A SECRET.
THE morning shone out with the promise of a lovely day; the whole of
the party could walk excepting Elsie, for whose accommodation a docile,
sleepy donkey was provided, which also carried the provision baskets
slung on either side of her saddle.
All the younger members were as merry as if the warm sun never rose
upon anything but enjoyment. Already, the late terrible calamity was
becoming a thing of the past; and sanguine hearts were accommodating
themselves to new circumstances, with the happy elasticity so
mercifully characteristic of youth.
The two elder, however, could not so entirely yield to the pleasure of
the moment. Myra was not at ease, and Ralph Penwald had decided to make
this day, so far as his own control over it extended, the turning-point
of his life.
They spent the morning as they intended, viewing the stately ruin from
many points in the landscape, and examining all the odd corners, and
crumbling towers, and ivied windows, imagining, the while, all manner
of events and scenes that might have occurred in long-past ages.
Then the delightful spread of refreshments on the grass which covered
what had been the courtyard of the castle; after which, Myra selected
a spot commanding a view of the picturesque tower and battlements, and
prepared to sketch, while the rest, untired and eager, led off the
donkey and its delighted rider with Janet to walk beside her, round
the outside of the walls and down to the pebbly bed of the river, now
nearly dry, and entirely safe.
Mr. Penwald saw them fairly engaged in picking up the worn white stones
which shone temptingly there, and then returned to Myra's side.
He then candidly told her of the object of his visit, how truly he
respected and loved her, and desired her companionship and help in the
event of his becoming the pastor of a parish, the charge of which had
been offered to him.
Myra would have interrupted him at once, but he begged her to hear him;
when, however, he looked for some encouragement in her troubled face,
there was nothing to cheer him with hope.
"Oh, Mr. Penwald," she said, "do you not know that I have devoted
myself and all I possess to my orphan brothers and sisters?"
"Devote your property and welcome, but not yourself, Miss Sherwood;
they cannot appreciate that gift as I should."
"Nothing can alter my purpose, Mr. Penwald. I sought, with many an
earnest prayer, the guidance of my heavenly Father in the step I have
taken; I thought I saw clearly the indications of His will; and where
would be my Christian consistency, my faith and obedience, if, for
any selfish ends, I were to retract my promised and already accepted
service?"
"But, dear Miss Sherwood, if I might presume to think that, this cause
removed, you would, in time, have yielded some return of regard, may I
not suggest for a moment that a man's, an elder brother's, protection
and friendship would be in the same scale with all your affectionate
efforts on their behalf, and might be useful, at least to those dear
boys? Will you consider it, and not decide against me at once?"
"No, Mr. Penwald; I am fully convinced of my duty. These orphans are
suddenly deprived of their best and dearest friends; they will need,
for years, a home, and love, and a watchful, tender monitor ever at
hand. I could not fulfil other duties to you and your people, and be
mother, sister, friend to these friendless ones. Your way to serve me
and them must be in earnest prayer for God's blessing upon us all."
"Is there not some other objection?" he urged. "It seems hard to see
you devote youth and talents that are suited to a wider sphere, in
which God would honour your service for His sake, to these children who
some day will follow their own wills, and perhaps grieve and disappoint
you."
"It may indeed be so," replied Myra, "but I shall have the
consciousness of having done my best while I could; and that to no
wilful neglect or indifference of mine, the sorrowful end will have to
be traced. But, indeed," she added, looking up more cheerfully, "'I
hope for better things."
"But you have not answered my question, Miss Sherwood. I have sometimes
thought, or feared, that your cousin Frank—"
"Oh, Mr. Penwald," cried Myra, interrupting him, "can you think me so
mean, so cowardly, as to cloak a real reason under an assumed one, and
such an one? No, I love Frank dearly, as another brother, and was about
to ask you to continue your kind watchfulness over him for his own and
my dear aunt's sake; for she is often anxious about him. If there were
any such objection, I would in sincerity and candour have told you, as
only due to you for the honour you have done me. Please let us forget
all that has now passed."
"Forgive me, Miss Sherwood," he said, as she rose and began to put away
her sketch-book; "I was unjust in my bitter disappointment. Yet the
more I contemplate this decision, and envy the lot of these favoured
children, the more I feel how difficult may be your path, young as you
are, to burden yourself, unaided, with such a charge."
"Look here, Mr. Penwald," said Myra, taking a little book from her
satchel, and pointing to a passage in it; "this is my help, strength,
comfort, and confidence; and this also."
