A LONG TALK.
ETHEL would have given a great deal for a good excuse for staying in
her own room the next morning; and she lingered so long, that Emily
came to see what was the matter.
"Come, Ethel, breakfast is ready and waiting. Why don't you come down?"
"I would rather not," said Ethel, colouring violently. "I don't care
for any breakfast, if Anna will bring me some tea."
"Are you sick?" asked her sister.
"No; but I don't want to come down—not till the doctor is gone."
"Oh!" exclaimed Emily, suddenly enlightened. "I see now what is the
matter. You are afraid Matthew will laugh at you; is that it?"
"Well, he does laugh at me, and you know he does, Emily," replied
Ethel, tearfully. "I can't bear it."
"Oh, you should not mind. You know he would do anything in the world
for you; and besides, Ethel," added Emily, gravely, "I think you may be
very well satisfied if Matthew does nothing but laugh at what happened
last night. A good many gentlemen would not have thought it a very nice
joke to be fastened out in the cold and rain, after such a hard day's
work as Matthew had yesterday. It was not very pleasant for him to go
round trying the doors and windows of his own house; and if he does
nothing but laugh at the trouble you caused him, I think you can hardly
complain."
Emily's words presented the matter in a new light to Ethel, who had
heretofore considered herself as altogether the aggrieved party. She
remembered all at once that Dr. Ray had not spoken a single unkind word
after all the trouble she had given him. As she hesitated a moment
before speaking, Emily coughed violently.
"You are coughing again," said Ethel, anxiously; for Emily had suffered
several months from a very painful affection of the throat, which was
apt to return if she took the least cold.
"Yes, I am afraid I took cold last night. I was so startled, I never
stopped to put on my stockings and shoes. Come, are you ready?"
Ethel hesitated no longer, but followed her sister down-stairs, feeling
very shy and very much ashamed of herself.
Dr. Ray's eyes twinkled, and he pulled the end of his mustache, as he
was apt to do when enjoying a joke; but he bade Ethel good-morning very
kindly, and made no allusion to the events of the night before. His
face grew suddenly grave as Emily coughed again.
"That won't do," said he. "How have you taken cold?"
"Last night, I suppose," said Emily.
"Humph! Yes, I suppose so. The next time, don't run out on the cold
matting with your bare feet, even if the house be on fire. You must
stay by the fire all day to-day and nurse yourself."
"Oh, brother! And lose the concert which she has been looking forward
to all the week," exclaimed Ethel.
"I am very sorry, sister, but there is no help for it," said the
doctor, kindly but gravely. "Emily has been too ill lately to run any
risks; and it is a very chilly, damp day,—one of the worst of this very
trying spring. If she should take another hard cold, there is no saying
what might come of it."
This was all the doctor said; not a word of reproach was addressed to
Ethel either by him or his wife, but Ethel felt this very forbearance
to be a severe reproach, and began to justify and excuse herself in her
usual pathetic tone.
"I suppose you think it is all my fault, brother; but I am sure I don't
see why. I am not to blame for being naturally timid and nervous."
"Perhaps not. I do not know that anybody said you were," replied Dr.
Ray. "Whether you are to blame for petting and nursing your fears,
indulging your fancies, and making no effort to overcome them is
another matter. 'I' think you are; and I tell you plainly, little
sister, that unless you do make an effort to overcome these useless and
'seemless' fears, you will never be good for anything in this world
unless it be to exercise the patience and forbearance of those about
you. Come into the office, Emily, and let me look into your throat."
"Yes, that is always the way," said Ethel, indignantly, as Dr. Ray and
his wife left the room; "I am always the one to blame. It is too bad!"
"Gently, gently," said Mr. Dalton. "Who do you think was to blame, if
not yourself?"
"I don't know that any one was to blame, unless it might be you and the
doctor, for telling such horrid stories and frightening me to death,"
said Ethel.
"Ethel, I want to have a serious talk with you about this matter," said
Mr. Dalton, gravely, "a good deal depends upon it. Suppose you come up
to my room, and help me to put away my things. I am going to unpack my
big trunks."
Ethel followed her brother with a martyr-like air, as of one unjustly
condemned going to execution. Henry did not seem very much disposed to
begin the lecture. He unpacked his boxes, talked over their contents,
and gave the history of each article as he took it out, till Ethel
almost forgot what she had come for. At last Henry said, somewhat
abruptly:
"Ethel, you believe in God, don't you?"
"Why, Henry, what a question! Of course I do!" replied Ethel.
"I am not so sure about the 'of course;' but we will let that go for
the present. You believe that there is a God: what do you believe about
him? Think now, before you answer."
