XV.
OCTOBER 4
HOME again, and with my dear Ernest delighted to see me. Baby is a
year old to-day, and, as usual, father, who seems to abhor anything
like a merry-making, took himself off to his room. To-morrow he will
be all the worse for it, and will be sure to have a theological
battle with somebody.
OCTOBER 5.-The somebody was his daughter Katherine, as usual. Baby
was asleep in my lap and I reached out for a book which proved to be
a volume of Shakespeare which had done long service as an ornament to
the table, but which nobody ever read on account of the small print.
The battle then began thus:
Father.-"I regret to see that worldly author in your hands, my
daughter."
Daughter-a little mischievously.-"Why, were you wanting to talk,
father?
"No, I am too feeble to talk to-day. My pulse is very weak."
"Let me read aloud to you, then."
"Not from that profane book."
"It would do you good. You never take any recreation. Do let me read
a little."
Father gets nervous.
"Recreation is a snare. I must keep my soul ever fixed on divine
things."
"But can you?"
"No, alas, no. It is my grief and shame that I do not."
"But if you would indulge yourself in a little harmless mirth now and
then, your mind would get rested and you would return to divine
things with fresh zeal. Why should not the mind have its seasons of
rest as well as the body?"
"We shall have time to rest in heaven. Our business here on earth is
to be sober and vigilant because of our adversary; not to be reading
plays."
"I don't make reading plays my business, dear father. I make it my
rest and amusement."
"Christians do not need amusement; they find rest, refreshment, all
they want, in God."
"Do you, father?"
"Alas, no. He seems a great way off."
"To me He seems very near. So near that He can see every thought of
my heart. Dear father, it is your disease that makes everything so
unreal to you. God is really so near, really loves us so; is so sorry
for us! And it seems hard, when you are so good, and so intent on
pleasing Him, that you get no comfort out of Him."
"I am not good, my daughter I am a vile worm of the dust."
"Well, God is good, at any rate, and He would never have sent His Son
to die for you if He did not love you." So then I began to sing.
Father likes to hear me sing, and the sweet sense I had that all I
had been saying was true and more than true, made me sing with joyful
heart.
I hope it is not a mere miserable presumption that makes me dare to
talk so to poor father. Of course, he is ten times better than I am,
and knows ten times as much, but his disease, whatever it is, keeps
his mind befogged. I mean to begin now to pray that light may shine
into his soul. It would be delightful to see the peace of God shining
in that pale, stern face.
MARCH 28.-It is almost six months since I wrote that. About the
middle of October father had one of his ill turns one night, and we
were all called up. He asked for me particularly, and Ernest came for
me at last. He was a good deal agitated, and would not stop to half
dress myself, and as I had a slight cold already, I suppose I added
to it then. At any rate I was taken very sick, and the worst cough
ever had has racked my poor frame almost to pieces. Nearly six months
confinement to my room; six months of uselessness during which I have
been a mere cumberer of the ground. Poor Ernest! What a hard time he
has had! Instead of the cheerful welcome home I was to give him
whenever he entered the house, here I have lain exhausted, woe-begone
and good for nothing. It is the bitterest disappointment I
ever had. My ambition is to be the sweetest, brightest, best of
wives; and what with my childish follies, and my sickness, what a
weary life my dear husband has had! But how often I have prayed that
God would do His will in defiance, if need be, of mine! I have tried
to remind myself of that every day. But I am too tired to write any
more now.
MARCH 30.-This experience of suffering has filled my mind with new
thoughts. At one time I was so sick that Ernest sent for mother. Poor
mother, she had to sleep with Martha. It was a great comfort to have
her here, but I knew by her coming how sick I was, and then I began
to ponder the question whether I was ready to die. Death looked to me
as a most solemn, momentous event-but there was something very
pleasant in the thought of being no longer a sinner, but a redeemed
saint, and of dwelling forever in Christ's presence. Father came to
see me when I had just reached this point.
"My dear daughter," he asked, "are you prepared to face the Judge of
all the earth?"
"No, dear father," I said, "Christ will do that for me."
"Have you no misgivings?"
I could only smile; I had no strength to talk.
Then I heard Ernest--my dear, calm, self-controlled Ernest--burst out
crying and rush out of the room. I looked after him, and how I loved
him! But I felt that I loved my Saviour infinitely more, and that if
He now let me come home to be with Him I could trust Him to be a
thousand-fold more to Ernest than I could ever be, and to take care
of my darling baby and my precious mother far better than I could.
