SISTERS' LOVE.
WHAT was to become of Leonard when his term of imprisonment should end,
was a subject of grave consideration at home.
A true friend had been found in the chaplain, whose instructions had
been made useful to many a before hopeless wreck on the turbulent tide
of crime, and he thought that the boy's sullen spirit was greatly
subdued and softened.
He expressed an earnest wish to go abroad immediately on his
liberation, and sent to his uncle a request, as the last he should ever
make, that he would do whatever was in his power to facilitate that
design.
On the appointed day, Mr. Haynes was waiting for him with a suit of
clothes to replace the prison dress, and drove away to the railway
station.
"Am I going to a ship?" asked Leonard humbly. "Shall I see any of them
before I go?"
"Yes, Leonard; you are to have time to consider what you really wish to
do, and feel able to do."
"I am determined to go and try my fortune in some other country. No
one would trust me or believe me here. Besides, I don't want to be a
disgrace to anybody."
"That you have been as far and as completely as you could," said Mr.
Haynes; "but, Leonard, we profess, and I trust possess, something that
constrains us to forgive the past, and to hope for the future, unless
you wilfully deprive us of the opportunity."
"I expect, of course, that you must all give me up," said Leonard.
"My boy, you have an immortal soul to be saved, and a life, perhaps of
many years, to live, during which its fate must be decided. Can it be a
matter of indifference to us how that life is to be spent, whether in
hasting to destruction, or as a servant of Christ pressing forward to
His kingdom?"
"If anybody cares what becomes of me, I will do whatever they think
best, only I must get away as soon as possible," said Leonard, with an
effort to control his evidently touched feelings.
"Uncle," he suddenly asked, after a while, "where are we going?"
"Home," said Mr. Haynes.
"Home!—To my sisters?—To Myra?" exclaimed Leonard. "Oh no, don't take
me there; I cannot bear it."
"It is Myra's wish. She would have come for you, but I gladly spared
her the journey."
The boy bent his head, and tears strayed down his flushed face.
Mr. Haynes took no notice.
And when he had recovered a little, Leonard muttered,—
"I behaved shamefully to Myra; she would have led me on to good, and
saved me from mischief, but I defied and disobeyed her. Margaret
deserves all the shame and vexation she has suffered, for she helped me
to go wrong, and taught me to dislike Myra."
"Leonard, you do not know what Margaret has suffered, but she is
penitent and pardoned, and is as worthy of your love as Myra herself.
Your reproaches nearly cost her life and reason, and you must be
careful how you try to transfer your own responsibility to her. You
knew right from wrong as well as she did, and the same love and prayer
and instruction were over you both."
It was no gala day at the cottage, for anxiety about the tone of mind
and the future of the culprit occupied every heart. But a quiet and
affectionate reception awaited him, and he received Myra's kiss of
welcome with quivering lip and tearful eyes.
At first, he shrank from much intercourse with any of the home party,
but it soon became impossible to resist the winning kindness that
surrounded him, and Margaret's tenderness utterly astonished him. His
two years' growth into a tall, strong youth was not more marked to her
than were her altered demeanour and conversation to him. She courted
his attention, walked with him, read with him, and showed such anxious
longing for his confidence and affection that he soon yielded himself
to her influence, and sought her advice and opinion.
Myra saw all this with joy and thankfulness, but as yet she was not
fully aware of Margaret's motive.
"When do you think I shall go, Margaret?" he one day asked. "I cannot
stay here in idleness much longer."
"It is not idleness to rub up your old studies," said Margaret; "but
we are waiting for a letter from Frank Somers. You know he went to New
Zealand some time ago, and I have kept up a correspondence with him on
your behalf. He has settled on some occupation for you there, and his
next letter will tell us all about it. You will be content to begin
humbly, dear Leonard, and work your way up to trust and independence."
"Of course I must, and I shall try; but, Margaret, could Mr. Somers
have sufficient confidence to recommend me to any one?"
"He is going to try you himself, Leonard; he has purchased land, and
is doing something with it which his letters will explain, and you are
to attend to his interests there. Oh, Leonard, you will not disappoint
us all?" And as she leaned on his arm, she looked imploringly into his
face.