Ethel thought a little, and then answered, "I believe that he is
everywhere present, that he is all-powerful, all-wise, and perfectly
good."
"Do you think you love him?"
"Yes," said Ethel, seriously. "I do believe, brother, that I love him."
"And do you think he loves you?"
"He must love me, I suppose: why, yes, of course he does, or he would
not have done so much for me," said Ethel. "Yes, I am sure he loves me!"
"Then, Ethel, what are you afraid of?" asked her brother, gravely.
"Cannot this almighty, all-wise, all-good, and everywhere present God,
whom you love and who loves you, protect you for one single night?
Which of his attribute do you distrust—his power or his wisdom or his
goodness, that you live in this constant terror?"
Ethel looked as if a new idea had been presented to her.
"Ethel, when Juliet taught you to say your prayers, as a little child,
did she not teach you one which begins, 'Lighten our darkness?'"
"She did," replied Ethel, surprised. "How did you know?"
"Because our own mother taught Juliet, Emily, and me, when we were
little children," replied Mr. Dalton.
"That was not my mamma," said Ethel.
"No, your mamma came afterward, and a very sweet, lovely woman she was.
I loved her dearly, and mourned her loss greatly, though I never saw
her many times. But will you repeat that prayer for me, Ethel?"
Ethel repeated in a low, reverent voice:
"Lighten our darkness, O Lord, we beseech thee, and by thy great mercy
defend us from all terrors and dangers of this night, for the love of
thy Son, our Saviour Jesus Christ."
"That is the way I learned it," said Mr. Dalton. "I remember asking
mother what terrors meant; and she said they meant fears: that we asked
our Father in heaven to protect us from all dangers, and from the fear
of them. Do you still use this prayer, Ethel?"
"Yes, brother, after my other prayers. It seems so natural, somehow. It
makes me think of sister Juliet."
"Ethel, what is it to pray in faith?"
"It is to ask God for what we need or desire, believing that he will
give us what we ask for if it is best for us to have it," answered
Ethel.
"Exactly so. And what is the promise made to the prayer of faith?"
"There are so many of them," said Ethel, hesitating.
"Yes, I know there are a great many of them," said her brother,
smiling; "but tell me one of them?"
"'Whatsoever ye shall ask in prayer, believing, ye shall receive.' That
is one," replied Ethel, after thinking a little.
"Yes, that is one, and a very large and full one," said her brother.
"Do you believe it?"
"It is God's word," replied Ethel; "so it must be true."
"Yes, but do you believe it?" asked her brother, with a keen glance.
"It does not seem to me that you can believe it, or that you can have
any real trust in God whatever."
"I don't see why you should say so," said Ethel.
"Because, my dear child, if you really and truly trusted God, and
believed that he is not only able but willing to take care of you, you
would not be so afraid of everything and everybody. If, for instance,
you believed really in your heart that God would hear your prayer at
night, and preserve you from all harm and dangers of the night, you
would go to bed and sleep without fear, because you would know that no
real harm could happen to you. At least, you would try to overcome your
fears by these considerations, and by degrees you would succeed."
"It is natural for me to be afraid," said Ethel, rather sullenly. "I
can't help it."
"Are you sure you wish to help it, Ethel?" asked her brother. "Are you
sure you do not think it rather lady-like and refined to be as you
say—delicate and nervous?"
Ethel did not answer. In her heart she did think so.
"As to its being natural to you to be a coward, I have no doubt it is
partly true," continued Mr. Dalton; "but it does not follow by any
means that you cannot help it. People often correct their natural
dispositions. Do you think sister Juliet was a very indolent person?"
"Sister Juliet!" exclaimed Ethel. "No, indeed. She was the most
industrious person I ever saw—more so, even, than Emily."
"Well, Ethel, Juliet was by nature rather the most indolent little
person I ever knew in my life. She was lazy about everything, and the
most accomplished little 'shirk' I think I ever met with. She contrived
to slip her neck out of everything, and made everybody wait on her."
"Well, I never should have guessed that," said Ethel. "Mr. Bayard used
to say that she was unmercifully industrious."
"Yes, she went rather to the other extreme in after-life; but as a
child, and until she was about fifteen, she was just what I describe."
"What was it that cured her?" asked Ethel.
"What cures all of us, my dear, when we are cured at all,—the grace of
God. When Juliet was fifteen, she became a disciple of our Lord,—not
only by name and profession, but in heart and life a Christian. The
Holy Spirit showed her that indolence was a grievous sin, and a wasting
of the time and talents which were given her for her master's service.
She discovered that the indulgence of this sin was undermining and
destroying everything good in her, as does any 'indulged' sin, however
small it may seem in itself. She resolved to conquer herself, and she
did so; but she had many hard struggles before she gained the victory."
