STUMBLING-BLOCKS.
MRS. LIVESEY'S children were naturally delighted at her return, and
full of eager curiosity about the contents of her many boxes and
parcels. Their joy was, however, much sobered when they found that
mother's coming meant Sarah's going, and that without delay.
The past month had been a very happy one to them all, for Mrs.
Livesey's deputy had ruled by love. Sharp words and accompanying sharp
slaps had become things of the past. Sarah being young, and yet the
eldest of a tribe of brothers and sisters, well knew how to occupy and
amuse her juniors when indoors.
While at Adam Livesey's, she brought all her powers to bear for the
benefit of the children, who had hitherto been left pretty much to
their own devices in this line. But Sarah taught them merry little
games, or to lisp nursery rhymes and accompany them to suitable
actions, making herself, for the time, the biggest child of them
all. Often the cottage rang with laughter, in which Sarah's could be
distinguished no less hearty than the rest. Before bedtime her sweet
voice would lead theirs in some simple hymn, fitted to their childish
minds. She was care-taker, friend and playfellow all in one, and having
a large and loving heart, she became much attached to her little
charges.
Still she felt the trust a very serious one, but, as she told her Uncle
Richard, "It came upon me without seeking, and when there seemed to be
nobody else handy to fill the gap, I couldn't say 'No.' So I just ask
that He who gave me this work to do will, from day to day, give me the
will and the strength to do it well."
Sarah's heart glowed with joy and thankfulness when the time came for
her to give back her charge into the rightful hands—the cottage in good
condition, and its inmates safe and well. She was glad her duties were
over, but sorry to have to unclasp the little arms that clung round
her neck, whilst the lips covered her cheeks with kisses, or pleaded,
"Don't go, Sarah. Stop just till to-morrow."
"There's no room for me now, and you've got your mother back. Besides,
my mother wants me, and says our little Jack has cried many a time for
Sarah. I'll come and see you, never fear;" and so the warmhearted girl
tore herself away.
"It was nice," she told her own mother, "to see Mrs. Livesey look them
all over and the house too, and then turn to me and say, 'You've done
well by them. I don't know how to thank you.'"
Sweeter still was it for the young Christian to have the approval of
her own conscience, and to know that with the best powers she had she
had striven to benefit these children in higher things also. And so,
thanking God for His sustaining grace, the girl prayed that her labour
of love might not prove in vain in the future.
Adam Livesey told his wife how, week by week, his wages had been
carefully husbanded, and every penny accounted for to himself; and when
Sarah made her appearance the next morning, according to promise, Mrs.
Livesey was still more warm in her thanks and praises.
"Somebody will have a good wife when you get married, Sarah," she said;
and in the fulness of her heart, she bestowed a pretty necktie upon the
girl, and would have added a gift in money.
"I'll take the tie for a keepsake and thank you," replied Sarah. "But
please don't ask me to have any more money. I've had what I bargained
for regular, and I'm best paid in knowing that you and Mr. Livesey are
satisfied, and that nothing has happened to the children while their
mother was away."
The girl was firm, so Margaret could only repeat her thanks and tell
her to come in as often as she could, for she would never be made a
stranger of in that house.
When Sarah's back was finally turned, Mrs. Livesey sang her praises to
all whom it might concern.
"That Sarah Evans is worth her weight in gold. She's one of a thousand.
The first girl I ever knew to say 'No' to an extra five shillings,
specially when she was as well worth the pay as one penny is worth
another."
So on for twenty-four hours, and then—
It is a pity to have to tell it, but at the end of that period, Mrs.
Livesey changed her tune, and it came about in this way. The little
people missed Sarah, and said so. They even cried after her, and would
hardly be pacified, though they had new china mugs with "A Present from
Oldford," in gilt letters on one side, and their Christian names on the
other.
Gilt and white china mugs may be very pretty to look at, and treasures
to children who have few, but they cannot tell stories or join in
games, or comfort a little mite who has fallen down and bumped his
head. They cannot kiss away tears from baby faces, or coax back smiles;
and so, sadly missing Sarah, who did all these things, the youthful
Liveseys begged to have her back again. Finding this impossible, they
lifted up their voices and wept, to the surprise and indignation of
Mrs. Livesey.
Adam excused them to their mother, saying, "It's no wonder. The girl
has been so kind and gentle with them. I don't believe one of them has
had a slap or a cross word since you went away."
Adam made this remark very innocently, thinking only of the pleasure
a mother would feel in knowing that her children had been so tenderly
dealt with.
