XVIII.
The Arrival
“MIND, coachman, mind! You must hand down that box very carefully!” shouted out Lucius to the driver, who was now engaged in taking down the luggage. The boy had been the first of the party to spring out of the carriage, but he was the last to enter the house, for all his thoughts seemed to be taken up by the long, flat deal box which had been put under the special care of the coachman, with many a charge to see that no harm should come to it on the journey. Had the box been a cradle containing a baby, it could hardly have been more gently and carefully received from the coachman’s hands, and then carried up the door-steps and into the red-brick house by Lucius. Did it not hold the result of the labor of many weeks! – was there not in it the work completed by the family’s united efforts, the beautiful model of the Tabernacle made by the children of Israel!
“Oh, auntie, here is our great work – our model! Where shall we set it up? Have you a table ready? It is all finished – every loop! Oh, you must see it! you must see it!” Such were the exclamations which burst from the children as Lucius appeared in the hall, laden with the long, flat deal box.
Miss Clare had not yet seen the model, though she had heard a great deal about it, and had given notice to many friends and neighbors of the little exhibition of it,2 to be held in her house through the following week, for the benefit of her school. She was amused at the eager impatience shown by the youthful workers. Except Agnes, who took the matter more quietly, none of the Temples cared even to warm themselves by the blazing fire after their wintry journey until the model Tabernacle had been unpacked from its box.
“Please, auntie, please don’t look at it till it’s all set up!” exclaimed Elsie, in a tone of entreaty. “You can talk to mamma, you know, while we are unrolling the little curtains (I did the Turkey-red curtains) – and fastening them up on the gilded pillars by the wee wee loops which are made of silver thread!”
Miss Clare was quite willing to indulge the humor of her young guests, so that she did not even remain in the room while the Tabernacle was being put up on the table set apart for the purpose. She took her sister, Mrs. Temple, up-stairs, and helped her to take off her cloak and furs, and talked over many subjects with her, while the young people below were busily engaged with their model. It was not until nearly two hours had elapsed, and after the party had all partaken of a dinner of roast beef and plum-pudding, that Miss Clare re-entered her own sitting-room to have her first sight of the wonderful work.
For wonderful it was in the eyes of its youthful contrivers, who knew the trouble which it had cost them to finish and fix those numerous pillars and curtains, with sockets and loops. The Temples regarded their model as a triumph of art and patience, much as the builder of one of the Pyramids may have regarded his own gigantic work. Miss Clare was expected to look and feel a good deal more astonished than she could in sincerity do; but if she was not astonished, at least she was pleased, and showed that she was so.
“It’s a pity, auntie, that you can’t see more of my Turkey-red curtains; I wish they’d been the top ones,” cried Elsie, lifting up a corner of the merino covering to show her own work beneath.
“These linen curtains round the court of the Tabernacle are neatly, very neatly made,” observed Miss Clare; “with so many silver loops they must have required a great deal of patience in the worker.”
Amy colored with pleasure at the praise; she had not expected her own share of the work to attract much notice. She now silently drew her aunt’s attention to the pretty little gilded pillars upon which her curtains were hung.
“But the beauty part – the real beauty part – is the ’broidery, the inner curtains, and the veil!” exclaimed Elsie. “Oh, auntie, you will be astonished at them. Just stoop down and look in – just look in! We’ve managed to leave the front open, and the veil is half-drawn aside, so that you can see the inner part quite well. No one could see the inner part of the real Tabernacle, you know; but then ours is only a model.”
The lady stooped, as requested, and looked through the space between the front pillars, not only into the outer Tabernacle, but beyond the veil into what, in the model, represented the Holy of holies. Dora, who had for months been looking forward to this moment, listened eagerly to hear what her darling aunt would say of her work.
Miss Clare, it will be remembered, had that day been examining a lovely specimen of some of the most finished embroidery to be found in any part of the world. Dora’s work was clever, regarded as that of a girl not twelve years of age, who had had to contrive her own pattern; but it was, of course, very poor compared to that on the Indian scarf.
“Is it not splendid ’broidery?” persisted Elsie, who wished others to share her own unbounded admiration for the work of a favorite sister.
“It is nice,” said Aunt Theodora, quietly, “but wants a little more scarlet, I think.”
And was this all that could be said of that which had cost Dora hours of thought, and many hours of patient labor – these few words of qualified praise! Dora was bitterly disappointed, far more disappointed than Agnes, whose curtains, whether mohair or merino, seemed to win no notice at all. There was good reason why Dora should feel pain which Agnes was spared. It was not time and labor only which the younger twin had given to gain success; she had made a sacrifice of conscience, she had forfeited her own self-respect, she had lost the blessing of confidential intercourse with her mother, and all pleasure and comfort in prayer! Dora had given up all this, and for what? To hear the observation, by no means unkindly uttered, “It is nice, but wants a little more scarlet.”
