True to his Colours Part 11

Bradly wrung the other's hand with a hearty grip, and then said, "You shall have them, William. I know you'll be all the better for an earthly friend or two, for there'll want a deal of backing up just at first. But oh, I'm so truly thankful that you and your missus have got the best Friend of all on your side, who will never leave you nor forsake you. Yes, come what will, you can go to One now who will keep peace in your conscience, peace in your heart and peace and love in your home."

By Foster's request, before they parted, Thomas Bradly knelt with them and offered a prayer. Ah, what a sight! Glorious even for angels to look down upon! Those three uniting in prayer--the old disciple; the blasphemer, persecutor, and injurious; and the till late Christless wife--all now one in Jesus, bowed at his footstool, while the humble servant of the Lord poured out his heart in simple, fervent supplication and praise, as all bent head and knee in the felt presence of the unseen G.o.d.

Next Sunday Foster was at church in the morning, and was there with his wife in the evening, Mrs Bradly having undertaken to look after the baby. As for Bradly himself, his face was a sight worth seeing on that Sunday. It was always brighter than usual on the Lord's-day; but on this particular Sabbath every line of his features shone with a glow of gladness, as though, like Moses, he had just come down from the mount.

It need hardly be said that the vicar's heart also deeply rejoiced. As for the inhabitants of Crossbourne generally, some were glad, with a spice of caution in their gladness; some shook their heads and smiled, meaning thereby to let all men know that, in case Foster should not persevere in his new career, _they_, at any rate, had never been over- sanguine as to the genuineness of his reformation; some simply looked grave; while the profligate and the profane gnashed their teeth with envy hatred, and malice, and exchanged vehement a.s.severations of "how they'd pay off the sneaking humbug of a deserter, and no mistake."

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

A BLIGHTED LIFE.

Spring had come, but the cloud still rested on poor Jane Bradly. True, her heart was lighter, for she now believed with her brother that there was deliverance at hand for her, and that the mists were beginning to melt away. She was firmly persuaded that her character would be entirely cleared. But when? How soon would the waiting-time come to an end? And what good could come out of such a trouble? Here was the trial of her faith; but she bore it patiently, and the chastening was producing in her, even now, "the peaceable fruit of righteousness." She began to improve in health and strength, and had lost much of the look of abiding care; for the habitual peace of a mind stayed on G.o.d, and the consciousness of innocence as regarded the wrong-doing of which she had been suspected, kept her calm in the blessedness of a childlike trust.

But there was one who lived not far from her, a sister in affliction, about whose sad heart the clouds were gathering thicker and thicker.

Spring, with its opening buds and rejoicing birds, brought no gladness to the spirit of Clara Maltby. She was gradually wasting away. Change of air and scene had been recommended, but she would not hear of leaving home, and clung with a distressing tenacity to her round of daily studies, shortening her brief time of exercise, and seeming anxious to goad herself into the attainment of the utmost amount of knowledge which it was possible for her to acquire, grudging every minute as lost and wasted time that was not given to study. To s.h.i.+ne had become with her the one absorbing object; to s.h.i.+ne, not, alas! for Christ, but for self, for the world, that she might gain the prize of human applause. So she was using the gifts with which G.o.d had endowed her, not to his glory, by laying them at the foot of the cross, and employing them as talents with which she was to occupy till the Master came, but as means whereby she might win for herself distinction, and outstrip others in the race for earthly fame. But such a strain on mind and body could not last; the overtaxed faculties would a.s.sert their claim for the much-needed rest; and so, in the early spring-time, Clara Maltby was suddenly stricken down and lay for days in a state of half-unconsciousness.

At last she rallied, in a measure; and when she was sufficiently recovered to bear conversation, she earnestly begged that she might be allowed to see Thomas Bradly, and have an opportunity of saying a few words to him in the presence of her parents, previously to her being taken from home by her mother to the seaside, to which she had been ordered by her medical man, as soon as she could bear the removal. So one evening, after his work, Bradly, with a sorrowful heart, made his way up to the vicarage, and was introduced by Mr Maltby into the inner room, where his daughter had gathered together her own special library.

