CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE.
“The hope of the righteous shall be gladness.”—PROV. x. 28.
“It will rain, I tell you!—it will rain!” cried Priscilla; “it always
does when one wishes it to be fine! So you need not put on your bonnet,
Lucy; there will be no boating for us to-day.”
“It is not raining one drop—the grass is quite dry,” replied Lucy,
running for the twentieth time to the door.
“But the sea-weed that hangs there is quite soft and damp, and that is a
sure sign of rain. Only see these black, heavy clouds!”
“Only see that dear little bit of bright blue between them! I think,
Priscilla, that you are always looking out for clouds. I never notice
them at all till the rain begins to drop!”
“That is because you are a thoughtless, foolish little thing!” observed
her sister, with a kind of scornful pity.
“Well, I’m glad that I’m not so wise as you; I’d rather be merry than
wise,” was the laughing Lucy’s reply.
This time, however, it appeared that the elder sister was the mistaken
one. The patch of blue in the sky, to Lucy’s delight, became larger and
larger; the sun shone out cheerfully; and, no longer afraid of the
weather, both girls set out on their walk towards Ryde. They were there
to meet their uncle, a boatman, who had promised them a row over the
water to Portsmouth, where he was to show them the docks and feast them
with cakes; and as the girls had never been to England before, having
been both born and brought up in the Isle of Wight, they had both looked
forward to this expedition for a very long time, though with different
feelings, according to their different dispositions. Lucy was all
delight at the thought of the pleasure—Priscilla all fear lest anything
should occur to prevent their being able to enjoy it.
They made their way over the fields—the one mirthful, the other grave.
They shortened part of the distance by passing along a lane; and a
lovely lane it was, all adorned with wild-flowers.
“I like this path so much!” cried the happy little Lucy. “Such beautiful
plants grow in the hedges, that, were I not in a very great hurry to get
on, I should gather a splendid nosegay on the way!”
[Illustration: LUCY AND PRISCILLA.]
“I do not like this path at all,” replied her elder sister; “it is so
narrow, one is caught every minute by the thorns.”
“Ah, Priscilla! you are always looking out for thorns! I never think of
them till I find myself caught.”
“That is because you are a silly, giddy child!” was Priscilla’s
contemptuous reply.
It will be easily seen, from this short conversation, that however wise
Priscilla might be in the eyes of other people, or in her own, she was
not the most pleasant companion in the world. She was considered a very
sensible girl, one possessing reflection beyond her years; and in some
respects she deserved the character. She was wise in keeping clear of
evil society; she was wise in performing her daily duties, and in not
expecting too much from the world: but she was _not_ wise in ever
casting a shade of gloom over what Providence intended to be bright; she
was _not_ wise in ever meeting misfortune half-way—in always looking at
the dark side of every event, and seeming as though she thought it
almost a sin to be happy! In truth, in these matters, by taking the
opposite extreme, Priscilla was just as foolish as her sister. The one,
eager after pleasure, often met with disappointment: the other, fearing
disappointment, scarce knew pleasure at all.
There was the same difference between them on the subject of religion,
in which both had been carefully instructed. Lucy was too easily carried
away by amusement: with a warm heart, but a giddy and thoughtless
spirit, she too often, alas! neglected the _one thing needful_ for the
passing diversion of the hour. Priscilla never forgot her Bible reading
or her prayer; but both were too often a mere matter of form. She would
not for any temptation have worked, bought or sold, on the Sabbath; but
she never considered it a delight. Priscilla quite put aside the
commandment in the Bible, _Rejoice evermore; and again I say unto you,
Rejoice_; while her sister forgot, in her heedless mirth, that it is
also written, _Rejoice with trembling_. The one girl knew too little of
_the fear of the Lord_; the other was a stranger to his _love_.
At length the sisters reached the shore, and saw before them the
sparkling waves of the sea. On the waters large men-of-war were lying at
anchor; little boats were floating on the sunny tide; some moving on
steadily, as their line of oars rose and fell; others speeding along
with graceful motion, like butterflies spreading their silver wings.
Amongst the many boats which were plying here and there, and those which
were fastened to the pier, Priscilla and Lucy vainly searched for the
_Nautilus_, which was that which belonged to their uncle. As with
anxious looks they proceeded along the shore, exclamations of impatience
bursting from their lips, they were approached by an old friend of their
uncle’s, whom they had seen several times before.
“On the look-out, eh?” said the old sailor, as he came towards them.