If Dora had ever believed that in working her embroidery she had really been laboring for anything higher than earthly pleasure or human praise, the extreme vexation which she now experienced must surely have undeceived her. Why should she care so much for what was said of her performance if her real object was but to please her Heavenly Master? Agnes and Amy, who had worked from motives of duty and love, were safe from any such keen disappointment. They both looked with pleasure on the completed model, in forming which they had taken inferior parts; while Dora had to walk to the window to hide from the eyes of her family the mortification which she felt.
That day was a very happy one to all the members of the Temple family, Dora alone excepted. She felt a kind of dread of the evening conversation which she knew that she would have with her aunt. The eve of her last birthday Dora remembered as, perhaps, the happiest time of her life. Aunt Theodora had come to sit with her, and talk to her of her coming birthday – a new milestone, as she called it, on the pilgrim’s path towards heaven. Dora had on that evening opened her heart to her aunt, and the two had loved each other more fondly than they ever had loved before, and their parting embrace had been so sweet that Dora had felt that she could never forget it. Miss Clare was certain to come again this evening into her room – in this house Dora had a little room to herself – and must the niece act the hypocrite’s part to an aunt so loving and true; must the girl so trusted and loved make a show of openness while concealing a secret from her aunt, which, if confessed, must lower her in the eyes of that tender relative and friend?
Miss Clare did indeed come that night, as Dora had expected that she would come. The girl soon found herself sitting on a stool with her arms resting on her aunt’s knee, as they had rested twelve months before; and she heard the same dear voice speaking to her of holy things, as she had heard on that well-remembered night. The room was the same, the furniture, the pictures were all the same, but Dora felt in her own heart a miserable change. Half a dozen times was the poor girl on the point of laying her head on her aunt’s knee, and sobbing forth a full confession to relieve her burdened heart. But to own repeated falsehood and long deceit to one herself so truthful, to lose the good opinion of one whose regard she so greatly valued, oh! Dora could not muster up courage sufficient for this!
“And now that you are making a new start in life’s journey, my child,” such were the aunt’s concluding words as she rose to depart, “give yourself anew to the best of Masters, the most tender of Friends. Ask His blessing upon all that you do: without that blessing our best works are but like building on sand, or writing on water – all end in vanity and vexation of spirit. The great lesson taught us by the history of ancient Israel is this: the path of obedience is the path of safety and happiness also. When God’s people followed where He led, and did what He commanded, then were their hearts filled with joy, and their harps tuned to glad songs of triumph; but when the Israelites turned aside to paths of disobedience, sorrow followed close upon sin; they hung their harps on the willows, and, exiles from their beautiful land, they wept when they remembered the blessings which would still have been theirs, had they not forsaken their God!”
XIX.
Disappointment
The birthday of the twins had arrived; but the sun rises late on the twenty-fourth of December, and Dora was up, dressing by candlelight, long before his first beams shone on the sheet of pure white snow which had fallen during the night. It might be supposed that Dora’s thoughts would be on the words of advice which she had heard on the previous night; but though these words had made some impression at the time, it was by no means upon them that the girl’s mind was running when she awoke in the morning. Dora was thinking of her embroidery work – that work of which she had been so proud, that work which had cost her so dear. Nothing that Miss Clare had said dwelt so much on the memory of her niece as the simple observation, “It wants a little more scarlet, I think.”
For on the mantelpiece of the room now occupied by Dora, there chanced to stand a glass bottle, corked and labelled; and by the light of her candle Dora had noticed that “SCARLET INK” was printed upon the label. The sight of that little bottle had roused in the mind of the girl new hopes, and again turned her energies into the channel of work.
“My supply of scarlet silk ran short, and I was not able to get another skein at the shop,” thought Dora. “Aunt is quite right, there is not enough of scarlet mixed with the purple and blue; it is that which spoils the effect of my curtains. I wonder that no one noticed that before! But I have a skein of white silk with me, and why should I not dye it myself with that beautiful scarlet ink? This is a capital idea! The school children do not come till the afternoon; I should have time to dye my silk before breakfast, and after breakfast to work enough scarlet into my pattern to give a brilliant effect to all that part which is most easily seen. How pleased Aunt Theodora will be to find that I have taken her hint, and that I grudge no extra trouble to make my work complete! How very lucky it is that she put that ink into my room!”
Dora actually forgot both her prayers and her Scripture reading on that birthday morning, in her impatience to get down-stairs and quietly remove her inner veil and curtains from the model, before any other member of the family should enter the room where it was kept. With rough hair, and dress only half-buttoned, Dora noiselessly opened her door, and then crept down the staircase, and into the sitting-room in which the Tabernacle stood, covered from the dust by large sheets of silver paper. There was no one in the room except the housemaid, who was employed in opening the shutters to let in the light of morning.
