Lucy Raymond
A >> Agnes Maule Machar >> Lucy RaymondLucy Raymond;
OR,
THE CHILDREN'S WATCHWORD.
BY THE AUTHOR OF
'KATIE JOHNSTONE'S CROSS.'
TORONTO:
JAMES CAMPBELL AND SON.
CONTENTS.
CHAP.
I. MISS PRESTON'S LAST SUNDAY,
II. LUCY'S HOME,
III. MORE HOME SCENES,
IV. NELLY'S SUNDAY EVENING,
V. STRAWBERRYING,
VI. A MISSION,
VII. TEMPTATIONS,
VIII. PARTINGS,
IX. INTRODUCTIONS,
X. NEW EXPERIENCES,
XI. A START IN LIFE,
XII. AMBITION,
XIII. A FRIENDSHIP,
XIV. AN UNEXPECTED RECOGNITION,
XV. THE FLOWER FADETH,
XVI. DARKNESS AND LIGHT,
XVII. HOME AGAIN,
XVIII. A FAREWELL CHAPTER,
LUCY RAYMOND.
I.
_Miss Preston's Last Sunday_.
"Tell me the old, old story
Of unseen things above--
Of Jesus and His glory,
Of Jesus and His love."
The light of a lovely Sabbath afternoon in June lay on the rich green
woodlands, still bright with the vivid green of early summer, and
sparkled on the broad river, tossed by the breeze into a thousand
ripples, that swept past the village of Ashleigh. It would have been
oppressively warm, but for the breeze which was swaying the long
branches of the pine-trees around the little church, which from its
elevation on the higher ground looked down upon the straggling
clusters of white houses nestling in their orchards and gardens that
sloped away below. The same breeze, pleasantly laden with the mingled
fragrance of the pines and of the newly-cut hay, fanned the faces of
the children, who in pretty little groups--the flickering shadows of
the pines falling on their light, fluttering summer dresses--were
approaching the church, the grave demeanour of a few of the elder ones
showing that their thoughts were already occupied by the pleasant
exercises of the Sunday school.
Along a quiet, shady path, also leading to the church, a lady was
slowly and thoughtfully walking, on whose countenance a slight shade
of sadness, apparently, contended with happier thoughts. It was Mary
Preston's last Sunday in her old home, previous to exchanging it for
the new one to which she had been looking forward so long; and full as
her heart was of thankfulness to God for the blessings He had
bestowed, she could not take farewell of the Sunday school in which
she had taught for several years, without some regret and many
misgivings. Where, indeed, is the earnest teacher, however faithful,
who can lay down the self-imposed task without some such feelings? Has
the _heart_ been in the work? Have thought and earnestness entered
into the weekly instruction? Has a Christian example given force to
the precepts inculcated? Above all, has there been earnest,
persevering prayer to the Lord of the harvest, in dependence on whom
alone the joyful reaping time can be expected?
Such were some of the questions which had been passing through Miss
Preston's mind; and the smile with which she greeted her class as she
took her place was a little shadowed by her self-condemning
reflections--reflections which her fellow-teachers would have thought
quite uncalled for in one who had been the most zealous and
conscientious worker in that Sunday school. But Mary Preston little
thought of comparing herself with others. She knew that to whom "much
is given, of him shall be much required;" and judging herself by this
standard, she felt how little she had rendered to the Lord for His
benefits to her. As her wistful glance strayed during the opening hymn
to the faces of her scholars, she could not help wondering what
influence the remembrance of what she had tried to teach them would
exert on their future lives.
As her class had been much diminished by recent changes, and in view
of her approaching departure the blanks had not been filled up, it
consisted on this Sunday of only three girls, of ages varying from
twelve to fourteen, but differing much in appearance, and still more
widely in character and in the circumstances of their lives.
Close to Miss Preston, and watching every look of the teacher she
loved and grieved at losing, sat Lucy Raymond, the minister's
motherless daughter, a slight, delicate-looking girl, with dark hair
and bright grey eyes, full of energy and thought, but possessing a
good deal of self-will and love of approbation,--dangerous elements of
character unless modified and restrained by divine grace.
Next to her sat fair, plump, rosy-cheeked, curly-haired Bessie Ford,
from the Mill Bank Farm--an amiable, kind-hearted little damsel, and a
favourite with all her companions, but careless and thoughtless, with
a want of steadiness and moral principle which made her teacher long
to see the taking root of the good seed, whose development might
supply what was lacking.