"No," said he, meeting her look with a kiss and a flush of feeling; "it
is something to be trusted once more. It is very kind of Frank, very
kind of you all. You are so altered, Margaret; I never saw any one so
changed in my life."
Longer lives than Leonard's could testify to the same fact.
"It is God's mercy over me, Leonard. I was stubborn, proud,
self-willed, and He was obliged to strike a fearful blow to save me
from myself."
"You are like Myra now," said Leonard; "I suppose you have learned
her religion. I wish there may be some one like her in New Zealand to
remind me of it. You see, I cannot help knowing that I have been too
easily led, and am afraid it might be so again. If I had been true and
firm, those people—ah! but it is of no use to blame anybody but myself;
it was all my own fault."
Margaret listened eagerly to every word.
"Then you don't want to escape from us, Leonard? You would like home
influence still around you?"
"Of course I should, Margaret; but I must do my best without it. You
see, a fellow among strangers, without any one to care for him at home,
may get into many a temptation, and I don't know yet how I may stand
it. Perhaps Mr. Somers may know of some family that would have me; we
shall see."
"Oh that you may learn to depend on God, and be strong in His strength,
dear brother, and able to say, 'My Father, Thou art the guide of my
youth'! Leonard, answer me now truthfully, would you like me, poor
Margaret, to go with you?"
"You!" exclaimed Leonard, in amazement. "Yes, of all things I should;
but, nonsense! it cannot be. What made you put such a thought into my
head?"
"Because, if you like it, I shall go," said Margaret quietly. "We shall
make a home for each other." And, withdrawing from him, she ran away
to the house, leaving the youth dumb with surprise, and yet scarcely
comprehending that the support he needed was to be so generously
supplied.
"Who would have thought it possible to love Margaret as I love her
now?" pondered he. "How good and kind she is! No; I will not disappoint
them. At least I will be honest, and do my best to please them."
And, though lacking the best and highest motive, it was a merciful
sign, and to be right thankfully hailed, that the forbearing kindness
of friend; and the love of anxious sisters, should so take the helm,
and be allowed to steer in the right direction. The more he meditated
on the future just opening with promise and hope before him, the
stronger became his desire to retrieve his character.
"And I will never rest," he whispered to himself, "until I have repaid
all—all—Harry's and all."
And the resolution was a relief, and a step towards the restoration of
self-respect.
Happy was it for the boy that the religion of true charity pervaded the
lives and actions of his friends.
Margaret went in and sought Myra, with a countenance radiant with joy.
"Myra, dear sister, my prayer is granted; my brother loves and trusts
me," she eagerly began.
"I have seen it, dear Margaret, and rejoiced in it with you."
"But I have won his confidence with a great and special object, sister;
and now I throw myself upon you for its attainment. Myra, I must go
with Leonard, to be his friend and companion, and to make a home for
him in the world. I have taken pains to learn everything I could, and
I am able to teach those who may be glad of an English governess, so I
shall not be a burden to him. And I have begged Aunt Haynes to try and
get me a passage out as companion to some lady or children who may need
one. You consent, dear Myra? You will not oppose me?"
Myra drew the pleader to her arms, and fondly kissed the eager face.
"No, dearest; I too truly appreciate your design to oppose it for a
moment. It will be a sore trial to us to part with you, and so break
up our happy sisterhood, but it is right, and God will bless you. I
only ask that you let us arrange everything for you. Mr. Haynes and
I have judged it best to provide for Leonard's passage, rather than
risk intimacy with undesirable companions, and I shall not permit you
either 'to work your passage out.' You may remember once asking me to
pay some money for Leonard. It shall now be yours, dear Margaret; you
will accept it as your sister's parting gift, and you will have time to
decide on your future work when you reach the scene of action."
There was nothing but thanks to be spoken, for when Myra said a thing,
she meant it, and when she intended a thing, she did it. She was not
surprised at, nor wholly unprepared for, Margaret's decision, and
had already provided in a measure for the necessary expenses of an
emigration.
