hour of miscellaneous gossip very creditably; at the end of which all
adjourned to the garden again, and strolled about in twos and threes
till the school children were dismissed and it was time for the visitors
to take their leave.
"What a relief!" exclaimed the colonel to his nephew, as they trotted on
side by side on their ride homewards.
"Well, it was dull work, uncle, I allow," said the young man, laughing.
"But these gatherings are, I suppose, useful and necessary, if people
are to keep up friendly acquaintance with one another, and do what is
civil and neighbourly."
"Yes, perhaps so," replied his uncle; "but such an afternoon is little
better than bondage and lost time--at any rate to a man of my colonial
habits. However, it has given me an opportunity of seeing more of the
young ladies at Holly House."
"And I am afraid, uncle, that you do not find them improve upon
acquaintance."
"Just so, Horace; they don't suit my taste at all."
"And yet, dear uncle, with all their dash, and _brusquerie_, and
fastness, they really are most kind-hearted and unselfish girls."
"Kind-hearted, I allow, but I doubt their unselfishness."
"But why, uncle? What would you have more? They certainly don't spare
themselves. They are here, there, and everywhere, when any good is to
be done, and think nothing of spending any amount of time and money in
making other people happy."
"True, Horace, but there is a pleasurable excitement in all this which
more than overbalances any trouble it may cost, especially when the
world's applause for their good deeds is thrown into the same scale."
"But," remonstrated the young man, in rather a disturbed and anxious
tone, "is not this dealing them a little hard measure? Where shall we
find anything that will deserve the name of unselfishness, if we weigh
people's actions too rigorously?"
"Ah! You think me severe and uncharitable, Horace. But now, it just
comes to this. What do the Misses Wilder and their brother (for I
suppose we must take him into consideration too), really forsake or give
up in order to do good? I don't pretend to know the private affairs of
the family generally, but certainly there are strong rumours afloat that
the maxim, `Be just before you are generous,' is not acted upon by the
young people in their money concerns. I allowed just now that they are
good-natured, but good-nature is a very different thing from
unselfishness. What personal gratification do they surrender in order
to do good? What worldly pleasure or amusement do they deny themselves?
What extravagance do they curtail?"
"I can't say much for them in that respect, certainly," replied the
young man thoughtfully; "indeed, I must frankly confess that I have
heard more than once from the eldest Miss Wilder the expression of her
hope and conviction that the united good deeds of the family would be
accepted, by the world at any rate, as a sort of atonement for follies
and excesses which clearly could not be justified in themselves."
"I can well believe it, my dear nephew: but I have something much
weightier to say on the subject, and it is this. There is manifestly
one great want in all the doings of these kind-hearted people at Holly
House, which would make me at once deny the character of unselfishness
to their best deeds."
"And what is that, dear uncle?"
"The stamp of the Cross, Horace. I know that there are plenty of
crosses about them,--crosses on their prayer-books, crosses round their
necks, crosses on their writing-cases and on their furniture; but _the_
Cross is wanting. In a word, they are not denying self, and seeking to
do good to others from love to that Saviour who gave up so much for
them. I know that they are not without religion in the eyes of the
world; but I cannot, I dare not believe that they are really actuated by
love to the great Master in what they may do to make others happy. Am I
wrong, Horace?"
"No, uncle, I cannot say that you are. Much as I like the girls on many
accounts, I should not be speaking my honest sentiments were I to say
that I believed them to be doing good to others from real Christian
motives. And yet--"
"Ah, my dear nephew, I know what you would say. I know that the world
would embrace such as these within its elastic band as among genuine
unselfish workers, though avowedly on a lower level than that adopted by
the true Christian. But, after all, can God, the searcher of hearts,
approve of anything as being truly unselfish which does not bear the
stamp of the Cross? And can anything of which he does not approve be a
reality?"
"I suppose not," said the other reluctantly. "Still, it is difficult
not to be dazzled by what looks like a reflection from the true Light;
and difficult, too, to detect a sham where we are willing to see a
reality."
