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Stepping Heavenward

<h3 id="id01194" style="margin-top: 3em">Chapter 16</h3> <h5 id="id01195">XVI.</h5> <h5 id="id01196">OCTOBER.</h5> 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 shines 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 God 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 shines 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 God 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 God 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." "Yes, you do not look strong. But then you never did. And you are as pretty as ever, while I—oh, Kate! do you remember what round, white arms I used to have? Look at them now!" And she drew up her sleeve, poor child. Just then I heard a step in the passage, and her husband sauntered into the room, smoking. "Do go away, Charles," she said impatiently. "You know how your cigar sets me coughing." He held out his hand to me with the easy, nonchalant air of one who is accustomed to success and popularity. I looked at him with an aversion I could not conceal. The few years since we met has changed him so completely that I almost shuddered at the sight of his already bloated face, and at the air that told of a life worse than wasted. "Do go away, Charles," Amelia repeated. He threw himself into a chair without paying the least attention to her, and still addressing himself to me again, said: "Upon my word, you are prettier than ever," and— "I will come to see you at another time, Amelia," I said, putting on all the dignity I could condense in my small frame, and rising to take leave. "Don't go, Katy!" he cried, starting up, "don't go. I want to have a good talk about old times." Katy, indeed! How dared he? I came away burning with anger and mortification. Is it possible that I ever loved such a man? That to gratify that love I defied and grieved my dear mother through a whole year! Oh, from what hopeless misery God saved me, when He snatched me out of the depth of my folly! DECEMBER 1.-Ernest says I can go to see Amelia with safety now, as her husband has sprained his ankle, and keeps to his own room. So I am going. But, I am sure, I shall say something imprudent or unwise, and wish I could think it right to stay away. I hope God will go with me and teach me what words to speak. DEC. 2.-I found Amelia more unwell than on my first visit, and she received me again with tears. "How good you are to come so soon," she began. "I did not blame you for running off the other day; Charley's impertinence was shameful. He said, after you left, that he perceived you had not yet lost your quickness to take offence, but I know he felt that you showed a just displeasure, and nothing more." "No, I was really angry," I replied. "I find the road to perfection lies up-hill, and I slip back so often that sometimes I despair of ever reaching the top." "What does the doctor say about me?" she asked. "Does he think me very sick?" "I dare say he will tell you exactly what he thinks," I returned, "if you ask him. This is his rule with all his patients." "If I could get rid of this cough I should soon be myself again," she said. "Some days I feel quite bright and well. But if it were not for my poor little children, I should not care much how the thing ended. With the life Charley leads me, I haven't much to look forward to." "You forget that the children's nurse is in the room," I whispered. "Oh, I don't mind Charlotte. Charlotte knows he neglects me, don't you, Charlotte?" Charlotte was discreet enough to pretend not to hear this question, and Amelia went on: "It began very soon after we were married. He would go round with other girls exactly as he did before; then when I spoke about it he would just laugh in his easy, good-natured way, but pay no attention to my wishes. Then when I grew more in earnest he would say, that as long as he let me alone I ought to let him alone. I thought that when our first baby came that would sober him a little, but he wanted a boy and it turned out to be a girl. And my being unhappy and crying so much, made the poor thing fretful; it kept him awake at night, so he took another room. After that I saw him less than ever, though now and then he would have a little love-fit, when he would promise to be at home more and treat me with more consideration. We had two more little girls-twins; and then a boy. Charley seemed quite fond of him, and did certainly seem improved, though he was still out a great deal with a set of idle young men, smoking, drinking wine, and, I don't know what else. His uncle gave him too much money, and he had nothing to do but to spend it." "You must not tell me any more now," I said. "Wait till you are stronger." The nurse rose and gave her something which seemed to refresh her. I went to look at the little girls, who were all pretty, pale-faced creatures, very quiet and mature in their ways. "I am rested now," said Amelia, "and it does me good to talk to you, because I can see that you are sorry for me." "I am, indeed!" I cried. "When our little boy was three months old I took this terrible cold and began to cough. Charley at first remonstrated with me for coughing so much; he said it was a habit I had got, and that I ought to cure myself of it. Then the baby began to pine and pine, and the more it wasted the more I wasted. And at last it died." Here the poor child burst out again, and I wiped away her tears as fast as they fell, thankful that she could cry. "After that," she went on, after awhile, "Charley seemed to lose his last particle of affection for me; he kept away more than ever, and once when I besought him not to neglect me and my children so, he said he was well paid for not keeping up his engagement with you, that you had some strength of character, and-" "Amelia," I interrupted, "do not repeat such things. They only pain and mortify me." "Well," she sighed, wearily, "this is what he has at last brought me to. I am sick and broken-hearted, and care very little what becomes of me." There was a long silence. I wanted to ask her if, when earthly refuge failed her, she could not find shelter in the love of Christ. But I have what is, I fear, a morbid terror of seeking the confidence of others. I knelt down at last, and kissed the poor faded face. "Yes, I knew you would feel for me," she said. "The only pleasant thought I had when Charley insisted on coming here to live was, that I should see you." "Does your uncle live here, too?" I asked. "Yes, he came first, and it was that that put it into Charley's head to come. He is very kind to me." "Yes," I said, "and God is kind, too, isn't He?" "Kind to let me get