SELF-EXAMINATION.
ETHEL gathered up her things and retreated to her own room, without
saying another word in self-defence. She shut and bolted her door with
some unnecessary emphasis, and sat down to enjoy her usual fits of
crying; but somehow the tears did not come. She was angry, ashamed, and
disappointed: angry at Emily for her sharp words; angry and ashamed at
herself for running away, and making herself ridiculous, as she felt
she had done; and disappointed at the failure of her plans for Anna's
conversion. Nor was this all. Her conscience was seriously disturbed.
Dr. Ray's stern words rang in her ears, and could not be got rid of.
"You were thinking of yourself, as usual."
Was it true that she was always thinking of herself? And was
selfishness, after all, the ground of all her troubles?
"I suppose it was really so in this case," she thought. "If I had been
thinking of Anna or of the poor girl, instead of myself, I should have
stopped and helped her. Oh how I wish I had! I went over there just
because I wanted to do Anna good—" And here Ethel stopped again, for
an unpleasant suspicion crossed her mind that even her selfishness had
been at the bottom of her desires. Had she not been quite as anxious
for the glory of Anna's conversion—quite as desirous to show Henry that
she could do some good in the world—as she had been to benefit Anna?
It is sometimes possible for one who really desires to serve God, to go
on for a long time in a course of self-deception; but, if the desire is
sincere, that person is certain to awake, sooner or later, and perceive
the truth. Ethel had done this. She had continued to shut her eyes to
her true condition in a wonderful manner. When she was uncomfortably
aroused, as in the case of her first conversation with Henry on the
subject of going to Persia, she usually took refuge in crying; and,
as she was one of those persons who find a certain relief and even
enjoyment in tears, she usually wept away all her discomfort, and there
was an end of the matter for that time.
But now she was not to get off so easily. The truth had gained an
entrance into her mind, and, like a light brought into a long shut
up room, was showing her all the dark, dusty, and foul corners, all
the rust and mould which was destroying what she valued most, all the
spiders and other horrid creatures which had there taken up their
abode. Alone as she was, she hid her face for shame as she thought of
the sins she had committed during the last few weeks,—the failures of
temper; the uncharitable judgments; the falsehoods; above all, the
selfishness!
It was true, as Matthew said, she always thought of herself first and
last. She professed to desire above all things to serve God, but it
was herself that she served first of all. Then she remembered how, all
the time she had made an open profession of religion, she had solemnly
resolved that she would consecrate her life to missionary work. She
opened her desk, and took out the paper on which she had written down
her resolutions. It was solemnly and strongly expressed, and had been
sincere at the time: Ethel was sure of that. She had anticipated
opposition from her friends, especially from her brother; but that
obstacle had been taken away, or, rather, it had never existed. The
only obstacle lay in herself, in her own weakness and folly; but
instead of striving and praying against that weakness, she had nursed
and petted it as something pretty and praiseworthy. She had never once
asked for help to overcome it. She had been prepared to give up the
cherished plan of her life rather than own herself in a fault.
And even in her missionary schemes, had not self been uppermost? Had
she not thought more of the praise she should win and the pleasures
she should enjoy than of anything else? It had not been so at first.
Then she thought of the value and blessedness of God's truth, the worth
of souls, the happiness of making it her life's business to extend
the Redeemer's kingdom. But of late, her desires had waxed faint and
feeble; and as she thought of the inconvenience and danger she was sure
to encounter, she had secretly rejoiced to think that after all she was
not fit for a missionary life, and had a good excuse for giving up the
plan which had once been so dear to her.
If Ethel had been really as silly and superficial as she often
appeared, the present would have been a very perilous crisis for her.
She would have been in danger of giving up her Christian hopes, of
concluding that there was no use in trying. But she had at the bottom
of her character a real foundation of conscience and principle, and a
genuine admiration of what was good and true. She had made an honest
consecration of herself to God and his service; and though she had
wandered away, she was not to be suffered to lose herself utterly. Now
at last her eyes were opened, and she saw how she had wandered away—how
far-away were those green pastures and still waters which she had once
found so delightful.
She saw that it was no "state of health," no arbitrary hiding of her
Lord's face, which had of late made her prayers so dry and unreal, her
Bible reading so uninteresting and even distasteful, her lessons in the
Sunday-school so unprofitable both to herself and to others. It was
sins,—sins not only unrepented of, but actually indulged in and petted.
It was only since she came to live at Dr. Ray's that Ethel had become
really aware of the fact that sin lay at the bottom of the great defect
of her character,—her timidity, and shrinking from everything in the
least disagreeable and distasteful. As a child she had been so good in
other respects, so obedient and easily managed, that Mrs. Bayard had
considered this one defect as of little consequence. Then Ethel had
been greatly indulged as being the only girl, and an orphan, beside.
Mr. Bayard was very much away from home, and when at home, he made
a pet and playmate of Ethel. The boys sometimes laughed at her, it
is true; but they never teased her in earnest; and Mrs. Bayard was
one of those persons who, naturally as it were, take upon themselves
everything inconvenient and disagreeable,—a dangerous person to live
with for one given to self-indulgence.