The model, as we know, was made to be taken to pieces at will; but as Dora’s set of curtains was the innermost of all, it cost her some time and trouble to remove them. She pursued her occupation, while the housemaid went on with that of lighting the fire and dusting the room, and was at last able to disengage the whole of the embroidered portion of the drapery of the little Tabernacle. With this Dora returned to her own apartment, and she laid her work on the pretty little table which her aunt had placed for her convenience.
“I must be quick about the dyeing,” said Dora to herself, “for I can hear Lucius whistling up-stairs in the passage, and little Elsie running about in the room just over my head. The family is now all astir, and in a quarter of an hour the prayer-bell will ring. If I don’t dye my silk scarlet at once I shall be sadly delayed in my work, for I cannot, of course, use it for sewing until it is perfectly dry.”
So Dora took the bottle of ink down from its place on the mantelpiece, and in a great hurry set about removing the sealing-wax which covered the cork, for the bottle had not yet been opened. It was a tolerably easy matter to break off the edges of the red wax, but Dora did not find it easy at all to pull out the cork, which was low in the narrow neck of the bottle, and happened to be a very tight fit.
“Dear! dear! how troublesome this is!” exclaimed Dora, hunting about for her stout pair of nail scissors to help her in forcing out the obstinate cork.
“Good morning, Dora dear, many happy returns of the day to you!” cried the merry voice of Elsie, as she tapped at the door of her sister.
“Thank you, darling, don’t come in now; I’ll soon be down-stairs – I’m not quite ready!” called out Dora, who had just succeeded in finding the scissors. She heard the little feet patter down the stairs.
“Happy birthday to you, Dora! Mind you’re not late, Miss Twelve-years-old!” This time it was the voice of Lucius at the door.
“No, no, I’ll not be late; I’ll be down in ten minutes!” cried Dora, digging her scissors vigorously into the cork. The clatter of Lucius’s boots showed that he had followed little Elsie.
“Oh, this cork, this tiresome cork!” exclaimed Dora; “there, it’s out at last;” and setting the opened bottle on the table, she turned round in a great flurry to get from her box the skein of silk which was to be changed from white to scarlet.
“More haste, less speed.” Dora was not the first who has proved the truth of that proverb. She whisked round so rapidly that her dress struck the top of the bottle which she had carelessly set down in a place that was not very safe. The bottle was knocked over, but it fell upon something soft which lay on the table, so that it was neither broken, nor did it make enough noise in falling to attract the attention of Dora. It was not till she had found the skein (which she had some trouble in doing), that on turning back to the table she perceived the mischief caused by her hasty movement.
What a start and exclamation of distress were given by poor Dora when she saw on the table her embroidery lying actually under the overturned bottle, and soaked through and through with the scarlet ink which had flowed in abundance from it!
Dora stood for a moment as if rooted to the spot, scarcely able to believe her own eyes. She then darted forward, caught up the half-emptied bottle in one hand, and the stained, dripping linen in the other. The first glance at the embroidery showed the poor girl that the mischief done was utterly beyond repairing; in one minute the fruit of all her long toil had been completely destroyed!
“Oh, it is all my own fault – all my own fault – it could not have prospered!” cried out Dora, in a loud tone of anguish, as she put down first the bottle, then the embroidery, and then, hiding her face with her scarlet-stained fingers, she burst into a passion of weeping.
That cry, that weeping, reached the ears of her aunt, who had just approached her door, carrying with her the destined gifts for the twins – the Indian scarf, and the brooch with the miniature set in pearls.
“My darling girl, what is the matter?” exclaimed Miss Clare, opening the door in alarm. There was no need to repeat the unanswered question; the bottle, the little heap of embroidered linen dripping with scarlet ink, told their own story plainly enough. Miss Clare saw the nature of the accident which had happened, and, with kind sympathy for her niece’s great disappointment, folded her affectionately in her arms.
XX.
Confession
“IT is vexatious, my Dora, very vexatious,” said Miss Clare, in a tone of condolence; “it is trying to you, after all the pains which you have bestowed on your work, to see that work suddenly spoiled. But still take comfort, dear child, in the thought that no labor undertaken for our Master can really be lost.”
Dora sobbed more bitterly than before, for she knew that hers had not been labor undertaken for the Master, and she felt that her time and toil had been worse than lost.
Miss Clare did all that she could to comfort her favorite niece. She showed Dora the beautiful brooch which she herself valued so greatly; she told her that she had brought it as a birthday remembrance; but, much to the lady’s surprise, Dora only shook her head sadly, and sobbed forth, “Not for me – not for me! Oh, that model, I wish that I never had touched it – I wish that I had never set a stitch in one of those curtains!”
