UNCONDITIONAL SURRENDER.
A SECOND time in her life did Mrs. Morgan, senior, seek her
daughter-in-law's room. Not unsolicited, however. Louise, all
unknowingly, planned the way for an easier approach.
"Mother," she said, toward the evening of the day that followed that
night of watching, "won't you just slip up to my room and lie down for
an hour or two? You look so tired, and you know you had no rest at all
last night. Dorrie and I will take the best possible care of Nellie;
and, indeed, she looks so bright as to hardly need care."
This invitation had been repeated at intervals during the day; but Mrs.
Morgan, though not repellent in her manner, had steadily resisted every
suggestion, and yet had seemed not ungrateful for the thoughtfulness.
"Perhaps I will by-and-by," she had said to Louise's last suggestion;
but it was an hour afterward, when Louise had despaired of her success
and had sought her room, that Mrs. Morgan tapped at her door.
"That is good," the daughter said briskly. "Let me bring a cover and
arrange the pillows comfortably, and you will get a nice rest before
Nellie misses you."
"Wait," said Mrs. Morgan, arresting Louise's quick steps; "don't fix
the bed. I have not come to lie down; I don't feel like resting; I want
to talk with you. Sit down here by the fire. I suppose I need your
help. I need something—I don't really know what. I have been having a
very hard time."
"I know it," said Louise, quick sympathy in her voice. "Last night was
a heavy strain. But you can safely rest now, she is so much better. I
never saw any one rally so rapidly."
"I don't mean that. My hard time did not begin last night. I don't
feel sure that I can tell you when it began; away back. I have made
some of my hard times, I can see that. I have been disappointed in my
children. John disappointed me, long ago; I had ambitions for him, I
had plans, and everything happened to thwart them. I felt hard at Lewis
sometimes because he seemed to come in the way; and I felt hard—well,
at everything. I have thought that his father did not treat him just as
I would have done if I had been a father. So I have just gone through
life, being out of sorts at everything."
"For a while after you came here I had hopes that John would take to
you, and that he would come out all right; and when I saw how much
stress you laid on prayer, I began to feel glad that you were praying
for John, and to sort of expect that good would come out of it. Then
you know how awfully I was disappointed, and how things went from bad
to worse. Then after he went away it seemed to me as though my heart
turned to stone. I didn't feel as though I cared much for the other
children, and I didn't want to. Dorothy provoked me, and Lewis provoked
me, and you provoked me worst of all. I have grown harder and bitterer
every day; I was rebellious at God; I thought he had treated me badly.
I got down on my knees once and prayed for John; and I said to myself
that He ought to have heard me, and he didn't, and I couldn't forgive
him."
"Then came last night. I was hard on my poor little girl. I didn't
punish her hard, I don't mean that. I just gave her three or four
slaps, which, if they had been given in sport, she wouldn't have
minded. It was her heart that I hurt, and I knew it. I knew at the
time that I was punishing her unjustly. The child didn't mean to
be disobedient—didn't know that she was; but I had been having a
dreadful day, and it seemed an actual relief to have some escape for
my bitterness. So I whipped her. But I have been punished for it. Last
night was an awful night! If she had died I believe I should have lost
my reason. And I thought she would die; I believed that God had sent
for her in retribution. Yet I cried to him. I told him I had been
bitter and severe and rebellious, and was yet; but that if he would
spare my baby I would try to serve him—I would do anything that he told
me. Now he has taken me at my word when I didn't expect it, and I am a
woman who has always been noted for keeping a promise. I mean to keep
this one, but I don't know how. I don't even know what he wants of me.
It seemed to me that you ought to know, and to be able to tell me, so I
have come to you for help."
Throughout the telling of this story Louise had not interrupted by word
or movement; but long before it was concluded the sympathetic tears
were dropping on her mother's hand. Directly the steady, unnaturally
quiet voice ceased, this servant of Christ was ready with his message.
"O mother, what he wants of you is to lean your head upon his bosom,
and tell him all your fears and cares and disappointments, and let him
whisper to you, 'Daughter, be of good courage.' He loves you, mother,
and he loves John, and Nellie, and all your flock. He wants to save you
all in his everlasting arms, and bring you, an unbroken family, to his
Father's house. I believe he will do it. And in return he asks your
love; and you know, mother, when we stop to think of it, it would be
simply impossible to help loving one who waits to do all this for us
and ours."
Mrs. Morgan looked at her daughter with grave, earnest eyes, and slowly
shook her head.