The patient lay on a low couch near the fire, which burned cheerfully, and lighted up, though not with gladness, the care-smitten features of the vicar's daughter. Close to her was a little table, on which lay a small Bible, a pile of photographs, and a few printed papers. Her writing materials occupied part of a larger table, and were flanked on either side by heaps of volumes--scientific, historical, and poetical; while beyond the books was a small but exquisitely-modelled group of wax flowers, most life-like in appearance, under a gla.s.s shade. Over the fire-place was a large water-colour drawing of Crossbourne Church, with miniatures of her father and mother, one on each side of it. On the mantelpiece was an ivory statuette, beautifully carved, the gift of a travelled friend; and other articles of taste and refinement were scattered up and down the room. But now the gentle mistress of this quiet retreat lay languid and weary, incapable of enjoying these articles of grace and beauty which surrounded her. There was a flush indeed on her cheek, but no light in the heavy eyes. She looked like a gathered flower,--fair, but drooping, because it can strike no root and find no moisture. Thomas Bradly was shocked at the change a few days had made in the poor girl since he last saw her, and could hardly restrain his tears. At the head of the couch sat Mrs Maltby, with a face sadly worn and troubled; and between her and the fire was her husband, on whose features there rested a more chastened and peaceful sorrow.

"Come, sit down, Thomas," said Mr Maltby; "my dear child cannot rest till she has seen you, and told you something that lies on her mind. I think she will be happier when she has had this little talk; and it may be that G.o.d will bless her visit to the sea, and send her back to us in improved health. I know we shall have your prayers, and the prayers of many others, that it may be so."

"You shall, you do have our prayers," cried Bradly, earnestly; "the Lord'll order it all for the best. He's been doing wonderful things for us lately, and he means to give you and dear Miss Clara a share of his blessings."

"Well," replied the vicar, "we will hope and trust so, Thomas. The clouds have not gathered without a cause; but still, I believe that, as the hymn says, they will yet 'break with blessings on our head.'--Clara, my child, it will not be wise to make this interview too long; so we will leave the talking now to yourself and Thomas Bradly."

"Dear, kind friend," began Miss Maltby, raising herself from her couch, and leaning herself on her mother, who came and sat by her, "I could not be satisfied to leave Crossbourne without seeing you first, as I want you to do something for me in the parish which I cannot ask my dear father to do. And I want to make a confession also to you, as it may be the means of doing some little good in the place where I have left so much undone, and as perhaps it may not please G.o.d that I should come back again to my earthly home."

She was unable to proceed for a few moments, and Bradly dared not trust himself to speak, while the vicar and his wife found it hard to control their feelings.

"Thomas," she at length continued, her voice gaining strength and her mind clearness under the excitement of the subject which now filled her heart and thoughts, "I want you to say something for me to my cla.s.s--at least to those girls who belonged to it when I used to teach it. Say it to them in your own plain and simple way, and I trust that it may do them good.

"I want you to tell them from me that I have tried what the world and its idols are, and I have found them 'vanity of vanities.' Not that I have been leading what is called a wicked life; not that I have loved gay company or worldly amus.e.m.e.nts; not that I have lost sight of Christ and heaven altogether, though they have been getting further off from my sight every day; but I have been fas.h.i.+oning for myself an idol with my own hands, which has been shutting out heavenly things from me more and more. And now G.o.d has in mercy shattered my idol, and I trust that I can see Jesus once more as I have not seen him, oh, for so long!

"I am startled when I look back and see how far I have gone astray, and how I have let the devil cheat me with a thousand plausible falsehoods.

Oh, what a useless life I have been leading! What a selfish life I have been leading! And yet I have been persuading myself that I was only cultivating the powers which G.o.d gave me. But it has not been so; it is as though I had been set to draw a picture of our Saviour, and had ability and the best of materials given me for making a beautiful likeness, and I had all the while gone on just drawing an image of myself, and had then fallen down and wors.h.i.+pped it.