"I don't see that cowardice is a sin," said Ethel.
"There is undoubtedly a degree of natural timidity which cannot be
called a sin," replied her brother. "It is no sin for a child to be
afraid in the dark. There is no sin in the disgust we naturally feel
toward certain animals, or in that instinctive fear which leads all
animals, man included, to shun what is likely to hurt them. But if we
allow this fear to govern us, to interfere with our usefulness and the
comfort and fear of those around us, it becomes a sin. A man is not a
coward if he is afraid of being shot when he goes into battle; but he
becomes one if he yields to that fear and runs away."
"It is all very well for you to talk, brother; but the fact is, you
don't know anything about it," said Ethel. "You can't tell how I feel.
Matthew is just so. He scolded me for being afraid and making a fuss,
just as if I could help it; and I know I can't help it. Of course he
does not understand. Doctors never do. Their hearts get perfectly
hardened to suffering of all sorts by seeing so much of it."
"There I think you make a great mistake, Ethel," said her brother. "I
do not think doctors are more hard-hearted and indifferent to suffering
than other men, but they have to keep their feelings under control. You
know the other day Matthew was called suddenly to see a man who had his
arm crushed in the rolling-mill, and I went with him. It was a dreadful
sight, as you may suppose, and the poor man was suffering terribly.
Suppose that Matthew, instead of attending to his business, had begun
to think how horrible the sight was, and how dreadful it was to see him
suffer so.
"Suppose that the man who rescued his companion at the imminent risk
of his own life had said to himself, 'Oh, I can't go near him; I shall
be killed if I do.' What would have become of the sufferers? You say
people get used to these things; but how do they so? They were not
used to them when they began. Is it not by controlling themselves and
overcoming their fears and feelings?"
Henry paused, and walked two or three times up and down the room.
"I shall say no more, Ethel," he said, at last. "There is no use in
talking to you so long as you justify yourself all the time. These
fears of yours are a great sorrow and trouble to me; because, unless
they can be overcome, they present an insuperable obstacle to a plan on
which I have thought a great deal, and on which my heart has been set
for several years."
Ethel's heart began to beat fast. "Do you mean—" she asked, and then
stopped.
"I mean that I have for several years cherished the hope that I might
take you to Persia with me, as an assistant to our friend Miss Beecher
in her girls' schools. It would be very pleasant to me to have a home
and housekeeper of my own; and we are always in want of help. I thought
I might begin at once to teach you the languages, especially Syriac;
and I calculated that at the end of the three years I expected to
remain at home, you would be ready to return with me. But my pretty
castle in the air is likely to vanish like a bubble," he continued,
smiling rather sadly.
Ethel was so much agitated that she could hardly speak. So Henry had
been cherishing the same plans as herself.
"But, brother Henry, I don't understand," she managed to say. "I
thought you were going to India again."
"No; I am going back to Persia, where my work began in the first place,
you know. I have always hoped that it might be so arranged, and my
wishes are likely to be fulfilled so far as that is concerned. But it,
seems that I must give up all thought of taking you with me, unless,
at least, you can learn to be a brave woman. The journey is a long and
somewhat dangerous one; and there are many unpleasant things constantly
to be encountered in the life of a missionary. A coward would be only a
hinderance and a burden to me. I am very sorry, very much disappointed;
but, as you say, there is no use in talking, and we will drop the
subject."
"But going to Persia is not like going to India," faltered Ethel.
"No; in some respects it is better, and in others rather worse. The
journey is far more toilsome and dangerous. If you are afraid to go
to bed with the office door unbolted, how would you bear sleeping in
a tent where you have no fastenings at all, and hearing the wolves
howling outside; or hiding from savage hordes in a haystack, as Miss
Beecher was once obliged to do? It would not do to succumb or faint
under such circumstances, you see."
The conversation was here interrupted, and Ethel escaped to her room,
feeling more unhappy and ashamed than she had done in all her life
before. She had often considered how she should open the subject of
her becoming a missionary, to Henry. She had pictured his surprise,
and had gone over and over again the objections he was likely to urge,
and the arguments she would bring forward to meet them. And now, it
appeared, that Henry had been cherishing the same idea,—that he had
wished to take her to Persia, whither she had always wished to go, and
as an assistant to her dear Miss Beecher. He had meant to have her
teach the very girls in whom she had always felt such an interest. The
only obstacle in the way, as it seemed, was one of which she had never
thought—her own utter unfitness for the place and its duties. She could
not but see that Henry was right. It would never do for a missionary
to be a coward. And she was an egregious coward. She would not deny
it, and hitherto she had felt no disposition to do so. She had, as
Henry said, thought it "fine" to be nervous and timid. It was all
because she had such delicate sensibilities. But what if these delicate
sensibilities were to interfere with and thwart the grand plan of her
life? What was to be done about that?