"It may not be possible for you to help loving him, but I don't feel a
bit of love in my heart. It feels as hard as flint. I believe that he
is willing to do a great deal for me, and yet I don't seem to care."
"Mother, tell him so." Louise's voice trembled with the earnestness of
her desire. "He is unlike any other friend. To a human friend we could
not go, saying simply: 'I know I ought to love you, but I don't. Show
me how.' But to the tender Saviour we can come with even this story.
Mother, do not wait to feel as you think you ought. You have promised
to serve him. You say you mean to keep the promise; then just give
yourself to him. Be sure he will accept the gift, and fill your heart
with joy in return."
"But, Louise, that would be simply mockery. He asks for love, and I
cannot love him. I feel as though I had no love for anybody."
Louise shook her head. "No, if you are sincere you cannot mock him.
He made the heart. You cannot make your heart love him, but you can
resolve to give yourself to him, to obey his directions, to follow his
voice, and I do assure you he will see to all the rest. Will you keep
your promise?"
Then there was silence. Mrs. Morgan was evidently puzzled, as well as
painfully embarrassed. The way was darker to her than it had been to
Nellie. She had not the faith of a little child to rest upon.
"How much does the promise mean?" she asked at last "What would I have
to do?"
"It means everything," said Louise solemnly; "you would have to do just
exactly as God directs. He has promised to guide you, and you are to
promise to be guided every step of the way; to have no will of your
own, to lose your will in his. Will you do it?"
"But if he directs what I cannot do?"
"There is no possibility of such an 'if,' mother; he will be sure to
give the power to do, with the command. Unless you mean 'will not' by
'cannot,' there is nothing in the way. The world is full of people who
say, 'I can't,' when in their hearts they know they mean 'I won't.'
But you are an honest woman; you will not say I cannot to God, knowing
that you could, if you would. Mother, will you redeem your promise?
See here; your little Nellie sat in that chair where you are only
yesterday, and she knelt beside me and prayed this prayer,—"
"'Here, Lord, I give myself away;
'Tis all that I can do.'"
"When she arose from her knees she said, 'He took me.' Will you use
Nellie's prayer, mother? If you will, I am sure you will receive her
answer. Will you kneel down with me, now and here?"
I cannot assure you that the daughter's faith was strong; she was
startled at her heart's own beating, and a great deal of the emotion
was the result of anxiety. It was evidently the turning-point in Mrs.
Morgan's life, but how would she decide it? Would she kneel down and
deliberately give herself away to Christ, even in this darkness,
declaring that she had no love in her heart for him? Louise was afraid;
and the silence lasted. She did not know what else to say; she was
afraid to speak again, so she kept silent. But, oh, how her heart sped
to the throne with its errand. How she blessed the King that at this
crisis hour she had not to wait to petition for an audience, and then
await his leisure. Instead, without introduction or explanation, she
pressed her petition: "O Jesus, save her now." Again and again, and
yet again, were these desires presented; and thinking of it afterward,
it seemed to her that almost she felt the presence of the Angel of
the covenant, and whispered yet again in his waiting ear, "I will not
let thee go." And so strong grew the feeling, that when suddenly, in
the quiet and the darkness, the little rocker was pushed back with a
resolute hand, and her mother-in-law went down on her knees before it,
Louise, not surprised now, slipped down beside her, and immediately
changing the tone of her prayer, said aloud,—
"Dear Jesus, here is this soul come to redeem her promise; she is
going to give herself to thee now, to be thine for ever; she is going
to follow wherever thy hand points the way. Now, Jesus, accept the
covenant, and write her thine, even as thou hast promised."
And then again from that room, only a trifle over twenty-four hours
away from its yesterday's baptism, went up the solemn words, Nellie's
little prayer,—
"'Here, Lord, I give myself away;
'Tis all that I can do.'"
The tones were firm, broken by no emotion; strong—they might almost be
said to be stern. In truth, it was an iron will that was bending now;
but there was fixed purpose in the act. If the will was hard to bend,
it never seemed to bend when there was no reality. When a strong oak
bows low before unseen power, it is evident that there is power. Only
those words were spoken, then silence. Louise waited, praying softly.
Then again she broke the silence, sealing the offering with a solemn,
tender prayer of petition that the Lord might now reveal his smiling
face to the waiting soul. Then, almost alarmed at the stillness, lest
the tide of feeling might be too much for the wearied body of this
iron-willed woman, she arose. Mrs. Morgan quietly followed her example,
and sat down again in the little chair. To Louise's heart it seemed
unwise to speak more words. Presently she said,—
"Mother, you will rest here now a while, won't you? I will go down to
Nellie, and when she awakens and wants you we will call immediately. I
have made the bed comfortable, and perhaps you will have a chance to
get a nice rest. Will you have a light? No?" as Mrs. Morgan shook her
head. "You like the fire-light best; then I will make it just a little
brighter."