Very different from both seemed the third member of the class--a
forlorn-looking child, who sat shyly apart from the others, shrinking
from proximity with their neat, tasteful summer attire, as if she felt
the contrast between her own dress and appearance and that of her
school-fellows. Poor Nelly Connor's dingy straw hat and tattered
cotton dress, as well as her pale, meagre face, with its bright hazel
eyes gleaming from under the tangled brown hair, showed evident signs
of poverty and neglect. She was a stranger there, having only recently
come to Ashleigh, and had been found wandering about, a Sunday or two
before, by Miss Preston, who had coaxed her into the Sunday school,
and had kept her in her own class until she should become a little
more familiar with scenes so strange and new. Curiosity and wonder
seemed at first to absorb all her faculties, and her senses seemed so
evidently engrossed with the novelty of what she saw around her, that
her teacher could scarcely hope she took in any of the instruction
which in the most simple words she tried to impress on her wandering
mind. And so very ignorant was she of the most elementary truths of
Christianity, that Miss Preston scarcely dared to ask her the simplest
question, for fear of drawing towards her the wondering gaze of her
more favoured classmates, who, accustomed from infancy to hear of a
Saviour's love and sacrifice for sin, could scarcely comprehend how
any child,
"Born in Christian lands,
And not a heathen or a Jew,"
could have grown up to nearly their own age, ignorant of things which
were familiar to them as household words.
Lucy and Bessie, in their happy ignorance and inexperience, little
dreamed how many thousands in Christian cities full of stately
churches, whose lofty spires seem to proclaim afar the Christianity of
the inhabitants, grow up even to manhood and womanhood with as little
knowledge of the glorious redemption provided to rescue them from
their sin and degradation as if they were sunk in the thickest
darkness of heathenism. Strange that congregations of professed
followers of Christ, whose consciences will not let them refuse to
contribute some small portion of their substance to convey the glad
tidings of the gospel to distant lands, will yet, as they seek their
comfortable churches, pass calmly by whole districts where so many of
their fellow-countrymen are perishing for lack of that very gospel,
without making one personal effort to save them! Will they not have to
give an account for these things?
Nelly Connor's life had for the last two or three years been spent in
one of the lowest districts of the city in which her father had fixed
his abode after his emigration from the "old sod" to the New World.
The horrors of that emigration she could still remember--the
overcrowded steerage, where foul air bred the dreaded "ship-fever,"
and where the moans of the sick and dying weighed down the hearts of
those whom the disease had spared. Her two little sisters had died
during that dreadful voyage; and her mother, heart-broken and worn out
with fatigue and watching, only lived to reach land and die in the
nearest hospital. An elder brother, who was to have accompanied them,
had by some accident lost his passage; and though he had, they
supposed, followed them in the next ship that sailed, they never
discovered any further trace of him. So, when Nelly's father had
followed his wife to the grave in the poor coffin he had with
difficulty provided for her, he and his daughter were all that
remained of the family which had set out from their dear Irish home,
hoping, in the strange land they sought, to lay the foundation of
happier fortunes.
They led an uncomfortable, unsettled life for a year or two after
that, exchanging one miserable lodging for another--rarely for the
better. The father obtained an uncertain employment as a deck hand on
a steamboat during the summer, subsisting as best he could on odd jobs
during the winter, and too often drowning his sorrows and cares in the
tempting but fatal cup. Poor Nelly, left without any care or teaching,
soon forgot all she had ever learned; and running wild with the
neglected children around her, became, as might have been expected, a
little street Arab, full of shrewd, quick observation, and utter
aversion to restraint of any kind.
Suddenly, to Nelly's consternation, her father brought home a second
wife, a comrade's widow, with two or three young children. In the new
household Nelly was at once expected to take the place of nurse and
general drudge, a part for which her habits of unrestrained freedom
and idleness had thoroughly disqualified her; and the results were
what might have been expected. There was a good deal of heedlessness
and neglect on Nelly's part, and nearly constant scolding on that of
her new mother. And as the latter was neither patient nor judicious,
and was, moreover, unreasonable in what she demanded from the child,
there was many a conflict ending in sharp blows, the physical pain of
which was nothing in comparison with the sense of injury and
oppression left on the child's mind. But she had no redress; for her
father being so much away from his home, had no opportunity of
opposing, as he would probably have done, his wife's severe method of
"managing" his motherless child.
