NO sooner was Mabel freed from the anxiety concerning her music than the ghost of another trouble rose before her. The silk dress she had bought had not been paid for, and she did not know how the money was to be obtained to pay for it.
A day or two before it was ordered, she had written to her mother, vaguely hinting that she might want some money soon, as her aunt was going to give a large party. But the letter was not answered at once. And when the reply did come, Mabel was told that she must not grow extravagant in her dress—that the blue silk, being fully trimmed, was quite good enough for the party. And if new gloves were necessary, she must buy them out of the money that was given to her before she left home, for no more could be sent to her just now.
Mabel was almost stunned when she read the letter. Up-stairs in her desk was the dressmaker's bill, amounting to nearly five pounds, and she had scarcely as many shillings she could call her own. She did not want any more breakfast, but sat toying with her bread and butter and egg instead of eating them. Everybody else at the table was occupied with their own concerns—her uncle with his morning paper, Julia and her mother with their own letters, and Isabel was busy feeding her pet spaniel, so no one noticed Mabel and her almost untouched breakfast.
The day was fine and bright, and they were to walk to nurse's cottage as soon as their morning lessons were over. And Isabel was full of eager anticipation, for she had not seen her old nurse for some time. Mabel, on the contrary, was unusually quiet, scarcely speaking except in answer to Isabel, during the whole walk.
Her cousin thought she understood this, and, as they drew near the end of their journey, she whispered:
"Don't you hope Mrs. Barker will be at home, Mabel?"
"Mrs. Barker!" repeated Mabel, whose thoughts were busy over that unpaid dressmaker's bill and her mother's letter.
"Yes, dear, have you forgotten?" exclaimed Isabel. "We are going to ask her to tell us some more about that parable. I do so want to know whether God plants this seed of himself in all our hearts," she added.
"I think we can learn such things at church," said Mabel a little loftily.
"Yes, dear, you can, perhaps, but—but I have not been used to think of such things. And I am not at all clever, and so I like somebody to explain and make everything quite clear," said Isabel. "I—I thought you would have done this for me," she added after a minute's pause and in a lower tone.
Mabel's cheek flushed. Was it so then that she—she who had desired above all things to make her life useful, to carry the message of God's love to distant lands—should thus have missed the opportunity that lay at her very feet, so that her cousin, who had been waiting to hear her speak, was thankful now to turn to this old woman for instruction.
She made no reply to Isabel, and soon her thoughts wandered off to her monetary difficulties again. These were too pressing just now to be lightly dismissed, even for the all-important subject that now engaged Isabel's attention. Not that Mabel had forgotten it herself. She had practised too much soul dissection lately, turning herself inside out as it were, to know whether she had received this seed of grace. And the words, "'Tis a point I long to know," repeated themselves with painful reiteration through the chambers of her brain.
They found nurse at home this time, and she eagerly welcomed her young lady, and would have monopolized all her attention if she could. But Isabel slipped away after a few minutes, on the plea of going to see Mrs. Barker in her own room, as she had a bad cold, and could not come down-stairs to-day.
"You tell nurse all about the party, Mabel, while I go and see Mrs. Barker," she said, kissing her old nurse by way of reconciling her to the plan. And then she ran up-stairs and eagerly greeted Mrs. Barker.
"I want you to tell me something more about that parable of the sower," she said when all due inquiries had been made and answered.
The old woman looked at the flushed eager young face and wondered.
"My dear young lady, have you not read it for yourself?" she asked.
"Yes, yes," said Isabel, "but I want to know the sort of people God puts his seed into—the Holy Spirit that you told us about."
"The sort of people?" repeated Mrs. Barker. "My dear, the words are plain enough. The seed fell on all sorts of ground—hard rocky soil, loose stony soil, and soft earth, where it could sink down and grow. So I take it that all sorts of people are meant—that God plants his seed in the heart of every man, and woman, and child. And that if all would nurture it—take away the weeds of pride and worldliness, so that the sunshine of God's love could fall upon it and the rain and the air which are so many influences from Him play about it,— then would it grow in the hearts of all men, and the kingdom that we pray for would come to each of us, and heaven be begun on earth." The old woman spoke almost rapturously, and Isabel sat and listened with an eager light in her eyes.
