Chapter XX: A Discomfiture

THE young gardener felt he had made an awkward beginning to the suit he had determined to press, and endeavoured to assure Milly that respect for her excellent father had alone prevented him from using arguments which would have convinced her of the superiority of the new lights that were beginning to shine, and of the unnecessary strictness of the old-fashioned theories of religion. But he "hoped for many opportunities of discussing the subject with her."

"Not with my consent," thought Milly, and she hoped the young man would leave them as soon as Robert had driven off with Mr. Hill.

But Lewis had no such intention. Milly had to go up to the house by a long winding path, and he meant to escort her.

"It is our custom to have family prayer before parting from my daughter," said Mr. Taylor, with simplicity. "Will you choose to stay or not?"

"Oh, I shall be most happy to join you," said Mr. Lewis, pleasantly.

Mr. Taylor read a chapter and prayed, and though Mr. Lewis might have heard the second chapter of Paul's first epistle to the Corinthians many a time in his life, it never seemed to have so much point before.

"But then," thought he, "it is only the quaint, old-fashioned way of putting things."

And he would not have heard the prayer at all if he could have helped it; but he could not help it, and vainly strove to shake off the solemnising consciousness that he knelt with one who was speaking, the child to his Father, the Christian to his God, through the atoning mercy and forgiving love that had made them one in Christ Jesus.

The object of his stay was, however, defeated by Mr. Taylor taking Milly home himself, as he felt it was a parent's duty to guard the fair character of his child, and, as far as possible, to choose her associates. Never until he should yield up his authority to her husband could he hold himself absolved from responsibility concerning her way of life and her good name among those with whom she dwelt.

The young gardener was piqued at the rejection of his politeness, but he walked by their side, saw the father press a loving kiss on the lips of his child, and as Milly disappeared into the house, he again joined Mr. Taylor, and without further hesitation asked his leave to address her, with the view of making her his wife. He stated his means, which, he said, were ample, though shared by his mother and sister, and seemed himself much impressed with the favour he was conferring on his chosen one, or rather, perhaps, on her family.

Great was his mortification and displeasure when Mr. Taylor, with the straightforward simplicity which marked all his ways, informed him, as kindly as he could, that he decidedly declined his proposal, and would never bestow his Christian daughter on one whose principles were opposed to the Word of God.

"Is that your only objection?" asked the young man, thinking it was a very light matter and easily dealt with.

"It includes everything," said Mr. Taylor.

"Then," returned Lewis, eagerly, "I can safely assure you that it shall never cause an instant's disagreement between us. In fact, so far from interfering with your daughter's principles, I may perhaps feel more perfect confidence in her character because of them, though I may not actually share them."

"You say well," said the father, "for you evidently know that 'a woman that feareth the Lord' is the true wife to be trusted as well as 'praised.' She only takes God's blessing with her as her best portion. But it can only be by obedience to the command not to be unequally yoked with an unbeliever, and I trust and pray that child of mine shall never so dishonour God and wrong her own soul. Emily is a disciple of the Lord Jesus Christ, Mr. Lewis; and whatever her lot in life, it must agree with that first and holiest bond."

"Well, sir, I cannot pretend to understand such extreme views, but if any one could instruct and win me to them it would be your daughter."

"Nay, you overrate even her power, were she dear to you as longer acquaintance and closer communion might make her. Only the Holy Spirit of God, by the Word which you disown, can win you to approve and love the truth. It is not 'of the will of the flesh, nor of the will of man, but of God.'"

Mr. Lewis carefully controlled the vexation and contempt he felt, but he resolved that only from the fair girl herself would he submit to the rejection of his suit.

"She will manage them all if I can manage her," he thought, "and to baffle the old father as well as to win his sweet daughter will be a racy sort of enterprise, and enliven the dulness of this stupid place for a while. Then I will get a situation elsewhere, and carry her off to see the world that yet she knows nothing about, poor girl."

On his return home, Mr. Taylor told Susan and Mrs. Hayes all that had occurred, and the latter began to think there was no plan so effectual as to take her young favourite away to the country at once. But the parents thought they might trust Milly, and that it would be well for her to remain at present where duty had placed her, and to let her principles stand the test, if the suitor should choose to press matters any further.

A morning or two after, as Mrs. Hayes sat knitting, a very pleasing, neatly-dressed young woman made her appearance at the lodge, and presenting a little basket of beautiful fruit, said that her brother respectfully begged Mrs. Taylor's acceptance of some which he had liberty to dispose of as he pleased.

"Who is your brother, my dear?" asked Mrs. Taylor, giving her a seat.

"I beg your pardon, I thought you knew him," she replied, colouring. "Edward Lewis, the gardener at Lord Crewe's."

"We are much obliged to him," said Susan, "and I would not pain him by refusing to accept what you have been at the trouble to bring, but I must beg that he never sends anything again; he is aware that we cannot welcome him here, and of course cannot receive his gifts."