“I see that you are distressed, very naturally distressed, by the mishap which has befallen your curtains, fearing that thereby the whole model may be spoilt,” observed Theodora. “You are thinking of the disappointment of your brother and sisters, of the Ragged-school children who are coming to-day, of my friends who are invited to see the model. You think that there is no time to repair the effects of the spilling the scarlet ink; but I think that I see a way to remedy the mischief;” and Miss Clare, as she spoke, placed before the weeping girl her beautiful embroidered scarf. “I had intended to give this to Agnes when I gave you the miniature brooch, but I will now alter my plan. I will try to find out, or purchase, some other remembrance for Agnes; and, with a little alteration, do you not think, my sweet girl, that this work will do nicely for the inner curtains and veil?”
“A thousand times better than mine could have done!” exclaimed Dora, darting a glance of almost fierce dislike at the embroidery, now stained and marred, which she had once surveyed with such proud admiration.
“No, indeed,” said Miss Clare, very kindly; “for though the Indian scarf may be – certainly is in itself more beautiful than your curtains, we cannot see in it the same token of patient perseverance in making what was intended to be a humble offering of love to the Lord.”
“Oh, Aunt Theodora, I can stand this no longer!” exclaimed Dora, almost choking with the violence of her emotion; “you must know all, I can hide it no more; you must hear what a naughty, naughty girl I have been!”
Then, as well as she could through her tears and her sobs, Dora relieved herself of the burden of concealment which had become at last intolerable. She told everything to her aunt – the first fault, the breaking of the fourth commandment; then the falsehood, the deceit which had followed, for when did an unrepented sin ever stand alone! Dora concluded by passionately exclaiming, “You cannot, you must not, give me the brooch – Agnes has deserved it much better; she has been conquering her temper and doing all that she can to please mamma, while I have been only a hypocrite! Please give the brooch to Agnes, and the scarf for the model; I could not bear now to take either – I who have only deserved to be punished!”
Miss Clare was surprised, pained, disappointed by what she now heard; yet there was comfort to her in seeing that now at least her poor niece was heartily repenting.
“I cannot tell you, my child, how thankful I am that this accident has happened to your work, and that you have been led to speak out bravely at last,” said her aunt, putting her arm round Dora, and drawing her tenderly towards her, so that the poor girl could weep on her bosom.
“Then you don’t despise me – you won’t give me up?” murmured Dora, crying still, but much more softly.
“Give you up – never!” cried the aunt, and she pressed a kiss upon Dora’s brow. “It may be a question, indeed, whether I had not better reserve the brooch till next birthday.”
“Oh, I never could take it, never!” cried Dora, excitedly; “let it be given to Agnes.”
“Do you think, Dora, that by giving up the brooch you are winning a claim to forgiveness – that by this sacrifice you are atoning for what you have done wrong?” asked Miss Clare. “If so, I am bound to tell you that you are mistaken.”
“No, aunt,” replied Dora, for the first time raising her eyes, heavy with weeping, and looking her godmother full in the face; “I know that nothing that I can do can atone for my sin – that there is but one Atonement; but I feel as if I could not take the brooch which you meant to give to a good girl, and which I have so little” – Dora could not finish the sentence, tears came again, and she hid her face on the bosom of her aunt.
Miss Clare hesitated no longer. She felt that it would deeply impress on the mind of Dora the painful lesson which she was learning, if she saw the brooch in the possession of her elder twin. What Theodora had heard from Mrs. Temple of the marked improvement in the character of Agnes, convinced her that she was the sister who best deserved to receive the miniature of her mother. Miss Clare made a sacrifice of her own inclination in thus deciding to follow her judgment, but she was in the habit of doing what she thought right, instead of what she thought pleasant.
“I will confess all to mamma, now, just as I have done to you – I won’t be a hypocrite any longer,” murmured Dora, as soon as she had recovered power to speak.
“And there is Another to whom my child must also confess,” said Miss Clare, still with her arm round her niece, still with Dora’s head on her breast; “there is One who is ready freely to forgive every penitent who approaches the Mercy-seat pleading the merits of Christ. We have no power to remove one spot from our souls;” the eyes of Miss Clare chanced to rest, as she spoke, on the embroidery, stained and destroyed; “but there is the Lord’s promise to comfort the broken and contrite heart, ‘Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be white as snow – though they be red as crimson, they shall be as wool.’”
Dora and her aunt knelt down together and together prayed, but in silence. When Dora rose from her knees, though she was still very sad and subdued, there was a peace in her heart, a sense of sin forgiven, which she had not experienced for months.