"And you think God has really planted this seed in my heart?" she said in an awestruck whisper.
"I have not a doubt of it, my dear."
"But—but I am so unworthy, so ignorant, so—oh, I don't know what it means hardly," said Isabel in a tremulous voice.
"My dear, if God waited until we were worthy before giving us this precious gift, I am afraid very few would have it."
"And if there is not time for the seed to grow and have fruit, you think He will not be angry if there are only green blades?"
"My dear young lady, God only expects green blades in the spring of our life, but it is just then that it needs the most nurture, and the weeds the most persistent rooting up. And so if He sees we are watching and praying, rooting up the tares of our pride and self-will, be sure He will take care of the rest—He will make the seed to grow. For after all we cannot do His work, remember, we can but clear the ground to let His rain and sunshine—the influences of His Holy Spirit—play around the garden of our heart."
"Thank you," said Isabel with a deep-drawn sigh. "I almost wish I could live to be an old woman that I might bear some fruit," she said in a whisper.
Mrs. Barker looked at her in astonishment. She had often heard nurse say how very delicate Miss Isabel was, but she had no idea that the girl herself knew it.
"I—I don't think we ought to trouble ourselves about such things as that," she said, scarcely knowing what to say.
"Oh, it does not trouble me," said Isabel. "Of course I may live for years and years, but I do not think I shall. Only; please don't tell nurse of this, for dear nursey would fancy I was going to die directly," said Isabel quickly.
And the next minute the door opened, and nurse with Mabel came into the room.
"Well, I'm sure, Miss Isabel, you have quite forsaken your old nurse, it seems. What can you and Mrs. Barker find to talk about, I wonder?" she said, looking from one to the other as though she thought they had been hatching some plot between them.
"There now, you dear, jealous old nursey, you are not to ask any questions," said Isabel, laughing and kissing her.
Nurse looked from one to the other as though she did not half like it, because neither seemed inclined to repeat their conversation. But Isabel soothed and coaxed the old woman into a better frame of mind before she went away, although Mabel still looked unhappy and preoccupied when they left the cottage.
On their way home, Isabel told her cousin what she had learned.
"And Mrs. Barker thinks God has surely planted this seed in my heart; that my very anxiety about this is a proof that it is alive and growing. Oh, Mabel, to think this great thing should have happened to me and I did not know it!"
But Mabel was too much vexed to be as pleased as her cousin expected to see her. And another thing, she was not at all sure that this was the right way of receiving instruction, and so she said something about going to church, and learning there whether Mrs. Barker was right in what she had taught her.
Isabel looked disappointed. "You see, I cannot often go to church, it is so far-away, and the carriage cannot always be spared. And then papa always wants me on Sunday."
"The Lord Jesus says, 'Whosoever loveth father and mother more than me is not worthy of me,'" said Mabel severely.
This question of going to church had been one of frequent discussion between the cousins. Isabel had not been brought up to go to the house of God with anything like regularity, while to Mabel a Sunday at home was a very rare occurrence, and "going to church" had drifted into a mere formal observance with her—a cold lifeless service, but one which she never omitted if she could help it.
"But what am I to do?" said Isabel in a pained voice. "You know I cannot walk so far, and can very seldom have the carriage. And then papa likes me to read to him or walk about the garden with him on Sunday; it is the only day we have together."
"I don't think the walk to church is much longer than our walk to-day," said Mabel, "but where there's a will there's a way," she added tartly.
"Well, dear, I will try to go to church if you think I ought."
"Why, of course you ought to go," said Mabel in a tone of superiority, "especially if you want to learn—"
"Oh, but, Mabel, that is just it!" interrupted her cousin. "I am not clever, and I have not been used to going to church as you have, and it all feels so strange and far-away that I am like one bewildered in church."