And she stirred the embers and added another stick; and then with soft
step she went back to the little chair and touched her lips for just
one second to the mother's cheek, then slipped out and left her.
Only a few moments Mrs. Morgan sat, as if spell-bound, gazing into the
glow that sprang up on the hearth. Then she roused suddenly, and went
over to the door and turned the key in the lock; but instead of going
toward the bed, she went back to the little chair and bowed before it
on her knees.
Already had this woman, with her first words of actual self-surrender,
felt a touch of the mighty Hand that leaves its impress on the heart.
She could not say now, what she had fifteen minutes before, "I cannot
love him; I feel as though I had no love for anybody." She did not
understand what to name the strange new feelings that were surging
through her heart. Thus much she could say, what she never in her life
had been able to say before, "I want to pray." And so she dropped on
her knees, and the old, and ever new, and continually repeated miracle
of transformation went on. "If any man will do his will, he shall
know of the doctrine, whether it be of God." Why do not the honest
unbelievers apply the test of the Lord's own promising?
"What is the matter?" Dorothy asked, in tones half-startled and wholly
wondering, as Louise came once more to the little bedroom.
"Nothing. Why?" Louise asked, smiling as she took her station beside
the pale little face on the pillow.
"I don't know; you look—I hardly know how—a little as though you had
seen an angel."
"Perhaps I have." This with a glad light in her eyes and a bright,
reassuring smile.
Then came the father to look in on his sleeping baby, and to ask of
Dorothy in a half whisper,—
"Where is your mother?"
"I don't know," said Dorothy, turning inquiring eyes on Louise, who
answered,—
"She is up in my room, father, resting."
"Resting!" Father Morgan repeated the word, wonder and almost terror in
his voice. Rest was something that Mother Morgan never took. The word
seemed foreign to her nature. Even when she slept you hardly thought of
her as actually resting. "She must be sick!"
"Oh no, she isn't; I think she feels better than usual. She will have a
nice rest, and be down presently."
And then the farmer turned and looked wonderingly at his
daughter-in-law. He detected the minor tone of music in her voice, and
he noticed the brightness in her face. It was always a bright face,
but here was positive joy. What was there to be joyful about? Father
Morgan did not define this questioning feeling, neither did he think
of angels. He had not been reading about the shining of Moses' face
after his communion with God, as Dorothy had; but he told himself, for
perhaps the thousandth time, that "Lewis had an unusual kind of a wife,
somehow."
It was verging toward midnight, and Farmer Morgan was asleep on the old
settee in the parlour, when Mrs. Morgan opened the door quietly and
came in.
"Did you get any rest, mother?"
It was Dorothy who questioned, while Louise looked up quickly.
Her voice was in its usual calm, but was it imagination that made it
seem to Louise as though the peculiar, hard ring had gone out of it?
"Yes," she said, "a good rest; better than any that I ever had in my
life. You girls may both go to bed now. I would just as soon sit up all
night as not." And then she looked at Louise and smiled.
"What were those words Nellie said to you last night?"
This to Louise a little later, as Dorothy moved about doing last things
for her mother's comfort.
"She told me that 'He took her.'"
"It is a strange thing, but I believe he has taken her mother too.
Good-night, and God bless you."
And then Mother Morgan deliberately folded her arms about Louise and
deliberately kissed her twice before the astonished eyes of Dorothy.
She had just come in from the kitchen to petition,—
"Mother, couldn't you lie down beside Nellie and sleep, and let me stay
awake to watch her?"
"No, Dorothy, I don't need it; I am rested. I have found such rest as I
knew nothing about. Louise will tell you."
It is very strange that between a mother and a daughter kisses
should have been so rare a thing that for Dorothy to feel one on her
cheek made the rich blood roll into it in waves, and she was utterly
bewildered still, until she heard Louise repeating, "'Come unto me, all
ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.' Mother
has just been to him with his promise, and received its fulfilment,
Dorrie," she said. And as they went up the stairs together, she added,
"Dorrie dear, I believe you and I could sing the long-metre doxology
with good effect to-night. Meantime, dear, don't let us for one moment
let go of John."
Ah! But stronger arms than theirs had hold of John.