The Arrival.
“MIND, coachman, mind! You must hand down that box very carefully!”
shouted out Lucius to the driver, who was now engaged in taking down
the luggage. The boy had been the first of the party to spring out
of the carriage, but he was the last to enter the house, for all his
thoughts seemed to be taken up by the long, flat deal box which had
been put under the special care of the coachman, with many a charge to
see that no harm should come to it on the journey. Had the box been
a cradle containing a baby, it could hardly have been more gently and
carefully received from the coachman’s hands, and then carried up the
door-steps and into the red-brick house by Lucius. Did it not hold
the result of the labor of many weeks!—was there not in it the work
completed by the family’s united efforts, the beautiful model of the
Tabernacle made by the children of Israel!
“Oh, auntie, here is our great work—our model! Where shall we set it
up? Have you a table ready? It is all finished—every loop! Oh, you must
see it! you must see it!” Such were the exclamations which burst from
the children as Lucius appeared in the hall, laden with the long, flat
deal box.
Miss Clare had not yet seen the model, though she had heard a great
deal about it, and had given notice to many friends and neighbors of
the little exhibition of it,[B] to be held in her house through the
following week, for the benefit of her school. She was amused at the
eager impatience shown by the youthful workers. Except Agnes, who
took the matter more quietly, none of the Temples cared even to warm
themselves by the blazing fire after their wintry journey until the
model Tabernacle had been unpacked from its box.
“Please, auntie, please don’t look at it till it’s all set up!”
exclaimed Elsie, in a tone of entreaty. “You can talk to mamma, you
know, while we are unrolling the little curtains (I did the Turkey-red
curtains)—and fastening them up on the gilded pillars by the wee wee
loops which are made of silver thread!”
Miss Clare was quite willing to indulge the humor of her young guests,
so that she did not even remain in the room while the Tabernacle was
being put up on the table set apart for the purpose. She took her
sister, Mrs. Temple, up-stairs, and helped her to take off her cloak
and furs, and talked over many subjects with her, while the young
people below were busily engaged with their model. It was not until
nearly two hours had elapsed, and after the party had all partaken of a
dinner of roast beef and plum-pudding, that Miss Clare re-entered her
own sitting-room to have her first sight of the wonderful work.
For wonderful it was in the eyes of its youthful contrivers, who knew
the trouble which it had cost them to finish and fix those numerous
pillars and curtains, with sockets and loops. The Temples regarded
their model as a triumph of art and patience, much as the builder of
one of the Pyramids may have regarded his own gigantic work. Miss Clare
was expected to look and feel a good deal more astonished than she
could in sincerity do; but if she was not astonished, at least she was
pleased, and showed that she was so.
“It’s a pity, auntie, that you can’t see more of my Turkey-red
curtains; I wish they’d been the top ones,” cried Elsie, lifting up a
corner of the merino covering to show her own work beneath.
“These linen curtains round the court of the Tabernacle are neatly,
very neatly made,” observed Miss Clare; “with so many silver loops they
must have required a great deal of patience in the worker.”
Amy colored with pleasure at the praise; she had not expected her own
share of the work to attract much notice. She now silently drew her
aunt’s attention to the pretty little gilded pillars upon which her
curtains were hung.
“But the beauty part—the real beauty part—is the ’broidery, the inner
curtains, and the veil!” exclaimed Elsie. “Oh, auntie, you will be
astonished at them. Just stoop down and look in—just look in! We’ve
managed to leave the front open, and the veil is half-drawn aside, so
that you can see the inner part quite well. No one could see the inner
part of the real Tabernacle, you know; but then ours is only a model.”
The lady stooped, as requested, and looked through the space between
the front pillars, not only into the outer Tabernacle, but beyond the
veil into what, in the model, represented the Holy of holies. Dora, who
had for months been looking forward to this moment, listened eagerly to
hear what her darling aunt would say of her work.