"Very difficult," replied Colonel Dawson: "and yet the world abounds in
shams, and cant, and hypocrisy. The world commonly lays these things at
the door of religious professors; but the truth all the while is that
the sham, and the cant, and the hypocrisy are really in those who take
or gain credit for a character--unselfishness, for example--which is
only to be found in true Christians, and hold themselves back from that
genuine devotion, and self-sacrifice, and coming out to Christ, without
which their boasted and lauded excellences are nothing better than a
delusion and an empty name."
The young man did not reply, and the subject was dropped for the
remainder of the ride home.
CHAPTER SIX.
DUTY.
Mary Stansfield and Grace Willerly were sitting together, about three
weeks after the above conversation, in an arbour in the garden attached
to Lady Willerly's house. Miss Stansfield had come to spend a day or
two by special invitation, by way of getting a little change, which she
much needed; her aunt having spared her without a murmur, and having
accepted the services of a former domestic in her place.
"How very kind of your aunt to spare you!" said Grace to her friend; "I
hardly expected it, knowing how much she depends upon you."
"Oh yes!" was the reply: "you cannot tell, dear Grace, what a wonderful
change has come over my dear aunt. And it is all owing, under God, to
the loving faithfulness of our kind friend Colonel Dawson. I scarcely
ever get a harsh word or a hard look now; and when I do, my aunt at once
calls me to her, and asks me to forgive her. Oh, is it not wonderful?
I am sure I blush with shame to think how little I deserve it."
"Yes, it is very wonderful, dear Mary. Certainly our new neighbour is a
most earnest and useful man; and he has shown his discernment, too, in
getting hold of yourself to work for him in Bridgepath. But I am afraid
you will find it very up-hill work; you'll want the strength of a horse,
the patience of Job, and the zeal of an apostle in such a place as
that."
"Certainly, I shall want the grace of an apostle," said the other
quietly; "but the work is very delightful, and is more than repaying me
already for any little trouble or self-denial it may cost me."
"It is very good of you to say so, Mary; I am afraid the work wouldn't
suit me. I don't mind making sacrifices--indeed, I think I can truly
say it is one of my chief pleasures to make them; but there must be
something very depressing in the jog-trot sort of work you are called on
to do. I don't mind anything, so long as it has a little bit of dash in
it; but I am afraid I should soon grow weary of a regular grind like
yours."
"Oh, but you are quite mistaken about my work at Bridgepath," said the
other, laughing. "There is nothing dull or monotonous about it; and it
is such a happiness to see the light of God's truth beginning to dawn on
dark and troubled hearts. And there is one particularly interesting
family--I mean John Price's. You have heard, I dare say, that he was
steward to the squire, and that he lost almost everything by his poor
master's extravagance. Poor man, he is bed-ridden now, and I fear had
little comfort even from his Bible, for he seemed to have learned little
from it but patience. But, oh! How he has brightened up, and his wife
and daughter, too, now that they have been led to see that it is their
privilege to work and suffer _from_ salvation instead of _for_
salvation."
"I don't understand you," interrupted Miss Willerly.
"Don't you? Oh, it makes all the difference. Poor John Price has been
reading his Bible, and bearing his troubles patiently, in the hope that
at the end he may be accepted and saved through his Saviour's merits.
That is what I mean by working _for_ salvation."
"And what else, dear Mary, would you have him do?"
"O Grace! This is poor work indeed, working in view of a merely
possible salvation. No! What he has learned now is to see that his
Saviour, in whom he humbly and truly believes, has given him a present
salvation; so that he, and his wife and daughter too, can now say, `We
love him, because he first loved us.' And so they work and suffer
cheerfully, and even thankfully, from love to that Saviour who has
already received them as his own. This is what I mean by working _from_
salvation. Surely we shall work more heartily for one of whom we know
that he _has_ saved us, than for one of whom we know only that he has
saved others, and may perhaps save us also in the end."