Sarah took it differently, and rather sharply echoed the last words,
"Since I went away! I suppose I'm the one to do the scolding and
slapping, then, when it is done. I'm beginning to see this, that I
might as well have stopped away altogether. It's 'Sarah did this,' and
'Sarah said that,' or 'taught the other,' till I'm beginning to feel as
if nobody but Sarah could do anything right for you all now."
Truly the mother had dropped into her own old ways without loss of
time, and more than one little hand and back had tingled under her
fingers before the night of that first day, even though the children
had been promised new garments and other good things. It was the old,
active, bustling, quick-spoken Margaret back again, as they were all
soon made to understand.
It was very natural for one innocent tongue after another to tell
what Sarah had done and taught. But much would have been better left
unspoken, for the effect produced was very unexpected.
A red spot became visible on Margaret's cheek, and her dark eyes had
an angry light in them as she said at length, "I don't want to hear
another word about Sarah, She has turned you all upside down while I've
been away. I'm obliged to her for what she's done in most ways, but I
don't want new fashions, so we'll go back to old ones."
As we already know, Mrs. Livesey was a warmhearted woman, who thought
nothing too much to do for her husband and children. Like most such,
she was quick-tempered and prone to jealousy, of a kind. She liked to
be first and foremost in her home and with those she loved, and could
ill bear to hear the praises of another.
She had been willing enough to give due credit to Sarah Evans, but she
wished to do all the praising herself. She was quick enough to see that
the girl had made her children very happy, and, with a strange mixture
of feeling, was grateful for the doing, yet annoyed that this should
have been the work of a mere stranger.
Conscience often pricked her for sharp ways and words. Her deputy's
experience proved that cleanliness, order, and obedience might be
maintained by joining kindness to firmness. Yet Mrs. Livesey could not
forgive Sarah for succeeding in things where she had so often failed.
From that day forward, she resolved that the memory of Sarah's rule in
the household should be blotted out as rapidly as possible. In time she
succeeded so far as to keep the children from talking about her, and
when the young woman came to the house, she so managed that, without
showing her any incivility, she prevented the girl from wishing to
repeat the visit.
A busy time followed Mrs. Livesey's return. The active mother knew no
rest until she had the pleasure of seeing her husband in new garments,
her children's wardrobes renovated, her house re-arranged to suit the
additions made in the way of furniture.
Then she looked with pride and satisfaction after little Maggie as she
went off to the Sunday school between Jessie and Alice Mitchell, and
said, "There! I can send my girl out as nice as her neighbours. I've
got the desire of my heart at last."
How fared it with Adam in the meanwhile?
If the truth must be told—not over-well. In the old days, if any one
had said that more than eight shillings per week would be added to the
family income, Adam would have been quite certain that nothing but good
could be the result of the increase.
After a short experience, he was not quite so sure.
Margaret had nothing beyond human resolutions and human strength to
enable her to bear this sudden prosperity with meekness. She was
hardly the one to do it. She was, as her husband told Richard Evans in
confidence, "a bit set up."
She was proud that the money had come from her side. She was a little
self-willed in the use of it, and, seeing that she had never consulted
her husband about the application of his own earnings, she did not ask
his advice as to spending what was, she considered, doubly her own.
She had one or two rash plans for laying out a portion of the capital
so as to bring in more interest, but fortunately Mr. Collinge persuaded
her to let the money stay where it was, on a well-secured mortgage at
five per cent.
Taking all things together, Adam began to doubt whether, whilst the bit
of money might have added to their bodily comfort, it had increased the
happiness of his little household. After six months' experience, he
came to the conclusion that things had gone rather the other way, and
Margaret and he hardly pulled as comfortably together as of old.
Adam, poor fellow, thought he and his wife only needed to meet again,
and then he would be able to commune with her of all that was in his
heart. He tried to tell her about that first night at the Mission Room,
when he learned some of the value of his soul, and of the price paid
for its redemption. He was full of his subject, but he soon found it
hard to speak to one who seemed neither to understand nor to sympathise
with him.
He almost doubted whether she heard him, for she made short answers
that did not mean anything, she yawned, looked about her, and finally
started up before he had finished with the question, "Is that baby
crying?" And though Adam could hear no childish voice, she went to see
if all were right, and did not come back until long afterwards. He was
thankful that she allowed all the children who were old enough to go to
the Sunday school.
"It gets them nicely out of the way, Adam, and saves their clothes too,
which is another good thing."
The best thing of all, the teaching and training, the feeding of those
whom the risen Saviour called "My lambs," was entirely overlooked.