"Tell my girls, then,--for I may never have the opportunity of telling them myself,--that there is no real happiness in such a life as mine has lately been. It is really purely for self is this struggle after distinction; G.o.d put us into this world for something far different. I know, of course, that my scholars are not any of them likely to be snared exactly in the same way that I have been. Still, they might be tempted to think what a grand thing it would be to have the advantages for getting knowledge and distinction that I have had. Ah, but what has been my life, after all? Why, like that group of wax flowers under the gla.s.s shade. Don't they look beautiful? But you see they are not real; they have no life and no sweetness in them, and they can never make the sick and the suffering happy as real flowers do. My life, with all its advantages, and what people call accomplishments, has been as unreal, as lifeless, as scentless as those wax flowers. It has not pleased G.o.d; it has not made others happy; there has been nothing to envy in it, but oh, quite the other way: it should rather be a warning. Tell my girls so, for they have their temptations even in this direction; there is so much attention paid now to head knowledge in all ranks and cla.s.ses, and such a danger of neglecting heart knowledge and Christ knowledge. Show them how it has been with me. Tell them how I feel now on looking back.

"What have I really gained by this eager pursuit after earthly fame?

Nothing. I have strained body and mind in seeking it--strained them, probably, past recovery. And what have I lost in the pursuit? I have lost peace; I have lost a thousand opportunities of doing good which can never be recalled; I have lost the happy sense of Jesus' love and presence.--Dear father, would you give me that open book?--These words just suit my life, Thomas:--

"'Nothing but leaves! The Spirit grieves Over a wasted life; O'er sins indulged while conscience slept, O'er vows and promises unkept; And reaps from years of strife-- Nothing but leaves! Nothing but leaves!'"

She paused, and hiding her face in her mother's breast, wept long and bitterly.

Thomas Bradly had listened with deep emotion to every word, but had not yet been able to command himself sufficiently to speak. But now he stretched his hand forward, and took up the little hymn-book from which Clara Maltby had been reading, and, as he turned over its pages, said--"I don't doubt, dear Miss Clara, but you've just said the plain truth about yourself; I've grieved over it all, and prayed about it.

But that's all past and gone now, and the Lord means to bring good out of the evil, I can see that, and you'll let me read you these lines out of your book, as I'm sure it ain't going to be 'nothing but leaves'

after all. Listen, miss, to these blessed words, for they belong to you:--

"There were ninety and nine that safely lay In the shelter of the fold; But one was out on the hills away, Far-off from the gates of gold,-- Away on the mountains wild and bare, Away from the tender Shepherd's care.

"'Lord, thou hast here thy ninety and nine: Are they not enough for thee?'

But the Shepherd made answer: 'This of mine Has wandered away from me; And although the road be rough and steep, I go to the desert to find my sheep.'

"And all through the mountains, thunder-riven, And up from the rocky steep, There rose a cry to the gate of heaven, 'Rejoice! I have found my sheep!'

And the angels echoed around the throne, 'Rejoice, for the Lord brings back his own!'"

"Thank you, Thomas, thank you most sincerely," cried the sick girl, raising herself again. "Yes, I trust that these beautiful words _do_ apply to me. Jesus has gone after me, a poor wandering and rebellious sheep, and brought me back again. Do then, kind friend, tell my dear cla.s.s for me that I have found all out of Christ to be emptiness, and that there can be no true happiness here unless we are working for him.

"Of course, I might have pursued my studies innocently had I given to them leisure hours when other duties had been done, and then they would have been a delight to me, and a source of real improvement. But instead of that I made an idol of them, and they became a snare to me.

I lived for them, and in them, and all else was as good as forgotten.

Yes, even my Bible, that was once so precious,--it might as well have lain on the shelf, and indeed, latterly, it has seldom been anywhere else. I had no time for reading it; earthly studies absorbed every moment. But now it has become to me again truly my Bible; it has shown me, and shows me more and more plainly every day, my sin and my neglect.

Ah! It is an awful thing when the struggle after this world's honours and prizes makes us thrust aside thoughts of G.o.d and of the crown of glory. It has been so with me. I have been chasing an illuminated shadow until it has suddenly vanished, and left me in a darkness that might be felt.