Things were in this condition when Mrs. Connor, who had formerly
belonged to Ashleigh, made up her mind to remove thither, in the
expectation both of living more cheaply, and of being able, among her
old acquaintances, to find more work to eke out her uncertain means of
living. Her husband was now working on a steamboat which passed up and
down the river on which Ashleigh was situated, so that he could not
see his family as often as before. They were now settled in a small,
rather dilapidated tenement, with a potato patch and pig-sty; and Mrs.
Connor, who was an energetic woman, had already succeeded in making
her family almost independent of the earnings which Michael Connor too
often spent in the public-house. This being the case, she had no
scruples in providing for her own children, without much consideration
for Nelly; so that the poor child was a forlorn-looking object when
Miss Preston had found her hovering wistfully about, attracted by the
sight of the children streaming towards the church, and had induced
her to come, for the first time in her life, into a Sunday school.
And now, with these three girls before her, differing so much in
circumstances and culture, it was no wonder that Miss Preston should
feel it a matter for earnest consideration what parting words she
should say, which, even if unappreciated at the time, might
afterwards come back to their minds, associated with the remembrance
of a teacher they had loved, to help them in the conflict between good
and evil which must have its place in their future lives. But she felt
she could not possibly do better, in bidding farewell to her young
pupils, than to direct them to Him who would never leave nor forsake
them,--who was nearer, wiser, tenderer, than any earthly friend,--who,
if they would trust themselves to Him, would guide them into all
truth, and in His own way of peace.
She had brought them each, as a little parting remembrancer, a pretty
gift-card, bearing on one side the illuminated motto, "LOOKING UNTO
JESUS," a text the blessed influence of which she herself had long
experimentally known. And in words so simple as for the most part to
reach even little Nelly's comprehension, she spoke earnestly of the
loving Saviour to whom they were to "look,"--of that wonderful life
which, opening in the lowly manger of Bethlehem, and growing quietly
to maturity in the green valleys of Nazareth, reached its full
development in those unparalleled three years of "going about doing
good," healing, teaching, warning, rebuking, comforting; not
disdaining to stop and bless the little children, and at last dying to
atone for our sins.
She explained to them, that although withdrawn from our earthly sight,
He was as really near to them now as He had been to those Jewish
children eighteen hundred years ago; that their lowest whisper could
reach Him; that if they would but ask Him, He would be their truest
Friend, ever at their side to help them to do right and resist
temptation, to comfort them in sorrow and sweeten their joy. Her
earnest tone and manner, even more than her words, impressed the
children, and fixed even Nelly Connor's bright hazel eyes in a
wondering gaze. It was very new and strange to her to hear about the
mysterious, invisible Friend who was so loving and kind; the idea of a
_friend_ of any kind being novel to the lonely, motherless child, more
accustomed to harsh, unsparing reproof than to any other language.
Miss Preston, glad to see at least that her interest was excited, was
fain to leave the germs of truth to take root and develope in her
mind, under the silent influence of the divine Husbandman.
"Now, my dear children," she said in conclusion, "whenever you are
tempted to be careless or unfaithful in duty, to think that _it
doesn't matter because no one will know_, remember that your _Saviour
knows_,--that whatever the duty before you may be, you have to do it
'as to the Lord, and not unto men.' Whenever you are tempted to get
tired of trying to do right and resist temptation, or when you may
feel sad for your sinfulness and unworthiness, think of the text I am
leaving you, 'LOOKING UNTO JESUS.' And if you really and earnestly
_look_ to Him, you will always find help, and strength, and guidance,
and comfort."
On the reverse side of the illuminated card she had brought for her
class was printed, in clear, distinct characters, the hymn,
"I lay my sins on Jesus,
The spotless Lamb of God;
He bears them all, and frees us
From the accursed load.
"I lay my wants on Jesus,
All fulness dwells in Him;
He heals all my diseases,
He doth my soul redeem."
As Nelly could not read, Miss Preston made her say these verses
several times after her; and as she had a quick ear and a facility for
learning by heart, she could soon repeat them. That she could not
understand them at present, her teacher knew; but she thought it
something gained that the words at least should linger in her memory
till their meaning should dawn upon her heart. Then, telling Nelly she
must take care of her pretty card, and try to learn to read it for
herself, she bade her class an affectionate farewell, trusting that
the Friend of whom she had been teaching them would care for them when
_she_ could not.
