CHAPTER IV.

A LONG TALK.

ETHEL would have given a great deal for a good excuse for staying in her own room the next morning; and she lingered so long, that Emily came to see what was the matter.

"Come, Ethel, breakfast is ready and waiting. Why don't you come down?"

"I would rather not," said Ethel, colouring violently. "I don't care for any breakfast, if Anna will bring me some tea."

"Are you sick?" asked her sister.

"No; but I don't want to come down—not till the doctor is gone."

"Oh!" exclaimed Emily, suddenly enlightened. "I see now what is the matter. You are afraid Matthew will laugh at you; is that it?"

"Well, he does laugh at me, and you know he does, Emily," replied Ethel, tearfully. "I can't bear it."

"Oh, you should not mind. You know he would do anything in the world for you; and besides, Ethel," added Emily, gravely, "I think you may be very well satisfied if Matthew does nothing but laugh at what happened last night. A good many gentlemen would not have thought it a very nice joke to be fastened out in the cold and rain, after such a hard day's work as Matthew had yesterday. It was not very pleasant for him to go round trying the doors and windows of his own house; and if he does nothing but laugh at the trouble you caused him, I think you can hardly complain."

Emily's words presented the matter in a new light to Ethel, who had heretofore considered herself as altogether the aggrieved party. She remembered all at once that Dr. Ray had not spoken a single unkind word after all the trouble she had given him. As she hesitated a moment before speaking, Emily coughed violently.

"You are coughing again," said Ethel, anxiously; for Emily had suffered several months from a very painful affection of the throat, which was apt to return if she took the least cold.

"Yes, I am afraid I took cold last night. I was so startled, I never stopped to put on my stockings and shoes. Come, are you ready?"

Ethel hesitated no longer, but followed her sister down-stairs, feeling very shy and very much ashamed of herself.

Dr. Ray's eyes twinkled, and he pulled the end of his mustache, as he was apt to do when enjoying a joke; but he bade Ethel good-morning very kindly, and made no allusion to the events of the night before. His face grew suddenly grave as Emily coughed again.

"That won't do," said he. "How have you taken cold?"

"Last night, I suppose," said Emily.

"Humph! Yes, I suppose so. The next time, don't run out on the cold matting with your bare feet, even if the house be on fire. You must stay by the fire all day to-day and nurse yourself."

"Oh, brother! And lose the concert which she has been looking forward to all the week," exclaimed Ethel.

"I am very sorry, sister, but there is no help for it," said the doctor, kindly but gravely. "Emily has been too ill lately to run any risks; and it is a very chilly, damp day,—one of the worst of this very trying spring. If she should take another hard cold, there is no saying what might come of it."

This was all the doctor said; not a word of reproach was addressed to Ethel either by him or his wife, but Ethel felt this very forbearance to be a severe reproach, and began to justify and excuse herself in her usual pathetic tone.

"I suppose you think it is all my fault, brother; but I am sure I don't see why. I am not to blame for being naturally timid and nervous."

"Perhaps not. I do not know that anybody said you were," replied Dr. Ray. "Whether you are to blame for petting and nursing your fears, indulging your fancies, and making no effort to overcome them is another matter. 'I' think you are; and I tell you plainly, little sister, that unless you do make an effort to overcome these useless and 'seemless' fears, you will never be good for anything in this world unless it be to exercise the patience and forbearance of those about you. Come into the office, Emily, and let me look into your throat."

"Yes, that is always the way," said Ethel, indignantly, as Dr. Ray and his wife left the room; "I am always the one to blame. It is too bad!"

"Gently, gently," said Mr. Dalton. "Who do you think was to blame, if not yourself?"

"I don't know that any one was to blame, unless it might be you and the doctor, for telling such horrid stories and frightening me to death," said Ethel.

"Ethel, I want to have a serious talk with you about this matter," said Mr. Dalton, gravely, "a good deal depends upon it. Suppose you come up to my room, and help me to put away my things. I am going to unpack my big trunks."

Ethel followed her brother with a martyr-like air, as of one unjustly condemned going to execution. Henry did not seem very much disposed to begin the lecture. He unpacked his boxes, talked over their contents, and gave the history of each article as he took it out, till Ethel almost forgot what she had come for. At last Henry said, somewhat abruptly:

"Ethel, you believe in God, don't you?"

"Why, Henry, what a question! Of course I do!" replied Ethel.

"I am not so sure about the 'of course;' but we will let that go for the present. You believe that there is a God: what do you believe about him? Think now, before you answer."

Ethel thought a little, and then answered, "I believe that he is everywhere present, that he is all-powerful, all-wise, and perfectly good."

"Do you think you love him?"

"Yes," said Ethel, seriously. "I do believe, brother, that I love him."

"And do you think he loves you?"

"He must love me, I suppose: why, yes, of course he does, or he would not have done so much for me," said Ethel. "Yes, I am sure he loves me!"

"Then, Ethel, what are you afraid of?" asked her brother, gravely. "Cannot this almighty, all-wise, all-good, and everywhere present God, whom you love and who loves you, protect you for one single night? Which of his attribute do you distrust—his power or his wisdom or his goodness, that you live in this constant terror?"

Ethel looked as if a new idea had been presented to her.

"Ethel, when Juliet taught you to say your prayers, as a little child, did she not teach you one which begins, 'Lighten our darkness?'"

"She did," replied Ethel, surprised. "How did you know?"

