QUIET CONVERSE.
“I think that Sunday is the dullest day in the week,” exclaimed Vincent,
stretching himself with a weary yawn; “and a wet Sunday is the worst of
all.”
Clemence put down the book which she had been reading, and joined
Vincent at the window, where he was drearily watching the raindrops
plashing on the brown pavement, making circles in the muddy pools, and
coursing each other slowly down the panes. She seated herself beside
him, resting her arm on the back of his chair.
“Some people speak of enjoying Sunday,” pursued Vincent. “I’m certain it
is nothing but talk. I know Aunt Selina said that she did so one day
when our clergyman was making a call. I know that what she does on
Sunday is to notice the dress of everybody at church, and find fault
with the sermon, and talk over all the plans for the week. I don’t see
much enjoyment in that.” Nor did Clemence; but she thought it better not
to express her opinion.
“Do you enjoy Sunday?” asked Vincent, turning round, so that he could
look his step-mother in the face.
“Yes; especially Sundays in the country.”
“Where’s the difference between Sundays in London and Sundays in the
country?” asked Vincent.
Here was an opening for pleasant, familiar converse, and Clemence was
not slow in availing herself of it. She talked of her school at Stoneby;
gave interesting anecdotes of her girls; told of an aged, bed-ridden
woman, who loved to receive a call every Sunday afternoon, always
expecting that her visitor would repeat to her the leading points in the
morning’s sermon. Greatly had Clemence missed her accustomed Sabbath
labours of love, her husband having decidedly objected to her
undertaking any such in the great metropolis. It was sweet to her now to
recall them; and in Vincent, who was thoroughly weary of his own
society, she found a willing listener.
“I can fancy that it must be pleasant going to the cottages, where every
one is glad to see you,” said the boy; “but then there are the long,
tiresome evenings, especially during the winter; how did you manage to
get over them?”
“I sang hymns, and read a good deal.”
“Oh, but Sunday books are so dull.”
“Do you think so? I find some so interesting.”
“I never saw one yet which did not set me yawning before I had got
through half a page.”
Clemence went to the book-case without replying, and returning with a
volume of the “History of the Reformation,” resumed her seat by Vincent.
“Would you like to hear a story?” she said, after turning to an
interesting passage in the life of Luther.
“A story, yes; but I don’t want a sermon.”
Clemence read with animation and expression, and Vincent speedily became
interested. The history naturally led to questions from the intelligent
boy, which his step-mother readily answered. He was unconsciously
drinking in information upon one of the most important of subjects.
“How odd it is,” exclaimed Vincent suddenly, “that I should ever have
taken you for a Papist!”
“A Papist!” repeated Clemence in a little surprise.
“Why, Aunt Selina told us that your grandmother was a Frenchwoman.”
“And so she was, but not a Romanist.”
Vincent’s countenance fell. “So you’re partly French, after all,” cried
he; “I’m sorry for that, for I hate the French.”
“Should we hate anything but sin?” said Clemence softly.
“I’m a regular John Bull!” cried Vincent, “and I don’t care if all the
world knew it! Britannia for ever, say I!”
“You cannot love old England better than I do,” said Clemence; “but
patriotism is one thing, and prejudice another.”
“What do you call prejudice?” asked Vincent.
“The determination to dislike some one or something before judgment has
had time to decide whether it merit your dislike or not. Surely this is
neither reasonable nor right!”
“I think that we were prejudiced against you,” said Vincent
thoughtfully—“that is, before we knew you, and perhaps some of us after
we had known you. We did not wish to like you; only, you see, we really
could not help ourselves,” and the boy looked up archly into the blue
eyes that met his gaze so kindly.
“Prejudice,” observed Clemence, “prevents our seeing objects as they
actually are.”
“I see, I see,” said Vincent quickly; “prejudices are like the knots in
the glass of one of our windows at school. They alter the shape of
everything that we choose to look at through them; they make straight
things crooked, and nothing distinct—even your face would look quite
ugly only seen through that glass.”
“One would not wish to have one’s mind full of such knots,” said
Clemence, smiling at the schoolboy’s smile.
“I think that _your_ glass is all rosy-coloured!” cried Vincent, “and
that makes you look at every one kindly. But Aunt Selina don’t deserve
it of you. Do you know what she said of you once?”
“I have no wish to hear it, dear Vincent.”
“Something about idolatry, which was not at all true; and she said—I did
not believe a word of it!—that there is a natural leaning in our hearts
toward idolatry. That was downright nonsense, I know. Nobody has idols
in England.”
“I wish that I could think so,” replied Clemence.
“What! do you believe that there are any in this country?”
“I fear that there is scarcely a house in it that is really without one.
Idols, dear Vincent, are not merely lifeless figures of silver or gold,
such as the poor heathen worship; anything, everything that takes the
place of God in the heart,—anything, everything that is loved more than
Him is an idol, and brings on us the sin of idolatry.”
Vincent sat for a space very silent, revolving his step-mother’s words
in his mind, then said, “If that be the case, I think that there are
idols in this very house. Bella’s idol is Pride, Louisa’s is Pleasure,
Aunt Selina’s—”
“Hush!” said Clemence gravely, laying her hand on the arm of Vincent;
“it is worse than useless to find out the idols of our neighbours; our
duty is to search for our own. The same volume in which we read, _Judge
yourselves, brethren_, also bids us, in respect to others, _Judge not,
that ye be not judged_.”
“I don’t think that I have any idol,” said Vincent, after another pause
for reflection. Clemence Effingham remained silent.
“Do you think that I have?” said the boy.
“Are you willing to know, dear Vincent, or will you be vexed if I tell
you the truth?”
“I wish to know it,” replied Vincent.
“Then it appears to me, dear boy, as though you had hitherto made an
idol of Self-will. It appears to me that when any duty presents itself,
‘What do I like to do?’ not ‘What ought I to do?’ is usually your first
consideration. You are ready for any kind, generous, noble act, if it
accord with your own inclination; but if it run counter to that, duty is
sacrificed at once. Is not this putting Self-will in the place of the
law of God? is not this bowing to an idol that usurps the authority of
God?”
“I never had it put to me in that way before,” replied Vincent. “I
suppose that it was thinking of what _I liked_, instead of _what I ought
to do_, that made me disobey you by going on the ice, and cost that
noble old captain——but I do not like to speak of that,” said Vincent,
interrupting himself, “and it makes you look so sad. I wonder,” he cried
in an altered tone, “if you have an idol too, and if you try hard to put
it away?”
Before Clemence had time to reply to the bright-eyed boy, the door
opened, and Mr. Effingham entered. If the heart of Clemence enshrined an
idol—if there were one being whose love was almost more precious to her
than celestial hopes, whose approbation was almost more fondly sought
for than that of her Lord, that idol was before her now!
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