"I'll learn the hymn, miss, and try to learn to read it, if anybody
'll teach me," said Nelly, her bright brown eyes sparkling through
tears, for her warm Irish heart had been touched by the kind words and
tones of her teacher, whom she expected never to see again.
Bessy Ford's sunshiny face also looked unusually sorrowful, and Lucy
Raymond's trembling lip bespoke a deeper emotion, with difficulty
repressed.
"I shall see _you_ again, Lucy," Miss Preston said, with a smile, as
she affectionately detained her a moment, for Lucy had been invited to
be present at her teacher's marriage, at which her father was to
officiate. Lucy and Bessie walked away together, the former with her
first experience of a "_last time_" weighing on her mind and spirits;
and Nelly Connor slowly stole away among the trees toward the spot she
called her "home."
Bessie's momentary sadness quickly vanished as she engaged in a brisk
conversation with another girl about her own age, who was eager to
gossip about Miss Preston's approaching marriage, where she was going,
and what she was to wear. Lucy drew off from her companion as soon as
Nancy Parker joined them, partly from a real desire of thinking
quietly of her teacher's parting words, partly in proud disdain of
Bessie's frivolity. "How _can_ she go on so," she thought, "after what
Miss Preston has been saying?" But she forgot that disdain is as far
removed from the spirit of the loving and pitying Saviour as even the
frivolity she despised.
"Come, Lucy, don't be so stiff," said Nancy as they approached the
shady gate of the white house where Mr. Raymond lived; "can't you tell
us something about the wedding? You're going, aren't you?"
Nancy's pert, familiar tones grated upon Lucy's ear with unusual
harshness, and she replied, rather haughtily, that she knew scarcely
anything about it.
"Oh, no doubt you think yourself very grand," Nancy rejoined, "but I
can find out all about it from my aunt, and no thanks to you. Come on,
Bessie." Bessie, somewhat ashamed of her companion, and instinctively
conscious of Lucy's disapproval, stopped at the gate to exchange a
good-bye with her friend, who for the moment was not very cordial.
Thus Miss Preston and her class had separated, and future days alone
could reveal what had become of the seed she had tried to sow.
II.
_Lucy's Home._
"Is the heart a living power?
Self-entwined, its strength sinks low;
It can only live in loving,
And by serving, love will grow."
As Lucy passed in under the acacias which shaded the gate, she was met
by a pretty, graceful-looking girl about her own age, who, with her
golden hair floating on her shoulders and her hat swinging listlessly
in her hand, was wandering through the shrubbery.
"Why, Lucy," she exclaimed, "what a time you have been away! I've
tried everything I could think of to pass the time; looked over all
your books, and couldn't find a nice one I hadn't read; teased Alick
and Fred till they went off for peace, and pussy till she scratched my
arm. Just look there!"
But Lucy's mind had been too much absorbed to descend at once to the
level of her cousin's trifling tone; and having been vexed previously
at her refusal to accompany her to Sunday school, she now regretted
exceedingly that Stella had not been present to hear Miss Preston's
earnest words.
"Oh, Stella," she said eagerly, "I do _so_ wish you had been with me!
If you had only heard what Miss Preston said to us, it would have done
you good all your life."
"Well, you know I don't worship Miss Preston," replied Stella, always
ready to tease, "she looks so demure. And as for dressing, why, Ada
and Sophy wouldn't be seen out in the morning in that common-looking
muslin she wore to church."
"Oh, Stella, how can you go on so?" exclaimed Lucy impatiently. "If
you only had something better to think of, you wouldn't talk as if you
thought dress the one thing needful."
"That's a quotation from one of Uncle Raymond's sermons, isn't it?"
rejoined Stella aggravatingly.
Lucy drew her arm away from her cousin's and walked off alone to the
house, obliged to hear Stella's closing remark: "Well, I'm glad _I_
didn't go to Sunday school if it makes people come home cross and
sulky!" And then, unconscious of the sting her words had implanted,
Stella turned to meet little Harry, who was bounding home in his
highest spirits.