Once or twice Margaret accompanied Adam to church. But she seemed to
take little interest in the service, and felt, as she said, "quite
strange now." So, after having exhibited herself and her husband in
their new apparel, and derived but little satisfaction therefrom, she
decided to stay at home, as a regular thing, and rest on Sundays.
"I've got out of the way of going to church," she said. "I'm most
comfortable at home, as a good wife should be, Adam," And Margaret
laughed as if she had said something clever.
In her younger days, Margaret lived for some years in a country place,
and in speaking of it she said: "There was some pleasure in going to
church where you knew everybody. In a great place like Millborough you
go and see only strange faces. Nobody speaks to you, or takes a bit of
notice. I'm more comfortable at home. I've got into another rut now,
and I mean to keep in. We've done very well for years without so much
church or chapel going, and why need we bother our heads now? We're
sober and honest, we pay our way and meddle with nobody. I've a quiet
conscience, and I think you might have one, too, Adam, for any harm you
do."
Adam could understand Margaret's feelings. They were just what his
own had been a few short weeks before. But how was she to be awakened
to her need of forgiveness, or the preciousness of the Saviour he had
found, if she had no disturbing consciousness of sin?
The truth was, that Margaret felt very insignificant as one of a city
congregation. What were her new garments to the strangers she saw
there? Who noticed them or her? Why, in the country every second person
would have had a word with her. Where was the good of going when there
was nobody to meet?
Thus Margaret entirely overlooked the fact of the great Presence
promised wherever two or three should be gathered in the name of Jesus.
Unfortunately, Mrs. Livesey was not contented to take her own way; she
began to throw stumbling-blocks in her husband's path. She would not
walk with him, and was resolved he should not leave her to walk alone
on the new and better way he had chosen.
Did Adam arrange to go to church in the morning, he was asked how he
could be so unreasonable.
"How can I do my work and look after the two little 'uns?" she would
say. "You know, Adam, they're just at the age when they oughtn't to be
left for a minute. I like to have a nice dinner for you all on Sunday,
and here you'd go off and leave me to do by myself, with these two up
to all sorts of mischief."
Adam would yield with a sigh, and resolve to stay at home or go out
with his youngest pair.
Adam was now better provided with books, and amongst those which
Margaret had brought was a fine old copy of the "Pilgrim's Progress,"
with quaint pictures. Situated as he was, Adam could hardly have
possessed a volume better suited to his wants.
It was, however, difficult to find a quiet spot in which to read. He
would fain have read it aloud, but Margaret protested against this.
"I read that old book years and years ago. I don't want to hear it
again," she said.
If Adam brightened at this, and began to speak about the trials and
victories of the pilgrim, he soon found that if Margaret had read the
book, its contents had long been forgotten.
So it was with others. Let the man try to interest his wife by reading
aloud, and she would reply, perhaps with a good-humoured laugh, "It's
no good, Adam. I'm not fond o' reading, like you. I shall be asleep in
a few minutes if you begin, and no wonder, when I'm afoot nearly all my
time. Talk to me, and I shall have to answer."
But talking meant speaking about the neighbours or the children, or of
what was going on at Rutherford's. Any and everything except the "one
thing needful." Truly Adam was called upon to climb the hill Difficulty
without going beyond the threshold of his cottage door.
"Can two walk together, except they be agreed?"
Adam was sometimes almost ready to give up, so many and constant were
the petty hindrances against which he had to contend. But he thought,
"If it be hard to bear and to forbear, with the help of prayer and the
comfort and strength that comes from knowing that God sees and loves
and cares for me, what would it be without these things?"
So the trustful soul got new courage, and Adam, thinking about the
trials of Bunyan's pilgrim, said to himself, "Christian had to start
for Zion, leaving wife and children behind him. But they followed him
after all. Maybe poor Margaret will be like her. Still, it would be
sweet if we could travel together."
Thus Adam's faith was tried, whilst it was but as that of a little
child clinging to a father's hand, and knowing nothing of the way by
which it is led. But from the depths of his awakened soul, he cried,
"Lord, help me to bear and forbear. What I know not, teach Thou me.
By Thy Holy Spirit's help I have got to know something about my own
need, and been guided to the feet of Jesus to find a Saviour in Him. O
God, let that same blessed Spirit teach my poor Maggie. I am slow at
speaking, and I don't know what is best to say to her, for I seem to
have tried all ways that were plain to me. Send her the same Teacher
and the same light that showed me my sinfulness and need. Help me to
be very patient, for she's a good wife and mother, according to what
she knows, and would give the last penny or the last bit for me or the
children. I'll try to wait Thy time. O God help me not to murmur, but
to be sure that time and way of Thy ordering must be best!"