"I see what you mean, dear Mary, but I never saw it so before. Such a
view of God's love to us personally must take the selfishness out of our
good works, because what we do will be done just simply from love to
Christ. It is a beautiful way of looking at God's dealings with us."
"Yes, Grace; and as true and scriptural as it is beautiful. It is just
what God sees that we need, and furnishes us with the most constraining
motive to serve him, and to deny self in his service."
"I see it," said Miss Willerly sadly and thoughtfully, after a pause.
"I very much fear, dear Mary, that I have been greatly deceiving myself.
I have been just simply building up a monument to my own honour and
glory out of my heap of little daily crosses."
"Nay, dear Grace, you are dealing too severely with yourself."
"No, I think not. At any rate, I am sadly aware that not the love of
Christ, but the love of human applause, has been the constraining motive
in my acts of self-denial. I have made such a parade of my willingness
to thwart my own will that I might please others, so that while I should
have been startled to see a full-grown trumpeter at my side proclaiming
my unselfishness, I have all the while been keeping in my service a
little dwarf page, who has been sounding out my praises on his shrill
whistle."
"You judge yourself hardly, dear Grace; and yet, no doubt, self does
enter largely even into our unselfishness. I am sure I have felt it,
oh, how deeply! And specially just lately, since I have undertaken this
work at Bridgepath."
"You, dear Mary!"
"Yes, indeed. And I see now how wisely our heavenly Father ordered his
discipline in my case. There was indeed a `needs-be' in my dear aunt's
former harshness and irritability to me; but for that, and for her
disparaging remarks on my conduct, I might have been more self-seeking
than I am. But the discipline has been changed now, and I trust that
the chastisement has not been wholly in vain. What we all want, I am
sure, if we are to be true workers for God, is to lift our eyes from
self, and keep them steadily fixed on Him who has done so much for us."
"I am sure you are right," said the other. "I know I wish to do right,
and I feel a pleasure in crossing my own inclination when it will
gratify others; but then my inmost look has been to the world and its
approbation. `What will people say? What will people think?' or, at
any rate, `What will good people say and think?' this has been the
prominent thought in my heart, I fear."
"Well, dear Grace, I suppose this is so, more or less, with us all.
What we want, I think, and comparatively seldom find in these showy and
surface days, is a high sense of duty, so that we just act as duty
calls, let the world, or good people even, judge of us or speak of us as
they please."
"And yet, dear Mary, I think I see a little crevice through which self
may creep in even there. I have met some of your `duty' people who have
flung themselves so violently against the prejudices of society, or, at
any rate, of good people, crying out all the time, `Duty, duty! It
don't matter to us what the world thinks,' that they have given great
offence where they might have avoided giving any, and have set up
people's backs against what is good and true."
"I dare say you have met such, dear Grace, and I think you may be
talking to one of the class now," said Miss Stansfield, laughing; "at
least, my character and principles would naturally lead me in that
direction, for, of course, we are all disposed to carry out our own
views to an extreme, if we do not let common sense, enlightened by
grace, preserve a proper balance. But, spite of this, I still feel that
a high sense of duty in those who love our Saviour is the surest
preservative against being carried away by a subtle selfishness, and is
the making of the finest and most truly self-denying characters. If I
am manifestly in the path of duty, what matters it what is said of me,
or who says it? I may then go forward, not, indeed, arrogantly or
defiantly--that would be unlike the great Master--but yet firmly and
confidently, and God will set me right with the world and with his
people in his own good time."
"Ah! I believe you are right," said her friend, with a sigh. "I wish
there were more of such true unselfishness amongst us; I wish I were
such a character myself."
"And so you are, dear Grace, in the main. No one can possibly doubt
your genuineness and sincerity. You have only just to step up on to the
higher platform, and, as your heart's gaze becomes more fixed on a
Saviour known and loved, you will cease to think about how your self-
denial looks in the eyes of others, and will feel the cross which you
carry after Christ in the path of duty to be easy and his burden light."