The first thing to be done about it, according to Ethel's view of the
fitness of things, was to sit down and cry. Crying was an amusement in
which she frequently indulged, and she did it very prettily, it must be
confessed. Her tears came easily, in large, bright drops, without any
violent sobs and disfiguring convulsions of the face. But somehow she
did not find her usual comfort in tears. For almost the first time in
her life, she had a real heart trouble, and she did not find it at all
nice,—not at all like the sentimental distresses which she was apt to
conjure up for herself. She was thoroughly disappointed and mortified.
The real strength and earnestness which lay at the bottom of her
character, and which had been enlisted on the side of her missionary
scheme, was aroused by her brother's words, and protested against being
baffled and put down. She was really and truly unhappy.
Ethel had for a year been a member of the church, and believed herself
to be a true disciple of Christ; and it must be confessed that in most
respects she was a consistent Christian. Her religious life, as far as
it went, was a real, genuine life; and though her religious experience
was not very deep, it was true. As fast as she was made aware of her
faults, she strove to conquer them, and to live very near to her Divine
Master. She had had the advantage of a thoroughly Christian bringing up
and training, which had taught her to be truthful, kind, and polite,
industrious and faithful in her work, conscientious and self-restrained
in her amusements. Hitherto her way had been easy to her.
In all continued efforts, like pursuing a study, for instance, the
hard place does not lie at the beginning, but a shorter or longer time
afterward. The lion which guards the threshold does not show himself at
the gate, but hides somewhere inside, ready to take us unawares. Every
one who has learned music or a new language, knows what it is to come
to the "hard place." It is when the interest of novelty has worn off
and that of use has not begun; when we work day after day, seeming to
make absolutely no progress; when we cannot understand something—meet
with some unexpected difficulty—that we are discouraged, and wish we
had not begun. But if we keep resolutely on doing our best, working
doggedly and steadily at whatever hinders us, we presently find, we
hardly know how, that the hard place is left behind, and we are going
on finely again.
It is very much so in the matter of the Christian life and experience.
Nobody sees the whole of his sins and imperfections at once. If we did,
we should perhaps be utterly discouraged. We go on honestly correcting
one fault after another, and perhaps congratulating ourselves that
we are so ready to sacrifice all for Christ, till, by-and-by, we are
plainly shown that something must be given up which we are by no means
ready to relinquish. We are shown that some habit or quality on which
we have perhaps prided ourselves must be overcome or laid aside; our
pride which we call self-respect; our resentment of injuries, just
resentment, as we think it; our dainty self-indulgence which we call
refined taste; or a love of the beautiful, or some darling desire of
self-culture and improvement, perfectly legitimate in itself, but
conflicting with the duty we owe to others. Then, indeed, comes the
real hand-to-hand struggle, the real conflict with Apollyon, which
shows us what we are made of. If we have the love of God in our hearts,
and strive with humility, and a due dependence on the aid which is
promised us, we are sure to conquer at last, though we may be sorely
wounded and bruised in the battle, and even defeated over and over
again; but if we decline the combat, and try to avoid it by shutting
our eyes and refusing to see the enemy, woe to us. Not one more step
of real progress is possible; and though we may fancy we are going
forward, we shall find to our sorrow that we have turned our backs, and
are travelling again to the city of Destruction.
Ethel had now come to this place. It had been easy walking hitherto.
She had not been called upon for any great sacrifice or humiliation.
But here was a barrier stretching right across her way. After she had
made up her mind to enlist openly on the side of her Saviour, the idea
of devoting her life to the cause of missions, which had at first been
only a childish fancy, became a fixed and settled purpose. She had
talked the matter over with Juliet, and Juliet had made no objection,
provided Henry's consent could be gained. Ethel felt that she had
promised herself to this work; and, yet, how was she ever to perform
it? Never, it was plain, unless she could conquer her cowardice, which
she had always declared she could not conquer, and which she had never
really wished to conquer. She must own that cowardice to be a fault—a
sin—and this in itself involved a great sacrifice of pride; and she
must make many painful efforts, and probably be defeated many times.
Ethel felt instinctively that if she were to give up the purpose of
being a missionary for any such reason, she should never be good for
anything else. If she were providentially prevented from going by her
own illness or that of friends, or by some plain call of duty at home,
that would be another thing; but to give up because she was afraid to
go, it would be a final defeat. No: she was not willing to give it up;
but, on the other hand, neither was she willing to own herself a sinner
in that which kept her back, and to strive humbly after amendment. It
was a very hard plan, and she saw no escape.