sick and disgust Charley? Now, Katy, how can you talk so?" I replied by repeating two lines from a hymn of which I am very fond: 'O Saviour, whose mercy severe in its kindness, Hath chastened my wanderings, and guided my way.' "I don't much care for hymns," she said. "When one is well, and everything goes quite to one's mind, it is nice to go to church and sing with the rest of them. But, sick as I am, it isn't so easy to be religious." "But isn't this the very time to look to Christ for comfort?" "What's the use of looking anywhere for comfort?" she said, peevishly. "Wait till you are sick and heart-broken yourself, and you'll see that you won't feel much like doing anything but just groan and cry your life out." "I have been sick, and I know what sorrow means," I said. "And I am glad that I do. For I have learned Christ in that school, and I know that He can comfort when no one else can." "You always were an odd creature," she replied. "I never pretended to understand half you said." I saw that she was tired, and came away. Oh, how I wished that I had been able to make Christ look to her as He did to me all the way home. DEC. 24.-Father says he does not like Dr. Cabot's preaching. He thinks that it is not doctrinal enough, and that he does not preach enough to sinners. But I can see that it has influenced him already, and that he is beginning to think of God, as manifested in Christ, far more than he used to do. With me he has endless discussions on his and my favorite subjects, and though I can never tell along what path I walked to reach a certain conclusion, the earnestness of my convictions does impress him strangely. I am sure there is a great deal of conceit mixed up with all I say, and then when I compare my life with my own standard of duty, I wonder I ever dare to open my mouth and undertake to help others. Baby is not at all well. To see a little frail, tender thing really suffering, tears my soul to pieces. I think it would distress me less to give her to God just as she is now, a vital part of my very heart, than to see her live a mere invalid life. But I try to feel, as I know I say, Thy will be done! Little Ernest is the very picture of health and beauty. He has vitality enough for two children. He and his little sister will make very interesting contrasts as they grow older. His ardor and vivacity will rouse her, and her gentleness will soften him. JAN. 1, 1841.-Every day brings its own duty and its own discipline. How is it that I make such slow progress while this is the case? It is a marvel to me why God allows characters like mine to defile His church. I can only account for it with the thought that if I ever am perfected, I shall be a great honor to His name, for surely worse material for building up a temple of the Holy Ghost was never gathered together before. The time may come when those who know me now, crude, childish, incomplete, will look upon me with amazement, saying, "What hath God wrought!" If I knew such a time would never come, I should want to flee into the holes and caves of the earth. I have everything to inspire me to devotion. My dear mother's influence is always upon me. To her I owe the habit of flying to God in every emergency, and of believing in prayer. Then I am in close fellowship with a true man and a true Christian. Ernest has none of my fluctuations; he is always calm and self-possessed. This is partly his natural character; but he has studied the Bible more than any other book, his convictions of duty are fixed because they are drawn thence, and his constant contact with the sick and the suffering has revealed life to him just as it is. How he has helped me on! God bless him for it! Then I have James. To be with him one half hour is an inspiration. He lives in such blessed communion with Christ that he is in perpetual sunshine, and his happiness fertilizes even this disordered household; there is not a soul in it that does not catch somewhat of his joyousness. And there are my children! My darling, precious children! For their sakes I am continually constrained to seek after an amended, a sanctified life; what I want them to become I must become myself. So I enter on a new year, not knowing what it will bring forth, but surely with a thousand reasons for thanksgiving, for joy, and for hope. JAN. 16.-One more desperate effort to make harmony out of the discords of my house, and one more failure. Ernest forgot that it was our wedding-day, which mortified and pained me, especially as he had made an engagement to dine out. I am always expecting something from life that I never get. Is it so with everybody? I am very uneasy, too, about James. He seems to be growing fond of Lucy's society. I am perfectly sure that she could not make him happy. Is it possible that he does not know what a brilliant young man he is, and that he can have whom he pleases? It is easy, in theory, to let God plan our own destiny, and that of our friends. But when it comes to a specific case we fancy we can help His judgments with our poor reason. Well, I must go to Him with this new anxiety, and trust my darling brother's future to Him, if I can. I shall try to win James' confidence. If it is not Lucy, who or what is it that is making him so thoughtful and serious, yet so wondrously happy? JAN. 17.-I have been trying to find out whether this is a mere notion of mine about Lucy. James laughs, and evades my questions. But he owns that a very serious matter is occupying his thoughts, of which he does not wish to speak at present. May God bless him in it, whatever it is. MAY 1.-My delicate little Una's first birthday. Thank God for sparing her to us a year. If He should take her away I should still rejoice that this life was mingled with ours, and has influenced them. Yes, even an unconscious infant is an ever-felt influence in the household; what an amazing thought! I have given this precious little one away to her Saviour and to mine; living or dying, she is His. DEC. 13.-Writing journals does not seem to be my mission on earth of late. My busy hands find so much else to do. And sometimes when I have been particularly exasperated and tried by the jarring elements that form my home, I have not dared to indulge myself with recording things that ought to be forgotten. How I long to live in peace with all men, and how I resent interference in the management of my children! If the time ever comes that I live, a spinster of a certain age, in the family of an elder brother, what a model of forbearance, charity, and sisterly loving-kindness I shall be! <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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