Miss Clare, it will be remembered, had that day been examining a lovely
specimen of some of the most finished embroidery to be found in any
part of the world. Dora’s work was clever, regarded as that of a girl
not twelve years of age, who had had to contrive her own pattern; but
it was, of course, very poor compared to that on the Indian scarf.
“Is it not splendid ’broidery?” persisted Elsie, who wished others to
share her own unbounded admiration for the work of a favorite sister.
“It is nice,” said Aunt Theodora, quietly, “but wants a little more
scarlet, I think.”
And was this all that could be said of that which had cost Dora
hours of thought, and many hours of patient labor—these few words of
qualified praise! Dora was bitterly disappointed, far more disappointed
than Agnes, whose curtains, whether mohair or merino, seemed to win no
notice at all. There was good reason why Dora should feel pain which
Agnes was spared. It was not time and labor only which the younger twin
had given to gain success; she had made a sacrifice of conscience,
she had forfeited her own self-respect, she had lost the blessing of
confidential intercourse with her mother, and all pleasure and comfort
in prayer! Dora had given up all this, and for what? To hear the
observation, by no means unkindly uttered, “It is nice, but wants a
little more scarlet.”
If Dora had ever believed that in working her embroidery she had really
been laboring for anything higher than earthly pleasure or human
praise, the extreme vexation which she now experienced must surely have
undeceived her. Why should she care so much for what was said of her
performance if her real object was but to please her Heavenly Master?
Agnes and Amy, who had worked from motives of duty and love, were safe
from any such keen disappointment. They both looked with pleasure on
the completed model, in forming which they had taken inferior parts;
while Dora had to walk to the window to hide from the eyes of her
family the mortification which she felt.
That day was a very happy one to all the members of the Temple
family, Dora alone excepted. She felt a kind of dread of the evening
conversation which she knew that she would have with her aunt. The
eve of her last birthday Dora remembered as, perhaps, the happiest
time of her life. Aunt Theodora had come to sit with her, and talk
to her of her coming birthday—a new milestone, as she called it, on
the pilgrim’s path towards heaven. Dora had on that evening opened
her heart to her aunt, and the two had loved each other more fondly
than they ever had loved before, and their parting embrace had been so
sweet that Dora had felt that she could never forget it. Miss Clare was
certain to come again this evening into her room—in this house Dora
had a little room to herself—and must the niece act the hypocrite’s
part to an aunt so loving and true; must the girl so trusted and loved
make a show of openness while concealing a secret from her aunt, which,
if confessed, must lower her in the eyes of that tender relative and
friend?
Miss Clare did indeed come that night, as Dora had expected that she
would come. The girl soon found herself sitting on a stool with her
arms resting on her aunt’s knee, as they had rested twelve months
before; and she heard the same dear voice speaking to her of holy
things, as she had heard on that well-remembered night. The room was
the same, the furniture, the pictures were all the same, but Dora felt
in her own heart a miserable change. Half a dozen times was the poor
girl on the point of laying her head on her aunt’s knee, and sobbing
forth a full confession to relieve her burdened heart. But to own
repeated falsehood and long deceit to one herself so truthful, to lose
the good opinion of one whose regard she so greatly valued, oh! Dora
could not muster up courage sufficient for this!
“And now that you are making a new start in life’s journey, my child,”
such were the aunt’s concluding words as she rose to depart, “give
yourself anew to the best of Masters, the most tender of Friends. Ask
His blessing upon all that you do: without that blessing our best works
are but like building on sand, or writing on water—all end in vanity
and vexation of spirit. The great lesson taught us by the history of
ancient Israel is this: the path of obedience is the path of safety and
happiness also. When God’s people followed where He led, and did what
He commanded, then were their hearts filled with joy, and their harps
tuned to glad songs of triumph; but when the Israelites turned aside to
paths of disobedience, sorrow followed close upon sin; they hung their
harps on the willows, and, exiles from their beautiful land, they wept
when they remembered the blessings which would still have been theirs,
had they not forsaken their God!”