Myra had not been tried by poverty, and she had endeavoured to prevent
any of her brothers and sisters from ever feeling galled by dependence
upon her, but she could appreciate any desire they manifested for
self-reliant effort, and all she wished now was to secure for them the
most suitable and promising means of making that effort. Margaret's
talents were of no common class, and she had diligently cultivated
them; her piety was genuine and practical, and she was evidently fitted
for some post of active usefulness.
The anticipated letter from Frank Somers supplied all the information
required, and preparations were hurried forward in earnest.
Every one was resolved to "keep up" and sustain each other; the
cheerful view of things was dwelt on, and when all the party proceeded
to the place of embarkation to see the ship, and do what could be done
for the comfort of the young emigrants, none would have guessed at the
trials through which they had passed, nor the extent of the present
self-denials.
"Our last word, dearest Florence," said Margaret, as she laid her
head upon her sister's neck and clasped her close; "I have kept it
until last, that you may not refuse me. I have prayed to be a blessing
for Christ's dear sake to you all, and I feel that I shall be His
instrument to watch over Leonard and keep him right. You said his
future was so uncertain that you dreaded some further sin and disgrace,
and dared not involve another in the fearful risk. Will you now put
away that fear, Florence, and trust God for us and for yourself? Frank
is coming home to attend to his mother's affairs and his own; he is
needed, and I have encouraged him to come, and as soon as he can.
Promise me that you will put a happy end to his wanderings, and remove
the last load from my heart; promise me this, my darling Florence, and
I shall go away so happy."
"If Frank still wishes it, dear Margaret," whispered Florence,
beginning to take a still wider view of her sister's conduct, and more
highly than ever appreciating her noble self-surrender for the safety
and happiness of others.
* * * * * * *
One sunny day, when the sky was clear and the ocean calm (such a day as
the sad records of storm and wreck cause to be too much overlooked, as
if the grand sea ware all and always plotting terror and death), two
stately vessels came in sight of each other on the wide waters. Glasses
were in general requisition, and on the deck of the homeward-bound
stood a young man, watching with special interest the approaching
stranger.
"Who and what is she, captain?"
"An ocean monster," said the captain; "none other than the G— B—, of
Liverpool, passengers bound for Melbourne and Nelson. I thought we
should fall in with her somewhere; she is too huge a tub to be missed."
"Captain, you will let me have a boat? I have reason to think I have
friends on board of her."
The captain consented, and was not reluctant to pay the beautiful
"monster" a visit himself.
Soon both ships saluted and lay to. A boat skimmed the space between,
and Frank Somers's two hands were seized by Margaret and Leonard, as he
sprang on to the spacious deck.
A few brief minutes—oh, for words that would convey volumes! But there
was no time to select them.
"All is ready and straightforward for you, Leonard," said Frank,
looking earnestly at the tall, strong youth, from whose countenance
clouds had been gradually clearing, until it strongly resembled that
of the fair girl beside him. "I have been writing a whole bookful of
directions and advice ever since we sailed; here it is. And, Margaret,
you are not going to a cannibal island; some good kind people are ready
to welcome you, and look forward with pleasure to your arrival."
"Oh, Frank, how much you have done for us! How can we ever be grateful
enough?" said Margaret.
"Margaret," said Frank softly, "you told me you would leave behind you
the only reward I covet. I have worked selfishly, I own; how is it to
be?"
"Just all you wish, dear, kind brother," said Margaret, with a joyous
smile. "Elsie will represent me, and I shall be with you in spirit,
blessing God for your happiness."
Frank's beaming face and grateful words satisfied Margaret for her
sister, and she resumed:
"And Myra, our loved, devoted Myra, oh, be very careful of her, dear
Frank. She can never be prized too much, and she never thinks of
herself. Harry is still abroad, and you will be a brother to her until
he comes home?"
Too soon the short interview, so unexpected, so cheering and
satisfactory, must end. So they shook hands again and again.
The boat struck off; cheers, loud and long, mingled from both decks,
hats and handkerchiefs waved; again the engines thumped and steamed
away, and eyes watched until each to the other was a speck on the sea,
bearing hopes, lives, fortunes, to their respective destinations.
And then, to the young emigrants, the last link with Old England seemed
broken.
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