Stepping Heavenward Part 25

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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d. Oh, let me read to you two pa.s.sages 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 s.h.i.+ning 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 pet.i.te 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.-lf this darling baby lives, I shall always believe it is owing to my mother's prayers.

I find little Ernest has a pa.s.sionate 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 G.o.d. 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 G.o.d'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 const.i.tution.

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. G.o.d 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 G.o.d'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 G.o.d, 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.

Chapter 16

XVI.

OCTOBER.

WE are all at home together once more. The parting with mother was very painful. Every year that she lives now increases her loneliness, and makes me long to give her the shelter of my home. But in the midst of these anxieties, how much I have to make me happy! Little Ernest is the life and soul of the house; the sound of his feet pattering about, and all his prattle, are the sweetest music to my ear; and his heart is brimful of love and joy, so that he s.h.i.+nes on us all like a sunbeam. Baby is improving every day, and is one of those tender, clinging little things that appeal to everybody's love and sympathy. I never saw a more angelic face than hers. Father sits by the hour looking at her. To-day he said:

"Daughter Katherine, this lovely little one is not meant for this sinful world."

"This world needs to be adorned with lovely little ones," I said.

"And baby was never so well as she is now."

"Do not set your heart too fondly upon her," he returned. "I feel that she is far too dear to me."

"But, father, we could give her to G.o.d if He should ask for her Surely, we love Him better than we love her."

But as I spoke a sharp pang shot through and through my soul, and I held my little fair daughter closely in my arms, as if I could always keep her there It may be my conceit, but it really does seem as if poor father was getting a little fond of me. Ever since my own sickness I have felt great sympathy for him, and he feels, no doubt, that I give him something that neither Ernest nor Martha can do, since they were never sick one day in their lives. I do wish he could look more at Christ and at what He has done and is doing for us. The way of salvation is to me a wide path, absolutely radiant with the glory of Him who s.h.i.+nes upon it; I see my shortcomings; I see my sins, but I feel myself bathed, as it were, in the effulgent glow that proceeds directly from the throne of G.o.d and the Lamb. It seems as if I ought to have some misgivings about my salvation, but I can hardly say that I have one. How strange, how mysterious that is! And here is father, so much older, so much better than I am, creeping along in the dark! I spoke to Ernest about it. He says I owe it to my training, in a great measure, and that my mother is fifty years in advance of her age. But it can't be all that. It was only after years of struggle and prayer that G.o.d gave me this joy.

NOVEMBER 24.-Ernest asked me yesterday if I knew that Amelia and her husband had come here to live, and that she was very ill.

"I wish you would go to see her, dear," he added. "She is a stranger here, and in great need of a friend." I felt extremely disturbed. I have lost my old affection for her, and the idea of meeting her husband was unpleasant.

"Is she very sick?" I asked.

"Yes. She is completely broken down. I promised her that you should go to see her."

"Are you attending her?"

"Yes; her husband came for me himself."

"I don't want to go," I said. "It will be very disagreeable."

"Yes, dear, I know it. But she needs a friend, as I said before."

I put on my things very reluctantly, and went. I found Amelia in a richly-furnished house, but looking untidy and ill-cared-for. She was lying on a couch in her bedroom; three delicate-looking children were playing about, and their nurse sat sewing at the window.

A terrible fit of coughing made it impossible for her to speak for some moments. At last she recovered herself sufficiently to welcome me, by throwing her arms around me and bursting into tears.

"Oh, Katy!" she cried, "should you have known me if we had met in the street? Don't you find me sadly altered ?"

"You are changed," I said, "but so am I."