"I shall not forget our conversation on this subject," said Miss
Willerly with tears in her eyes. "I always thought that I hated
selfishness, but now I see that I have been blinded to my own. I
suppose it is very difficult for us to see it in ourselves as it really
is, especially in these days when there are so many attractive forms of
self-denial. It occurred to me the other day what an odd thing it would
be to see how a number of utterly selfish people would get on if thrown
together for some weeks, with not a single unselfish person amongst
them, and unable to get rid of one another's company. I feel sure the
result would teach an admirable lesson on the misery of a thoroughly
selfish disposition."
"I think so too, Grace," said her companion, much amused. "What do you
say to putting a story or allegory together on the subject."
"Capital!" cried Miss Willerly; "it will be something quite in my line I
will set about it at once. I shall be able to give myself some very
seasonable raps on the knuckles as I go on, and perhaps I may be of use
to some of my acquaintance, who might be induced to look through my
performance in a friendly way."
"You must let me be the first to see it," said her friend.
"Oh, certainly; and you must give me your free and candid criticisms."
"Yes, I will do so; and I don't doubt I shall find profit in the reading
of it, and a little bit of myself in more than one of your characters."
A fortnight after this conversation Miss Stansfield received from her
friend the promised story, which we give in the following chapter.
CHAPTER SEVEN.
THE SELFISH ISLANDS.
A certain Eastern despot, whose attention had been painfully drawn to
the odious character of selfishness, by finding it exhibited in a very
marked manner towards himself by some who had, in looking after their
own interests, ventured to thwart the royal will, was resolved to get
rid of all the most selfish people out of his capital. To that end he
made proclamation that on a certain day he would give a grand banquet to
all the _un_selfish people in the metropolis, nothing being needed for
admittance to the feast but the personal application of any one laying
claim to unselfishness to the lord chancellor for a ticket.
The king took this course under the firm conviction that all the most
selfish people, being utterly blinded by self-esteem to their own
failing, would be the very persons most ready to claim admittance to the
banquet; and in this expectation he was not disappointed. But he was a
little staggered to find that about a thousand persons, of both sexes
and of nearly all ages, applied at the office for tickets of admission
and many of them such as had not made their appearance in public for
many long years past. Thus, when the feast-day came, bed-ridden men and
women arrived at the palace dressed out in silks and satins; gouty men
hobbled in without their crutches; and multitudes who had long been
incapacitated from doing anything but try the patience of their friends
and indulge their own whims, made no difficulty of appearing among the
guests. And it was strange, too, to see at the king's table delicate
ladies and chronic invalids, who were never met with at places of
worship or benevolent meetings, because the cold or the heat, or their
nerves or their lungs made it a duty for them to be keepers at home.
There were also present about two hundred spoilt children, whose mothers
considered them to be "dear unselfish little darlings," and about an
equal number of young ladies and young gentlemen, whose chief delight
had consisted in spending their fathers' money, and studying their own
sweet persons in the looking-glass.
Of course, the company behaved with due decorum at the banquet,
especially as the king did them the honour of sitting down to table with
them, the only exception being on the part of the spoilt children, whom
not even the presence of royalty itself could restrain from personal
encounters over the more attractive-looking dishes.
The banquet over, the king rose and thus addressed his astonished
guests:--
"I have ascertained from my lord chancellor, whose secretary took down
the names and addresses of you all when you applied for your tickets,
that he has made careful inquiry into your several characters, and finds
that you all belong to a class of persons who greatly trouble our city.
You have accepted my invitation professedly as unselfish people, but
your estimate of yourselves is the very reverse of that which is held by
those who know you best. I have therefore resolved, for the good of the
community generally, to transport the whole of you, for a period of six
months, to the uninhabited island of Comoro, situate in the midst of the
great lake, where you will find ample means for living in health, peace,
and comfort, provided you are all and each willing to lay aside your
selfishness, and to find your happiness in living for the good of
others. And I trust that at the end of the six months, when steamers
shall call for you at Comoro, you may all be spared to return to your
homes improved in character, more useful members of society, and more
fitted to contribute to the real prosperity of this kingdom."