The paragraphs ran thus:
"'Fear thou not, for I am with thee; be not dismayed, for I am thy God:
I will strengthen thee, yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee
with the right hand of My righteousness.'
"'Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on Thee,
because he trusteth in Thee. Trust ye in the Lord for ever; for in the
Lord Jehovah is everlasting strength.'"
"Thank you for this lesson, Miss Sherwood; it may do me good service
through many an hour of solitude and duty. I shall not accept the
charge that has been offered to me; for, only helped and blessed with a
true-hearted Christian wife, could any man fulfil its requirements and
sustain its responsibilities."
"Will you not then be a minister of Christ's gospel?" asked Myra
anxiously.
"I do not say that," he replied, gratified at the proof of interest
in his future; "there are other fields of usefulness, and as it has
pleased God to give me some facility in acquiring languages, I may
devote myself to the claims of our Indian fellow-subjects. I will try
to put all into our Lord's hands as you have done, and accept my work
as He may see fit to appoint it. Will you care to hear what becomes of
me?"
"Always, Mr. Penwald," said Myra frankly; "your friendship for me is
not thrown away. I shall hear of you as an honoured servant of the Lord
Jesus; and it will stimulate me to try and keep up with you in the
Christian race."
Mr. Penwald saw the party to their cottage, and then took a hasty
leave, to the great regret of the children.
Myra went to her room, and sat down to try and calmly review the events
of the last few hours.
A happy path of usefulness and interest had been opened before her,
and she had refused to walk in it. Just the friend with the strong
manly arm she needed had come to her, and she had rejected its support.
She had turned from affection and sympathy, with much that makes life
attractive to a young, warm, womanly heart, to toil, and endure, and
walk alone. Oh, why had the knowledge of this come too late? Could not
the Lord, who "makes all things work together for good to them that
love Him," have caused Mr. Penwald to declare his wish before she left
Italy, or rather, before the terrible news from England came? She might
then have been honourably and religiously bound to him by an earlier
promise.
Assuredly, the wise, omniscient God could have done so, but He did
not. Was she His only care? Had He not pointed out to her, in His
providence, the way in which she was to serve Him?
Oh yes; it was all right, quite right. And she was glad that she had
not known Mr. Penwald longer, and that he would always be her friend.
"This," she thought, "is not providence! This is a temptation to turn
out of the way of providence; and I thank Thee, O God, for 'grace to
help in time of need.' With Thee to watch over and care for me, I shall
be safe and happy in Thy way. What endless perplexity and care may be
avoided by conscientious obedience to a judgment formed in faith and
prayer before Thee, desiring only to honour Jesus and His truth! All
is right and well, and now no more 'ifs,' no weak regrets, no foolish
sentimentality."
Noble and true principle! How few act up to even their own standard!
How many, accepting the decisions of selfishness, call tempting
circumstances providences, and when time or events reveal the error,
blame God for not having compelled them to act wisely!
Surely we too frequently forget that Satan and our own hearts have a
bond of union against all real providences that lie in the path of
anything self-denying and disagreeable. And if heavenly wisdom were
prayerfully sought, we should oftener detect the imposture and avoid a
temptation, instead of bemoan a "providence."
Myra soon succeeded in amusing the children from their regret at the
departure of such an agreeable playfellow, excepting only Harry, who
was unusually restless and dull. Once, he suddenly threw his arms round
his sister, and kissed her passionately, and then ran away. At another
time, he would sit gazing at her with a dreamy look in his eyes, and
speak absently if the others claimed his attention.
Myra was perplexed with his manner, until by degrees it wore off, and
gave place to a gentle, thoughtful attention to her wants or wishes,
which was very winning, and, from the rather rough, boisterous boy,
extremely surprising.
But Harry's pent-up feelings made to themselves a safety-valve, before
subsiding thus:
"I say, Florrie, I want you to come a long walk with me. Ask Myra if we
may go to that old castle."
Leave being given, and pockets filled with biscuits, they set off, Myra
promising to bring the other children to meet them on their return.
"I want to tell you something, Florrie, if you'll promise me that you
will never tell any one again, not Myra, nor Margaret, nor anybody;"
and Harry looked very mysterious and solemn.
Florence was nearly two years older than her brother, but delighted
to be his chief companion and friend, and was usually in all his
confidences. To his surprise, therefore, she hesitated now.