Lucy slowly found her way to her own room, her especial sanctuary,
where she had a good deal of pleasure in keeping her various
possessions neatly arranged. At present it was shared by her young
visitor, whose careless, disorderly ways were a considerable drawback
to the pleasure so long anticipated of having a companion of her own
age. Just now her eye fell at once on her ransacked bookcase all in
confusion, with the books scattered about the room. It was a trifle,
but trifles are magnified when the temper is already discomposed; and
throwing down her gloves and Bible, she hastily proceeded to rearrange
them, feeling rather unamiably towards her cousin.
But as she turned back from the completed task, her card with its
motto met her eye, like a gentle reproof to her ruffled
spirit--"LOOKING UNTO JESUS." Had she not forgotten that already? She
had come home enthusiastic--full of an ideal life she was to live, an
example and influence for good to all around her. But, mingled in her
aspirations, there was an unconscious desire for pre-eminence and an
insidious self-complacency--"little foxes" that will spoil the best
grapes. She had to learn that God will not be served with unhallowed
fire; that the heart must be freed from pride and self-seeking before
it can be fit for the service of the sanctuary. Already she knew she
had been impatient and unconciliatory, contemptuous to poor
ill-trained Nancy, whose home influences were very unfavourable; and
now, by her hastiness towards her cousin, whom she had been so anxious
to influence for good, she had probably disgusted her with the things
in which she most wanted to interest her.
She did not turn away, however, from the lights conscience brought to
her. Nurtured in a happy Christian home, under the watchful eye of the
loving father whose care had to a great extent supplied the want of
the mother she could scarcely remember, she could not have specified
the time when she first began to look upon Christ as her Saviour, and
to feel herself bound to live unto _Him_, and not to herself. But her
teacher's words had given her a new impulse--a more definite
realization of the strength by which the Christian life was to be
lived--
"The mind to blend with outward life,
While keeping at Thy side."
Humbled by her failure, she honestly confessed it, and asked for more
of the strength which every earnest seeker shall receive.
With a much lighter heart and clearer brow, Lucy went to rejoin
Stella, whom she found amusing herself with Harry and his rabbits,
having forgotten all about Lucy's hastiness. Lucy seated herself on
the grass beside them, joining readily in the admiration with which
Stella, no less than Harry, was caressing the soft, white, downy
creature with pink eyes, which was her brother's latest acquisition.
"I want him to call it Blanche--such a pretty name, isn't it, Lucy?"
said Stella.
"I won't," declared the perverse Harry, "because I don't like it;" and
so saying, he rushed off to join "the boys," as he called them.
"What have you got there?" asked Stella, holding out her hand for
Lucy's card, which she had brought down. "Yes, it's pretty, but Sophy
does much prettier ones; you should see some lovely ones she has
done!"
"Has she?" asked Lucy with interest,--thinking Stella's sister must
care more for the Bible than she herself did, if she painted
illuminated texts. "I was going to tell you this was what Miss Preston
was speaking to us about."
"I don't see that she could say much about that, it's so short. I
don't see what it means; Jesus is in heaven now, and we can't see
Him."
"Oh, but," exclaimed Lucy eagerly, overcoming her shy reluctance to
speak, "He is _always near_, though we can't see Him, and is ready to
help us when we do right, and grieved and displeased when we do wrong.
I forget that myself, Stella," she added with an effort, "or I
shouldn't have been so cross when I came home."
Stella had already forgotten all about that, and felt a little
uncomfortable at her cousin's entering on subjects which she had been
accustomed to consider were to be confined to the pulpit, or at any
rate were above her comprehension. She believed, of course, in a
general way, that Christ had died for sinners, as she had often heard
in church, and that in some vague way _she_ was to be saved and taken
to heaven, when she should be obliged to leave this world; but it had
never occurred to her that the salvation of which she had been told
was to influence her life now, or awaken any love from _her_ in
response to the great love which had been shown toward her. Not daring
to reply, she glanced listlessly over the hymn on the card, but took
up none of its meaning. She had never been conscious of any heavy
burden of sin to be "laid on Jesus." Petted and praised at home for
her beauty and lively winning ways, her faults overlooked and her good
qualities exaggerated, she had no idea of the evil that lay
undeveloped in her nature, shutting out from her heart the love of the
meek and lowly Jesus. She could scarcely feel her need of strength for
a warfare on which she had never entered; and Lucy's words, spoken
out of the realizing experience she had already had, were to her
incomprehensible.