"Tell my girls, then, dear friend, to take warning from me. Tell them how I mourn over my wasted life; but tell them also that I have a good hope that G.o.d, for Christ's sake, has forgiven me, and ask them to pray for me. The great lesson I want you to impress upon them from my case is just this, that no knowledge can be worth having that interferes with our following our Saviour; that no pursuit, though it may not be outwardly sinful or manifestly worldly, which unfits us in body or mind for doing our duty in that state of life to which it has pleased G.o.d to call us, can be innocent, for it robs Jesus of that service which we all owe to him.

"And now I am going to ask you to give these photographs, one a piece, to my girls: they will value them, I know, as the likeness of one who was once happy in being their teacher, and who hopes, should G.o.d spare her, to be their teacher again; a better instructed teacher far, I hope, because taught in the school of bitter but wholesome experience to know herself."

These last few words, uttered with deep feeling, made it necessary for Clara to pause once more. So Thomas Bradly, seeing that her strength was well-nigh exhausted, simply expressed his hearty readiness to comply with her requests, and was rising to take his leave, when she signed him to remain.

"Just one thing more, dear friend," she added, as soon as she was sufficiently recovered.--"Nay, dearest mother, you must let me finish what I have to say. I shall be happier and calmer when I have told all.--O Thomas! I have been on the very edge of a dreadful precipice; nay, I almost fear that I have scarcely avoided beginning the terrible fall. Finding myself unequal to the full strain which my studies imposed upon me, I began to have recourse to intoxicating stimulants, first a little, and then a little more, till at last I got to crave them, oh, how terribly! And, alas! alas! worse still. As I was ashamed to bring such things openly into my father's house, I have employed a servant once or twice to fetch them for me, but simply as a medicine, and I have found myself scheming how I might do this to a still greater extent without detection. Oh, to what a depth have I fallen! But I see it all now; the Lord has opened my eyes. What I wanted was rest, not stimulants. And surely nothing could justify me in putting such a strain upon my mind as to make it needful to fly to such a restorative.

"I don't ask you to mention this to my girls, nor to any one else, for it might not do good, and might be a hindrance, in a measure, to my dear father in his work; but I tell it you to ease my own heart, and that you may pray for me, and that you may hear me now, in the presence of my beloved father and mother, declare that from this time forward I renounce all such study, if G.o.d spare me, as shall unfit me for a loving service of Jesus, in my home and out of it, and that I have done with all intoxicating stimulants, the Lord helping me, now and for ever."

"Bless the Lord!" said Bradly to himself, as, after a silent pressure of Clara Maltby's hand, he stole out of the room. "All's working for good, I'm sure," he added, as he walked homewards. "We shall do grandly now.

One great stone has just been struck out of our good vicar's path.

Satan's a queer, knowing customer, but he often outwits himself; and there's One wiser and stronger than him."

CHAPTER TWELVE.

A MYSTERIOUS DISCOVERY.

A few days after Thomas Bradly's visit to the vicarage, Mrs Maltby and her daughter left home for the seaside. In the evening of the day of their departure, something different from the ordinary routine was evidently going on at Thomas Bradly's. As it drew near to half-past six o'clock, four young women, neatly dressed, might be seen making their way towards his house. These were shortly joined by three others; and then followed some more young women and elderly girls, till at length thirteen were gathered together in the road, whispering and laughing to one another, and evidently somewhat in a state of perplexity.

"What's it all about, Mary Anne?" asked a bright-looking girl of fifteen of one of the oldest of the group.

"I'm sure I don't know," was the reply; "all I know for certain is, that I've been invited to tea at Thomas's, at half-past six this evening."

"So have I"--"So have I," said the rest.

"There's no mistake or hoax about it, I hope?" asked one of the younger girls anxiously.

"Nay," said the one addressed as Mary Anne, "Thomas asked us himself, and he's not the man to hoax anybody."

Just at this moment the front door opened, and Bradly himself, full of smiling welcome, called upon his guests to come in.