The very gates of heaven seemed open to let me in. And then they were
suddenly shut in my face, and I found myself a poor, weak, tempted
creature here upon earth. I, who fancied myself an heir of glory, was
nothing but a peevish, human creature-very human indeed, overcome if
Martha shook the bed, as she always did, irritated if my food did not
come at the right moment, or was not of the right sort, hurt and
offended if Ernest put on at one less anxious and tender than he had
used when I was very ill, and-in short, my own poor faulty self once
more. Oh, what fearful battles I fought for patience, forbearance and
unselfishness! What sorrowful tears of shame I shed over hasty,
impatient words and fretful tones! No wonder I longed to be gone
where weakness should be swallowed up in strength, and sin give place
to eternal perfection!
But here I am, and suffering and work lie before me, for which I feel
little physical or mental courage. But "blessed be the will of God."
APRIL 5.-I was alone with father last evening, Ernest and Martha both
being out, and soon saw by the way he fidgeted in his chair that he
had something on his mind. So I laid down the book I was reading, and
asked him what it was.
"My daughter," he began, "can you bear a plain word from an old man?"
I felt frightened, for I knew I had been impatient to Martha of late,
in spite of all my efforts to the contrary. I am still so miserably
unwell.
"I have seen many death-beds," he went on; "but I never saw one where
there was not some dread of the King of Terrors exhibited; nor one
where there was such absolute certainty of having found favor with
God to make the hour of departure entirely free from such doubts and
such humility as becomes a guilty sinner about to face his Judge."
"I never saw such a one, either," I replied; "but ere have been many
such deaths, and I hardly know of any scene that so honors and
magnifies the Lord."
"Yes," he said, slowly; "but they were old, mature, ripened
Christians."
"Not always old, dear father. Let me describe to you a scene Ernest
described to me only yesterday."
He waved his hand in token that this would delay his coming to the
point he was aiming at.
"To speak plainly," he said, "I feel uneasy about you, my daughter.
You are young and in the bloom of life, but when death seemed staring
you in the face, you expressed no anxiety, asked for no counsel,
showed no alarm. It must be pleasant to possess so comfortable a
persuasion of our acceptance with God; but is it safe to rest on such
an assurance while we know that the human heart is deceitful above
all things and desperately wicked?"
"I thank you for the suggestion;" I said; "and, dear father, do not be
afraid to speak still more plainly. You live in the house with me,
see all my shortcomings and my faults, and I cannot wonder that you
think me a poor, weak Christian. But do you really fear that I am
deceived in believing that notwithstanding this I do really love my
God and Saviour and am His Child?"
"No," he said, hesitating a little, "I can't say that, exactly--I
can't say that."
This hesitation distressed me. At first it seemed to me that my life
must have uttered a very uncertain sound if those who saw it could
misunderstand its language. But then I reflected that it was, at
best, a very faulty life, and that its springs of action were not
necessarily seen by lookers-on.
Father saw my distress and perplexity, and seemed touched by them.
Just then Ernest came in with Martha, but seeing that something was
amiss, the latter took herself off to her room, which I thought
really kind of her.
"What is it, father? What is it, Katy?" asked Ernest; looking from
one troubled face to the other.
I tried to explain.
"I think, father, you may safely trust my wife's spiritual interests
to me," Ernest said, with warmth. "You do not understand her. I do.
Because there is nothing morbid about her, because she has a sweet,
cheerful confidence in Christ; you doubt and misjudge her. You may
depend upon it that people are individual in their piety as in other
things, and cannot all be run in one mould. Katy has a playful way of
speaking, I know, and often expresses her strongest feelings with
what seems like levity, and is, perhaps, a little reckless about
being misunderstood in consequence."
He smiled on me, as he thus took up the cudgels in my defence, and I
never felt so grateful to him in my life. The truth is, I hate
sentimentalism so cordially, and have besides such an instinct to
conceal my deepest, most sacred emotions, that I do not wonder people
misunderstand and misjudge me.
"I did not refer to her playfulness," father returned. "Old people
must make allowances for the young; they must make allowances. What
pains me is that this child, full of life and gayety as she is, sees
death approach without that becoming awe and terror which befits
mortal man."
Ernest was going to reply, but I broke in eagerly upon his answer:
"It is true that I expressed no anxiety when I believed death to be
at hand. I felt none. I had given myself away to Christ, and He had
received me and why should I be afraid to take His hand and go where
He led me? And it is true that I asked for no counsel. I was too weak
to ask questions or to like to have questions asked; but my mind was
bright and wide awake while my body was so feeble, and I took counsel
of God. Oh, let me read to you two passages from the life of Caroline
Fry which will make you understand how a poor sinner looks upon
death. The first is an extract from a letter written after learning
that her days on earth were numbered.
