SOWING AND REAPING.
WHEN they came in from their short walk, Arthur went at once in among
his brothers and sisters; but Frank, full of wrath and ill-humour,
ascended to his own chamber.
On the landing, however, outside Mrs. Arundel's door, he heard himself
called.
He entered the half-dark room, where the moonlight streamed on to the
floor, the same moonlight which at Shellford was flooding the sea with
its silver light.
[Illustration: He found her resting on the sofa, with no light
in the room but the moonlight which fell on her face.]
"Did you call me, Mrs. Arundel?" he asked, with an uneasy tremor in his
voice.
"Yes, my dear; will you come in? I want to have a little talk with you."
Frank felt very unwilling; but knew not how to refuse. He had always
disliked meeting Mrs. Arundel's eyes, and generally avoided doing so;
and now to be called into her room for a tête-à-tête was more than he
bargained for.
He found her resting on her sofa, with no light in the room but
the moonlight which fell on her face. He came in, and stood by her
silently, more uncomfortable than he had ever been in his life.
"Do not be afraid of me," she said, with a tenderness which was the
more gracious, considering the blow she had just received through him.
"I am not afraid," he said, trying to put a brave face upon it. "What
do you wish to say to me?"
"You have no mother, have you, dear?"
"No," said the boy, shortly.
"She is in heaven, is she not, Frank?"
"I suppose so," he answered. "My father always says so."
"You would like to meet her again some day, dear?"
There was a pause. Frank stood with his face in the dark, and Mrs.
Arundel looked in vain; for she could not see it.
"I should like my boy to meet me," she said; "and I am thinking of your
mother, Frank."
He steadied his voice, and answered coldly, "Well, Mrs. Arundel?"
"Well, my dear," she answered sadly, "'the wages of sin is death.' If
you indulge in sin—God is not mocked—your wages will be death, eternal
death."
The boy did not answer; but after a while said sullenly, "I did not
know you had a sneak for a son."
"I did not know I had so noble a son. Do you not suppose, Frank,
it would have been far easier to gloss it over? And even if he had
repented of going to the theatre, to have avoided telling me?"
Frank was still silent.
"But now, my dear, I am not going to scold you; I had no such intention
in calling you in. I want to speak to you as your own mother would have
done, to help you if I can, to warn you of the danger, and to advise
you to begin a new life. Come, dear, trust me."
She held out her hand, and the touching heavenly look on her face won
the boy's heart, and he took her hand, saying huskily:
"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Arundel; I am ashamed of myself. I did not
think what I was doing."
He sat down by her; but was very silent after this confession, and Mrs.
Arundel only answered by pressing his hand kindly.
Presently she said gently, "Frank, if you had a garden, and you planted
a seed which you were told was deadly, would you expect it to bear good
fruit when it came up?"
"Why no, I suppose not, Mrs. Arundel."
"And if you sowed a good seed, would you expect it, after a time, to
come up and bear bad fruit?"
"No, I suppose not," still answered the boy.
"Well, that is just what the Bible says, 'God is not mocked. Whatsoever
a man soweth that shall he also reap.' If you sow now unholy thoughts
and deeds, they will bear terrible fruit in your after life.
"I believe there is not a sin you commit now which will not, even in
this life, find you out. I knew a boy who told me what his feelings
were once, when he thought himself drowning. He was bathing, and the
weeds suddenly wrapped round him, and in an instant pulled him under.
As he sank, everything he had done in his life flashed across him in a
moment of time. He saw deeds, which he had fancied harmless, in their
true light, and he told me the instantaneous review was an awful thing.
"He did not drown; for the bottom of the pond was close under him,
though he did not know it; but it serves as an illustration of what I
mean.
"Would it not be safer, wiser, dear Frank, to obey God now, that you
may reap life everlasting? You know it says, 'Thou shalt cast all my
sins behind Thy back.'"
"You don't know how difficult it is, Mrs. Arundel," he answered in a
smothered voice.
"Perhaps not wholly, dear, but I can guess and understand a great deal;
our hearts are all the same, Frank, and I know what a hard fight it
must be for you. But you will not be sorry in the end. The soldier who
is victorious in the hottest battle gains the most laurels. There is
always Christ, who will conquer for you, if you commit it to Him. He is
the Captain of the Lord's host."
Mrs. Arundel said all this with extreme gentleness, but with a firm
persuasion of its truth. The boy felt this, even while he still
indulged his angry sullenness.
He rose at last, and said rather stiffly:
"You mean kindly, Mrs. Arundel, and I thank you. I will think it over.
Good-night."
The next day, the moral atmosphere seemed clearer. Arthur had had a
little talk with Tom, and had cheered him on his way. A few words of
reminder as to how happy they used to be, and that they must not let
Frank's coming disturb them, had set Tom thinking; and when once he
began to think, he never stopped till he had set the thoughts in order
in his mind.
"Mamma," he said, looking up in her face that morning, "I've been
unhappy and fretful lately, but I've found out about it now."
"Have you, darling?"
"Yes; but He restores our souls, doesn't He, mamma?"
"Indeed He does, dear; but for that we should wander away."
"Yes, and so He's brought me to still water again, mamma."
Frank Compton left them soon after this, and sadly the memory of his
visit remained. A painful memory to most of them; for, guarded as
they had been, the world and the world's doings had been much shut
out from them, and Frank had given them a peep into its wickedness.
Arthur thought with thankfulness of what might have been, had he once
stepped into the deception which Frank had been leading him to, and he
shuddered when he remembered how near he had been to it.
Nellie's return home was now fixed for the next week, and all longed to
have her presence once more. She wrote frequent letters, detailing all
her doings, and told them of the proposed picnic. But while Nellie was
in danger under Orston Cliff, another danger was creeping, unsuspected,
nearer and nearer to that happy circle at home.
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