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 Ihad 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 Iever 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!