Without waiting for a reply, which was not indeed attempted by any of
the guests--for they remained for some moments speechless with
amazement--the king retired from the banqueting hall; and the lord
chancellor, motioning with his hand for attention, proceeded to state
that each of the guests would be expected to be at the station on a day
and at an hour specified on a ticket which each would receive; and that
every one would be allowed to take with him or her a reasonable but
limited amount of personal luggage, but no furniture or heavy and bulky
articles. Steamers would be in readiness, at the Lakeside Terminus, to
convey the passengers and their goods to the island; and, as no one
would be permitted to decline the journey--for all knew that the king's
will was law--the guests would best consult their own interests and
comfort by preparing for the removal with as little delay as possible.
Having made this statement, the lord chancellor withdrew, leaving the
company staring one at another in blank dismay. What was to be done?
Nothing but to make the best of it; as for resistance, all knew that it
would be useless, and remonstrance equally so. Even the infirm and
sickly could hope for no exemption; for as their maladies had not
hindered their attendance at the banquet, these could not be now
admitted as a plea for excusing them from the removal. Many, indeed, of
the young people were highly delighted with the prospect before them,
especially the children, who were anxious to be off for Comoro there and
then. As for their elders, they retired from the palace with varied
feelings; some indignant, some conscience-stricken, and most prepared to
lay the blame on some one or more of their neighbours. Indeed, two old
gentlemen, who had been lodgers on different floors in the same house
for years, but, in consequence of an old quarrel, had never spoken to
one another for the greater part of that time, now blocked up one of the
exits from the palace, as they stood face to face, furiously charging
each other with being the guilty cause of the terrible calamity which
had now fallen on themselves and on so many of their fellow-citizens.
And now the day of departure had arrived, and the trains for the lake
were duly filled with passengers; not, however, till many heartrending
scenes had occurred in connection with the luggage. Two young ladies,
bosom friends, having hired a van to convey their joint wardrobe and
other ornamental effects to the station, were informed, to their tearful
despair, that only about one-tenth of the goods could be conveyed to the
island. Similarly, three or four fast young men entered the train in a
state of desperation bordering on collapse, because the officials had
peremptorily turned back a stud of hunters and half-a-dozen sporting
dogs. But the most exciting scene of all occurred in the case of an old
maiden lady, who, having brought a cart-load of personal necessaries and
comforts, which were positively essential to her continued existence,
and having been firmly refused the transmission of the greater part of
them, declared with the utmost positiveness that the lord chancellor had
himself expressly informed all the guests at the banquet that each was
at liberty to take an unlimited quantity of goods; nor could any
explanation convince her of her mistake. Let them say what they
pleased, she had heard the word _un_limited with her own ears: and
hearing was believing. The last case which caused any serious
difficulty, and which really excited the pity of the porters, was that
of an elderly gentleman unfortunate enough to be troubled with a liver,
who changed various colours when informed that he must leave behind him
an iron-bound box containing some four or five hundredweight of patent
and other medicines.
At length, all the trains having reached the Lakeside Terminus, the
entire party of temporary exiles were duly and speedily conveyed in
steamers to the island of Comoro, where they were put on shore with
their goods.
The climate of the island was delightful, and subject to but few
variations, so that nothing was to be feared by the new-comers from
inclemency of weather. Care had been also taken by the lord chancellor,
to whom the carrying out of the details had been committed, that a
sufficient number of tents should be ready for the use of those who
chose to avail themselves of them, while building materials and tools
had been duly provided, as well as an ample store of provisions.
When the last steamer had discharged its passengers and cargo,
proclamation was made by a herald that a commissioner from the king
would visit Comoro once a month, to hear any complaints and record any
misconduct; and that those who should be found guilty of any grave
offence would receive condign punishment at the close of the term of
banishment.