“You’ll not hail the _Nautilus_ to-day. Your uncle was engaged this
morning by a gentleman to carry him round to the Undercliff in his boat;
and I suspect that they’ll have ugly weather,” he added, turning his
weather-beaten face towards the sea, “so he asked me to wait for you
here, and tell you why he could not give you a row over the water; and,
as he thought as how you might be a little disappointed, he sends you a
shilling a-piece to make all straight.”
Tears burst from the eyes of little Lucy: she turned aside that the
sailor might not see them. Delighted as she ever was at the prospect of
pleasure, she never could bear to lose it; and every little
disappointment appeared to her as a real and serious misfortune.
Priscilla showed less vexation at losing her excursion, though she took
the shilling with a discontented air; and her first words, as she turned
to walk back with her sister, were as unjust as they were ungrateful to
that good Providence that gives us so much even upon earth to enjoy.
“I knew that it would be so! it always happens thus! If one expects a
little pleasure, disappointment is sure to come!”
“How strange and unkind in my uncle!” said Lucy, still half crying; “and
to think that these stupid shillings could make up for the loss of such
a delightful treat!”
“We had better walk faster,” observed her prudent sister; “your blue bit
of sky is quite disappearing now.”
“And these thorns are very annoying,” Lucy added, fretfully, as, trying
too hastily to free herself from a bramble, she tore a large hole in her
dress.
“Life seems all full of clouds and of thorns,” observed Priscilla, in
the tone of one who is conscious of uttering a very wise saying; “and to
hope to find it anything else is folly only fit for a very little child.
There!—was not that a drop of rain? Yes; another and another, and so
large! That great cloud is going to burst just over our heads, and, as
always happens, them is no place near where we could take shelter from a
storm.”
“Oh, you are wrong there for once! there is Bertha Fielding’s cottage;
it is a little, a very little out of our way, and I am sure that the
good woman will make us welcome.”
Thither ran the two little girls in the rain, which was now falling
thick and fast. A sudden flash of lightning quickened their steps, till,
heated and breathless, they slackened their pace as they approached the
neat little cot. There was the voice of a woman singing within—a feeble,
trembling voice, in which little melody was left; but its tones sounded
earnest, as if coming from the heart, and from a heart that was cheerful
and happy,—
“Content with this, I ask no more,
But to Thy care the rest resign;
Sick or in health, or rich or poor,
All shall be well if Thou art mine!”
The girls’ hasty tap silenced the hymn, and a kind voice bade them come
in. The inside of the cottage was clean and neat, but its appearance
bespoke great poverty. The clock, which had once merrily ticked on the
white-washed wall, was gone from its place; there was no arm-chair by
the side of the fire; and many a treasured family piece of old china had
disappeared from the wooden shelf. A pale, sickly-looking woman lay upon
the bed, which was now almost the sole furniture of the little abode.
Her countenance appeared worn with pain and with want; yet it still bore
a peaceful, hopeful expression.
“May we wait here a little, till the shower is over?” said Priscilla, as
she entered the cottage.
“Most heartily welcome,” replied Bertha. “I was rather inclined just now
to feel sorry at the rain falling, as I suffer a good deal from the
damp; but I was wrong, for it has brought me two visitors to-day, and
that is a real pleasure in this lonely place.”
“I am afraid that you are very poorly,” said Lucy, approaching her
kindly.
“I am quite laid up at present with rheumatism, my dear, and have been
so for the last six weeks. I can scarcely rise from my bed.”
“What a misery to have to lie so long on your bed!” cried Priscilla, who
had known something of illness.
“What a mercy to have a good bed to lie on!” replied the sufferer, with
a patient smile.
“But you will recover before long, and be able to work again,” said
Lucy, with kind interest in her looks.
“I hope so, if it please God,” answered Bertha.
“Ah!” cried Priscilla, “I daresay that you have been hoping and hoping
all the time that you have been ill.”
“I always cherish hope, my dear.”
“Then you are disappointed every day of your life.”
“Oh no!” cried the sick woman, cheerfully; “my hope is firm and sure,
and can never be disappointed.”
“That is impossible,” said Priscilla.
“Oh, tell me your secret!” cried Lucy, with animation. “I always am
hoping too, but I so often find that I never can have what I hope for.”
“My secret is a very simple one,” replied Bertha. “I ask the Lord, for
the sake of His blessed Son, to give me all that is good for me; and I
hope—I more than _hope_—I feel _certain_—that the Lord hears and will
grant my prayer.”