"Oh, Isabel, if you would only try, you could learn things much better at church than listening to an old woman like Barker," said Mabel. For this was what had vexed her so much, that her cousin should have gone to this old woman for instruction.
"Well, dear, I will go to church. I'll go next Sunday, if you think I ought."
"Yes, and we'll read a chapter of the Bible together every day," said Mabel in a more pleasant tone. "And if there is anything you cannot understand, I daresay I can help you."
The two girls began their Scripture reading that very evening—not that it had been wholly neglected before, for Mabel had always read a few verses as a sort of task she must get through, while Isabel had read a chapter here and there occasionally while her governess was with her, but with no thought that it had anything to do with her.
But in the light of what Mrs. Barker had told her, the story of the life of Jesus Christ had altogether a new meaning, for this life was to be translated into her life; this was the holy seed—"the true light which lighteth every man that cometh into the world," unless it is buried in selfishness and sin.
"But, Mabel dear, I have buried it in selfishness and sin," said Isabel sadly, as they were talking over this passage. "I may not have committed any great sin, but I never thought about this holy seed—this 'true light,' and so it has been buried in me all these years. What shall I do?"
"'The blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth us from all sin,'" said Mabel, scarce knowing what she ought to say to comfort her cousin under this new distress. She felt vaguely uneasy herself, for if her cousin had such a sense of sin, because she had unknowingly buried this "true light" all these years, how much greater must her sin be—she who had been so carefully instructed from her earliest infancy. Sometimes lately she had tried to shelter herself under the thought, painful though it might be, that God's special grace had not been given to her yet, but in some future time she might hope to have this, and then her life would be different.
But if Mrs. Barker's reading of the parable of the sower was true, she could not shift the responsibility of her failure in this way, for she knew that her life had been a failure lately—God's grace had been given, but she had let the wild weeds and tares almost choke it. She read the parable of the sower for herself over and over again, hoping to detect some corner out of which she could creep, but she found none. There was the plain declaration—the seed was sown in all sorts of soil, leaving her without excuse if she neglected this salvation.
Not that she came to this conclusion all at once, or did not try to wriggle out of it at first when she did see it, but Isabel's talk, and what she herself read of the teaching of the Lord Jesus Christ Himself, shut her up to this view of the matter, and she saw that there was no royal rby which self-denial and struggle might be evaded if she would live a truly useful life.
But, meanwhile, this was not the only care that oppressed her. The winter passed into spring, and brought with it fresh wants in the way of dress. Her mother was not unmindful of these, for she sent her what she thought would be an ample sum of money to provide all she would require.
Now, the bill she owed the dressmaker amounted to about the same sum as her mother had sent for her spring outfit. And this burden of debt had proved so intolerable to Mabel that she went at once and paid it, never thinking of her two brown dresses that would now have to last until midsummer.
At first she assumed a stoical indifference when Julia and Isabel donned their pretty spring attire. Her younger cousin had put off doing this as long as she could, in the hope that Mabel would also lay aside her winter garb, which, however comfortable and suitable it might look in winter time, was certainly out of place now. But to all her hints upon the subject, Mabel only gave short snappish answers.
Isabel was puzzled. She knew some money had been sent for Mabel to buy new dresses, and why they were not bought, she could not tell. All thought of the dressmaker's bill that had been such a haunting care to Mabel the last few weeks had entirely passed from her mind. Mabel had sent it to her mother, she supposed, and it had been paid long ago, and why she should prefer to wear dull dowdy dresses in the bright spring weather, when she had the money to buy others, was a riddle she could not solve.
One morning, after Mabel had left the breakfast-room, Julia made some remark about her cousin wearing her winter dresses still, and Isabel hastened to defend her. "She doesn't think so much about dress as you and I, Julia," she said laughingly.
"Oh, I know better than that," retorted her sister. "Look at that new evening dress she bought. I am sure she could have done without it. The blue silk she brought with her would have done very well for that party." Julia had made this remark before, when the preparations for the party were being discussed. And Mabel had overheard it, and it was this more than anything else had made her decide to have the new dress, and taste the bitterness of being in debt.
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