoning courage, she said, as meekly as she could,
lest Mr. Ashton should think her presumptuous: "We study the Bible
at Mrs. Davis's, sir, to find out what is God's will, and then our
consciences can tell us afterward whether we try to do it or not."
"Ah, I dare say; that is Mrs. Davis's way, you see," said Mr. Ashton.
"O sir, surely it is the right way. How can we tell what is really true
and right in any other way?"
"I never argue, my dear; I let people think as they please," said Mr.
Ashton, hastily.
"Now, Ellen," again implored Jane, seeing her yet unprepared to depart,
"indeed I must go without you."
And she opened the door, on which Ellen and Fanny darted up stairs,
leaving her to wait in the shop until their return.
It was evident that the family in the sitting-room supposed she also
had gone up to hasten the process of dressing for the walk, for a
conversation immediately commenced, which they could scarcely have
intended for her ear, but the door not being completely closed, and
Jane having seated herself in the dark, to wait as desired, she could
not avoid hearing it.
"I'll tell you what, Harry," said Mr. Ashton to his son, "it's easy
enough to be seen which of those two girls will make the sensible
woman, and I hope you won't be paying too much attention to that
foolish Miss Ellen."
"O, you need not fear," replied the hopeful Mr. Harry; "it only amuses
us to see how she is puffed up with vanity and conceit. She little
thinks the fun we make of her for it. But I can tell you, we never talk
nonsense to prim Miss Jane."
"All the better for her; she's a steady girl, though she may be getting
a little Methodistical; but that's a great deal better than the silly
thoughts that seem to fill her sister's mind. A vain, dressy, giddy
girl will make a miserable, helpless, extravagant wife for any man who
has the misfortune to marry her; and even if the old uncle could give
her a good settlement, I should never wish to see that little simpleton
daughter-in-law of mine."
"Dear, dear, Mr. Ashton, of course not," said his wife; "Henry would
never be so foolish."
Mr. Harry was saved the necessity of a reply by the entrance of Ellen
and Fanny, when he started up to offer his escort home. Whereupon Jane,
burning with indignation, threw open the door, and haughtily declined
his services.
"Whatever is the matter with you, Jane?" exclaimed Ellen, as soon as
they had left the house; "I never saw you so rude and disagreeable
before."
"I am very sorry, I don't wish to be rude or disagreeable," said Jane;
"but I do wish I could persuade you to—"
"To come and be made a Methodist, I dare say," cried Ellen, angrily;
"but you need not expect it, so don't waste your trouble upon me."
Jane said no more until they reached their own room, when, putting her
arm round her sister, and affectionately kissing her half reluctant
cheek, she whispered the conversation she had overheard, so far only as
it related to Ellen herself.
In vain Ellen would have doubted; she knew that Jane scorned a
falsehood; and after a hysterical struggle to exhibit no other feeling
than indignation at the impertinence, she laid her head on her sister's
shoulder and wept bitter tears of mortification and distress.
"Dear Ellen," said Jane, when the disappointed girl was a little
calmed, "if you would but trust those who love you, instead of such
friends as these, how happy we might be! Will you not hear about Jesus
Christ, and let us follow him together? O, Ellen, he is no pretended
friend, to laugh at our faults when we are out of sight. He screens
them from others, and shows them only to ourselves, that we may confess
them, and that he may forgive them. I do feel that this vexatious event
has strengthened in me every desire and resolution I ever had to serve
and follow him, for he is the faithful and true Friend, and just the
one we need to keep us safe from harm and trouble."
And if the little girl at the house of mourning had been present to ask
again, in her artless tone of wishful inquiry, "Do 'you' love Jesus
Christ?" Jane's full heart would have prompted the reply, "'Lord, thou
knowest all things; thou knowest that I love thee.'"