“Yet you are sent poverty and pain,” said Priscilla.
“I firmly believe that both poverty and pain will work together for my
good, and that I shall suffer from neither of them one moment longer
than the all-wise Father knows to be best for His child.”
“Yet you must be very miserable now,” said Priscilla, glancing round on
the almost comfortless abode, and then at its suffering inmate.
“Miserable! oh no; that is no word for a Christian! When I think of my
deserts, and then of all that is left me, I should think it a _sin_ to
be miserable.”
“A sin!” repeated Priscilla, in surprise; “and what have you to make you
anything else?”
“Some comforts even of this earth. I have never yet gone one day quite
without food; God has till now provided me with daily bread. I have a
roof over my head, and some kind friends, and one friend”—here she laid
her hand on a Bible—“that casts sunshine over the darkest trial. My
hearing and my eyesight are spared to me—how great a blessing is this!
Then I have sweet thoughts to cheer me as I lie here in pain. I trust
that, through my Saviour, my sins have been forgiven. Is that no cause
for happiness? I trust that every hour brings me nearer to a home where
there shall be no more sorrow, or crying, or pain. Is that no cause for
happiness? I believe that my gracious God is with me even here, to
support my courage and keep me from falling. Is that no cause for
happiness? Oh, well may I count up my mercies! well may I thank Him who
bestowed them all!—the Rock of my strength and my salvation!” Tears
filled her eyes as she spoke, but not tears of sorrow: _The hope of the
righteous shall be gladness._
Priscilla sighed. When she contrasted her lot with that of this poor
woman—her peevish discontent, her cold, heartless service, with Bertha’s
loving, grateful, happy spirit—she felt abashed and humbled in her own
eyes.
“The rain is over,” she said, turning to the door. “I am sure that we
are much obliged to you, Bertha; and I shall often think over what you
have said.”
Lucy glided to her sister, and whispered a few words to her, at the same
time pressing something into her hand. “You speak for me,” was all that
could be overheard. Priscilla’s smile was brighter than usual.
“We happen to have been given a little money,” she said, going up to
Bertha with Lucy; “we have no real wants ourselves, and we should be
glad, very glad, if you would spend it in getting any little comfort for
yourself.”
“May the Almighty bless you for your kindness, dear children!” cried
Bertha, fervently clasping her hands. “It is He who has sent you here
to-day. He knew that I had not a crust left in my cottage—that I had no
earthly means of procuring one. He has answered my prayer. I hoped in
Him, and He has not disappointed my hope. But I cannot deprive you of
both shillings,” she added; “it is too much—”
“Oh no!” exclaimed Priscilla; “we will never touch that money again!”
“Prissy,” said Lucy gaily to her sister, as they hastened along the wet
path, not complaining when their shoes were fixed in the mire, and
showers of moisture dropped on them from the trees, “I am almost glad
now that we were disappointed of our treat; I think that it was a good
thing after all.”
“Yes; and I am glad that the shower came, though we dreaded it so much.”
“I daresay that if we looked at things as poor Bertha looks, we should
find a great deal to make us glad.”
“Glad, and thankful besides,” said Priscilla.
“Ah, you are thinking less of the thorns and the clouds!”
“I see that earthly joys and earthly sorrows are mixed, like the lovely
wild-flowers with the brambles; so that we should not care too much for
the one, nor fret too much at the other. And as, when dark clouds roll
over the sky, we yet know that the blue heaven is always beyond, we may
look through all troubles with a sure glad hope.”
“_And the hope of the righteous shall be gladness_,” said Lucy.
Oh! who should be joyful and glad,
If not those whom the Saviour has loved,
Who, living or dying, their happiness rest
On the Rock which can never be moved?
What have we, as sinners, deserved?
What hath God in His graciousness given?
Let us love Him and serve Him, rejoicing below,
As we hope to do always in heaven.
Can myriads of glittering lights
E’er equal the brightness of day?
Or all that the world holds of pleasure and wealth
The joys of religion outweigh?
What have we, as sinners, deserved?
What hath God in His graciousness given?
Let us love Him and serve Him, rejoicing below,
As we hope to do always in heaven.
Shall we murmur at pains or at grief,
If our God be our Father and Friend?
Those pains—they can bring us but nearer to Him;
That grief—oh, how soon it will end!
What have we, as sinners, deserved?
What hath God in His graciousness given?
Let us love Him and serve Him, rejoicing below,
As we hope to do always in heaven.
[Illustration: [lonely sheep]]