"As many will hear and will not understand, why I want no time of,
preparation, often desired by far holier ones than I, I tell you why,
and shall tell others, and so shall you. It is not because I am so
holy but because I am so sinful. The peculiar character of my
religious experience has always been a deep, an agonizing sense of
sin; the sin of yesterday, of to-day, confessed with anguish hard to
be endured, and cried for pardon that could not be unheard; each day
cleansed anew in Jesus' blood, and each day more and more hateful in
my own sight; what can I do in death I have not done in life? What,
do in this week, when I am told I cannot live, other than I did last
week, when knew it not? Alas, there is but one thing undone, to serve
Him better; and the death-bed is no place for that. Therefore I say,
if I am not ready now, I shall not be by delay, so far as I have to
do with it. If He has more to do in me that is His part. I need not
ask Him not to spoil His work by too much haste."
"And these were her dying words, a few days later:
"This is my bridal-day, the beginning of my life. I wish there
should be no mistake about the reason of my desire to depart and to
be with Christ. I confess myself the vilest, chiefest of sinners, and
I desire to go to Him that I may be rid of the burden of sin-the sin
of my nature-not the past, repented of every day, but the present,
hourly, momentary sin, which I do commit, or may commit-the sense of
which at times drives me half mad with grief!"
I shall never forget the expression of father's face, as I finished
reading these remarkable words. He rose slowly from his seat, and
came and kissed me on the forehead. Then he left the room, but
returned with a large volume, and pointing to a blank page, requested
me to copy them there. He com plains that I do not write legibly, so
I printed them as plainly as I could, with my pen.
JUNE 20.-On the first of May, there came to us, with other spring
flowers, our little fair-haired, blue-eyed daughter. How rich I felt
when I heard Ernest's voice, as he replied to a question asked at the
door, proclaim, "Mother and children all well." To think that we, who
thought ourselves rich before are made so much richer now!
But she is not large and vigorous, as little Ernest was, and we
cannot rejoice in her without some misgiving. Yet her very frailty
makes her precious to us. Little Ernest hangs over her with an almost
lover-like pride and devotion, and should she live I can imagine what
a protector he will be for her. I have had to give up the care of him
to Martha. During my illness I do not know what would have become of
him but for her. One of the pleasant events of every day at that
time, was her bringing him to me in such exquisite order, his face
shining with health and happiness, his hair and dress so beautifully
neat and clean. Now that she has the care of him, she has become very
fond of him, and he certainly forms one bond of union between us, for
we both agree that he is the handsomest, best, most remarkable child
that ever lived, or ever will live.
JULY 6.-I have come home to dear mother with both my children. Ernest
says our only hope for baby is to keep her out of the city during the
summer months.
What a petite wee maiden she is! Where does all the love come from?
If I had had her always I do not see how I could be more fond of her.
And do people call it living who never had any children?
JULY 10.-If this darling baby lives, I shall always believe it is
owing to my mother's prayers.
I find little Ernest has a passionate temper, and a good deal of
self-will. But he has fine qualities. I wish he had a better mother.
I am so impatient with him when he is wayward and perverse! What he
needs is a firm, gentle hand, moved by no caprice, and controlled by
the constant fear of God. He never ought to hear an irritable word,
or a sharp tone; but he does hear them, I must own with grief and
shame. The truth is, it is so long since I really felt strong and
well that I am not myself, and can not do him justice, poor child.
Next to being a perfect wife I want to be a perfect mother. How
mortifying, how dreadful in all things to come short of even one's
own standard. What approach, then, does one make to God's standard?
Mother seems very happy to have us here, though we make so much
trouble. She encourages me in all my attempts to control myself and
to control my dear little boy, and the chapters she gives me out of
her own experience are as interesting as a novel, and a good deal
more instructive.
AUGUST.-Dear Ernest has come to spend a week with us. He is all tired
out, as there has been a great deal of sickness in the city, and
father has had quite a serious attack. He brought with him a nurse
for baby, as one more desperate effort to strengthen her
constitution.
I reproached him for doing it without consulting me, but he said
mother bad written to tell him that I was all worn out and not in a
state to have the care of the children. It has been a terrible blow
to me. One by one I am giving up the sweetest maternal duties. God
means that I shall be nothing and do nothing; a mere useless
sufferer. But when I tell Ernest so, he says I am everything to him,
and that God's children please him just as well when they sit
patiently with folded hands, if that is His will, as when they are
hard at work. But to be at work, to be useful, to be necessary to my
husband and children, is just what I want, and I do find it hard to
be set against the wall, as it were, like an old piece of furniture
no longer of any service I see now that my first desire has not been
to please God, but to please myself, for I am restless under His
restraining hand, and find my prison a very narrow one. I would be
willing to bear any other trial, if I could only have health and
strength for my beloved ones. I pray for patience with bitter tears.