"I like to tell Myra everything," she said; "I don't want any secrets
from Myra."
"Well, but you won't want to tell her this. Promise, Florrie; I can't
keep it any longer to myself. I want somebody to talk to about it, and
it is as much to you as to me."
"Well, Harry, I promise, only on condition that it is no harm, and that
there is no need to tell any one."
"Well, Florrie, do you know that Mr. Penwald—did you like him very
much?"
"Very much, indeed," said Florrie; "I never saw any one so nice."
"So did I like him very much, but what do you think of his wanting to
take away Myra to live in some grand parish, and help him to do good?"
"Did he, Harry? How do you know?" asked his sister, in great
astonishment.
"Never mind that. I know it is true; and she wouldn't go because of
us. She said she had devoted herself to the care of her brothers
and sisters, and nothing could make her alter, or leave us. Then I
remembered what you said about that text, you know—'the same yesterday,
to-day, and for ever.' So, if the religion of Jesus made her come to
us, it is making her stay with us, you see; and she wants to be like
Him."
"That she does," said Florence; "but, Harry dear, how did you come
to know this? Neither of them would tell you; and perhaps you may be
mistaken."
"I am not mistaken. Look here, Florrie; they were sitting under that
old tower, and I—" poor Harry's face grew very red—"I was inside it. I
got in from the other side, and there's a big hole, where some stones
have tumbled out, and so I heard what they said."
[Illustration: "I HEARD WHAT THEY SAID."]
"Oh, Harry!" exclaimed Florence, with wide open eyes and flushed face.
"I am so ashamed of you. How could you do such a thing? What would Myra
say?"
"She will never know, unless you tell her; and you won't do that. And
it has made me love her dearly."
"I shall not tell her, of course, but I do think it is a wrong
thing that you did; mean, shameful. You will listen some day and
hear something about yourself that you won't like," said Florrie
contemptuously.
"I don't care; I am not sorry, so I shall not pretend to be. I took it
into my head that he wanted to take her away, and I was determined to
find out for myself; so I came back to the castle, while you all went
to the river, and I found that hole made on purpose for me."
"I can't bear to think of you doing such a thing, Harry; don't you know
that there is nothing so mean and low as—"
"There, that is enough about it," said Harry impatiently, "but this is
the bad part of it to me,—what if she would have liked to go with him,
and yet for our sakes refused to do it?"
"Perhaps she would like," said Florence thoughtfully; "he is so nice, I
think she ought to like."
"Very well, then, don't you see that it is just what we read this
morning,—
"'Whosoever will come after Me, let him deny himself, and take up his
cross and follow Me'?
"She is denying herself, and we are her cross, depend upon it, and
that's horrid; I can't bear it. Let us beg her to send us to a
boarding-school, or anything."
"Did Mr. Penwald try to persuade her?"
"Yes, for a little while, but he is a manly fellow, and wouldn't go on
begging her to do what she thought would be wrong."
"And do you think she would let us persuade her, when he couldn't,
Harry? Oh, I am very sorry if we are a cross, but what should we do
without her? Ever since she came, I have felt so different; she cares
for us, and we can trust her. Oh, Harry, don't try to alter it now."
"I would if I thought it would be of any use," said Harry, "but I
suppose you are right, she will do what the Lord Jesus has given her to
do for Him; and perhaps she wouldn't be happy any other way."
"And we may prevent ourselves from being a very hard cross, you know,
Harry, by trying to please her and help her, and by loving her more
than even Mr. Penwald could. You know she is not 'his' sister."
"Well, I am sure I shall do all I can for her, but, Florrie, do you see
how disagreeable and rude Margaret and Leonard are sometimes? It makes
me all in a boil to hear them. Elsie is very good, that's a comfort."
"Let us set them a good example about everything, Harry; and perhaps
you can be of some use to Leonard. We must all make Myra as happy as we
can. I almost wish Margaret could know what you told me, it might make
her better."
"Not for the world, Florrie; don't you dare to tell her, because of
course he, Mr. Penwald, wouldn't like—"
"No, of course he wouldn't," said Florence. "I am glad you are a little
ashamed of yourself, Harry; so now never do such a thing again."
"I shan't want to," said Harry; "we shall never see Mr. Penwald again,
Florence. If Myra doesn't mind, I'll try not to mind too."
Whether Myra "minded" they never knew, for her gentle, loving ways and
cheerful spirit betrayed no sign to them.
———————