"I am very sorry, ma'am," said the young woman, again blushing deeply. "May I ask how my brother has been so unfortunate as to displease you? He cannot have done so intentionally."

Mrs. Hayes looked very kindly on the girl; she liked the sisterly question, and Susan felt that it must be answered. She would not expose the brother's secret, but turning over the leaves of the large Bible that lay open on the table at Aunt Hayes's elbow, she pointed to some words, saying, "Did you ever notice this verse, my dear? I need not say anything more if you understand me."

It was the second epistle of John, tenth verse, "If there come any unto you, and bring not this doctrine, receive him not into your house, neither bid him God speed: for he that biddeth him God speed, is partaker of his evil deeds."

The maiden looked at the verses long enough to have read them many times over, and then raising her eyes with tears gathering in them to Susan's face, she said, meekly, "Then it is true; you are of those who love the Lord Jesus. I am so glad, so very glad. But, oh, Mrs. Taylor, don't refuse to let my brother come here; it may be the very way in which our prayers are to be answered, my mother's and mine."

"Your prayers for what, dear child?" asked Mrs. Hayes, beaming one of her tenderest looks on the damsel.

"For my brother, ma'am, that he may give up the bad books and notions he has got hold of, and learn God's own truth in His own Holy Word, that he may come to Jesus and be saved."

"That's what I call sound Christian English," said Mrs. Hayes; "and now we understand each other, and I am sure you will not really wish my dear niece here to 'do evil that good may come;' to risk her own children's principles in hope to amend your brother's. He has Moses and the prophets, and even Jesus risen from the dead."

"Yes, I am wrong and selfish," said the sister; "but when I heard that you were Christians in real earnest, and that your daughter is an attraction to my brother, I felt glad for his sake. I thought you would do him good."

"Yes, you were selfish in that, my dear; but you see that it cannot be. You would not wish our child to do what you dare not, I hope, do yourself. How many a weak simpleton has fancied she was to be as a good angel to her husband's soul, and has lost herself in his worldliness and unbelief instead."

"Oh, you are right. I dare not blame you. So I can but ask you to forgive my selfishness, and to pray for Edward sometimes, as one in great danger and great sin."

"And what of your mother, my dear?"

"Oh, you would love my mother," she cried, with animation. "I wish you could see her, but she is not able to go out, and has no one except me to speak to about the things she loves best."

"I dare say she daily thanks God for giving her a daughter to whom she can speak of what she loves best. It is a high honour for you that He has made you understand her; and, my dear, don't let craving for more make you unmindful of what is already given."

"My mother says that: oh, would you come and see her? It is not a long walk, and it would cheer her so much."

"You may expect us very soon," said Aunt Hayes.

"And remember that you are welcome whenever you can come," said Susan, kindly.

"I do not often leave my mother," she said; "but when I can, I shall be thankful to come here. Will you call me Rhoda?" She added, simply, "That is my name."

"Then tell me, Rhoda," said Mrs. Hayes, "have you always lived with this dear mother?"

"Oh no, I was being taught under Lady Crewe's maid, and was to have gone with her ladyship to Italy last winter as her only waiting-maid; but my mother was taken ill, and though Lady Crewe would have paid a nurse to take care of her, I could not think of letting a stranger take the place of her own child. She had nursed and tended me for years of childish helplessness and trouble, and I could not go and see beautiful places and enjoy myself while there was her sick-bed to cheer and her suffering to soothe at home. She wished me to go—dear, kind mother, she would deny herself anything; but when I told her I had given my final answer to her ladyship, I can never forget her look as she put her feeble arms round me, and said,—

"'The Lord will bless my darling: she has done right in His sight.'

"Oh, I forgot all about Italy and Switzerland then! Edward is very kind to me, and so long as our mother is so delicate, he would rather have me for housekeeper than any servant or stranger. I do all the work, and keep the house as nice as I can. But, indeed, I am not used to chatter in this way," she said, blushing: "your kind interest must be my excuse."

And responding to an affectionate farewell, she took up her little basket and tripped away.

Susan returned to her occupation, and Mrs. Hayes took up her knitting, but not a row did she make. In fact, she was unconscious of letting down a stitch or two, and found herself roused out of a long gaze at the fire, where she had seen nothing, by the horrible fuss of a meeting of fire and water through the boiling over of a kettle which Susan had asked her to mind. The unsavoury consequence greatly annoyed her: she was not given to such neglectful things, and, after making the best she could of it, and apologising to Susan very humbly, to Susan's great amusement, she settled herself to recover the fallen loops, saying to herself, with a jerk of her head,—

"There, there, you're an unbelieving old woman, Mrs. Hayes. What business have you to be building castles that won't hold anybody? Let the Lord do as He pleases, and then it will all come right. Aren't they His, and must not all things—yes, all things—work together for good to them that love Him?"

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