But at Dr. Ray's, matters were different. Neither he nor Emily ever
spared themselves when anything was to be done for the benefit of
others. It was natural that they should see Ethel's defects more
plainly than if she had always lived with them; and though not at all
disposed to be hard on her, they both saw how important it was that she
should overcome her fault. Emily had talked to Ethel seriously upon
the matter, and had tried to convince her of her duty; but she had not
seemed to succeed very well. Ethel could not be brought to see, or at
least own, that it was a fault, and had always one answer,—a shower
of tears, and the declaration that it was not her fault, that she was
nervous and delicate, and it was very hard that she should be blamed
for what she could not help.
Now a fault, even a pretty serious fault, may remain in the character
of a Christian, and, as long as he is not made aware of it, may do his
general character little harm; but just as soon as he becomes conscious
that it is a fault, he must do his best to get rid of it, if he would
not have his whole soul poisoned thereby. It is, to use a homely
illustration, like a lump of sugar or salt at the bottom of a glass of
water. As long as it is not dissolved and stirred up, the water above
is little affected by it; but the moment the spoon is put into the
tumbler, the salt can be tasted in every drop of the water: so it may
be compared to the seed of a poisonous weed, which may remain unhurtful
because dry and ungrowing for years. But let the seed once begin to
germinate, and it must be got rid of with all speed.
Ethel's self-indulgence, so long as she did not recognize it as
a sin, had, indeed, interfered with her usefulness, and caused
herself and others a good deal of annoyance; but it had not hindered
her from being truthful, affectionate, cheerful, and industrious.
But the moment she was made aware of its true nature, it lost the
comparatively harmless nature of an infirmity and became a wilful
sin,—a sin of presumption;—and one such sin, however small it may seem
in the beginning, is enough to destroy any Christian character. The
consciousness of something wrong, which, yet, she would not own or
investigate, made her fretful, and easy to take offence. The dislike of
being found fault with made her untruthful. The determination, hardly
perhaps acknowledged, to justify herself, and show that she "could not
help" her fault, had made her selfish, exacting, and unkind; and all,
together, had raised up a barrier between herself and her God which had
clouded her religious experience, deprived her devotions of all value
and comfort, and, probably, utterly destroyed the influence over the
friend whom, next to her own family, she loved best in the world.
Utterly wretched, Ethel knew not where to turn for help. Presently she
heard Henry come into his room, and moved by a sudden impulse she went
and knocked at his door, which was opened to her directly. Ethel knew
in a moment that Henry had heard the story of her evening's adventure,
and she was not sorry.
"Well, my little sister," said he, kindly, but rather sadly, "can I do
anything to help you?"
"I don't know," replied Ethel, with a trembling lip. "I don't know
whether any one can help me."
"Come in, and sit down," said Henry, drawing forward a comfortable
arm-chair, and placing Ethel therein. "You look tired out. Now tell me
all about it."
"I don't know where to begin," said Ethel, feeling just a little
comforted by the kind tone and looks. "It is all so miserable. I feel
as if I had lost my way a long time ago, and had been wandering about
ever since. You were right, Henry, in what you said that day, and I
have been wrong all through. I can see it now; and I might have seen it
then, but I would not."
"Tell me what happened this evening: that will be a good place to
begin," said Henry. "I have heard it from Emily; but I should like to
have your version."
Ethel told the story, not sparing herself or excusing herself in the
least.
"It is a bad business," said Henry.
"Indeed it is, and it will be worse with Anna than with any one else,"
said Ethel. "Anna is warm-hearted, generous, and unselfish; but she
is quick-tempered; and then we have always been such friends. I know
she will feel it very much, and I am afraid she will find it hard to
forgive me. But that, is not the worst. I am sure she has been thinking
very seriously lately; and I was talking to her about the duty of
trying to love God, at the very moment the poor girl came in. I shall
never dare to speak of the subject to her again; and I am afraid she
will think all religion a worthless pretence."
Mr. Dalton smiled a little. "She may, perhaps, think so of 'your'
religion, Ethel; but I do not believe she will think so of all
religion. She has before her every day too many examples of true and
consistent godliness to allow her to come to any such conclusion as
that."
"I am sure I hope so," said Ethel. "I don't care what she thinks of me.
She cannot think worse than I do of myself. I begin to think that I
have been mistaken all the time, and that I have never been a Christian
at all."
"Now you are making a very common mistake," said Henry. "It does not
follow because a mason has put some bad bricks or defective workmanship
into a wall either that the foundations of the wall have been badly
laid, or that they have never been laid at all. It may be well enough
to examine the foundations, but it would be a bad plan to pull down the
house in order to do it. But you are tired and discouraged to-night,
and in no state to look at anything calmly. If you will take my advice,
though it may sound unfeeling perhaps—"
"I will take it whatever it is," said Ethel.
"Well, then, I advise you to lay this whole subject aside for to-night,
to say your prayers, read your Bible, and then to go to bed and try to
sleep. To-morrow we will have another talk about the matter."
"I have been trying to pray," said Ethel, "but it seems to do no good."
"Never mind that. Pray all the same. If you can get no farther, pray
because it is right to do so. Obedience always brings a blessing."
Ethel did as she was told, and somewhat guided and comforted by the
mere repetition of the sacred words of prayer, she crept into bed, and
at last fell asleep.