"Because our own mother taught Juliet, Emily, and me, when we were little children," replied Mr. Dalton.

"That was not my mamma," said Ethel.

"No, your mamma came afterward, and a very sweet, lovely woman she was. I loved her dearly, and mourned her loss greatly, though I never saw her many times. But will you repeat that prayer for me, Ethel?"

Ethel repeated in a low, reverent voice:

"Lighten our darkness, O Lord, we beseech thee, and by thy great mercy defend us from all terrors and dangers of this night, for the love of thy Son, our Saviour Jesus Christ."

"That is the way I learned it," said Mr. Dalton. "I remember asking mother what terrors meant; and she said they meant fears: that we asked our Father in heaven to protect us from all dangers, and from the fear of them. Do you still use this prayer, Ethel?"

"Yes, brother, after my other prayers. It seems so natural, somehow. It makes me think of sister Juliet."

"Ethel, what is it to pray in faith?"

"It is to ask God for what we need or desire, believing that he will give us what we ask for if it is best for us to have it," answered Ethel.

"Exactly so. And what is the promise made to the prayer of faith?"

"There are so many of them," said Ethel, hesitating.

"Yes, I know there are a great many of them," said her brother, smiling; "but tell me one of them?"

"'Whatsoever ye shall ask in prayer, believing, ye shall receive.' That is one," replied Ethel, after thinking a little.

"Yes, that is one, and a very large and full one," said her brother. "Do you believe it?"

"It is God's word," replied Ethel; "so it must be true."

"Yes, but do you believe it?" asked her brother, with a keen glance. "It does not seem to me that you can believe it, or that you can have any real trust in God whatever."

"I don't see why you should say so," said Ethel.

"Because, my dear child, if you really and truly trusted God, and believed that he is not only able but willing to take care of you, you would not be so afraid of everything and everybody. If, for instance, you believed really in your heart that God would hear your prayer at night, and preserve you from all harm and dangers of the night, you would go to bed and sleep without fear, because you would know that no real harm could happen to you. At least, you would try to overcome your fears by these considerations, and by degrees you would succeed."

"It is natural for me to be afraid," said Ethel, rather sullenly. "I can't help it."

"Are you sure you wish to help it, Ethel?" asked her brother. "Are you sure you do not think it rather lady-like and refined to be as you say—delicate and nervous?"

Ethel did not answer. In her heart she did think so.

"As to its being natural to you to be a coward, I have no doubt it is partly true," continued Mr. Dalton; "but it does not follow by any means that you cannot help it. People often correct their natural dispositions. Do you think sister Juliet was a very indolent person?"

"Sister Juliet!" exclaimed Ethel. "No, indeed. She was the most industrious person I ever saw—more so, even, than Emily."

"Well, Ethel, Juliet was by nature rather the most indolent little person I ever knew in my life. She was lazy about everything, and the most accomplished little 'shirk' I think I ever met with. She contrived to slip her neck out of everything, and made everybody wait on her."

"Well, I never should have guessed that," said Ethel. "Mr. Bayard used to say that she was unmercifully industrious."

"Yes, she went rather to the other extreme in after-life; but as a child, and until she was about fifteen, she was just what I describe."

"What was it that cured her?" asked Ethel.

"What cures all of us, my dear, when we are cured at all,—the grace of God. When Juliet was fifteen, she became a disciple of our Lord,—not only by name and profession, but in heart and life a Christian. The Holy Spirit showed her that indolence was a grievous sin, and a wasting of the time and talents which were given her for her master's service. She discovered that the indulgence of this sin was undermining and destroying everything good in her, as does any 'indulged' sin, however small it may seem in itself. She resolved to conquer herself, and she did so; but she had many hard struggles before she gained the victory."

"I don't see that cowardice is a sin," said Ethel.

"There is undoubtedly a degree of natural timidity which cannot be called a sin," replied her brother. "It is no sin for a child to be afraid in the dark. There is no sin in the disgust we naturally feel toward certain animals, or in that instinctive fear which leads all animals, man included, to shun what is likely to hurt them. But if we allow this fear to govern us, to interfere with our usefulness and the comfort and fear of those around us, it becomes a sin. A man is not a coward if he is afraid of being shot when he goes into battle; but he becomes one if he yields to that fear and runs away."

"It is all very well for you to talk, brother; but the fact is, you don't know anything about it," said Ethel. "You can't tell how I feel. Matthew is just so. He scolded me for being afraid and making a fuss, just as if I could help it; and I know I can't help it. Of course he does not understand. Doctors never do. Their hearts get perfectly hardened to suffering of all sorts by seeing so much of it."

"There I think you make a great mistake, Ethel," said her brother. "I do not think doctors are more hard-hearted and indifferent to suffering than other men, but they have to keep their feelings under control. You know the other day Matthew was called suddenly to see a man who had his arm crushed in the rolling-mill, and I went with him. It was a dreadful sight, as you may suppose, and the poor man was suffering terribly. Suppose that Matthew, instead of attending to his business, had begun to think how horrible the sight was, and how dreadful it was to see him suffer so.

"Suppose that the man who rescued his companion at the imminent risk of his own life had said to himself, 'Oh, I can't go near him; I shall be killed if I do.' What would have become of the sufferers? You say people get used to these things; but how do they so? They were not used to them when they began. Is it not by controlling themselves and overcoming their fears and feelings?"

Henry paused, and walked two or three times up and down the room. "I shall say no more, Ethel," he said, at last. "There is no use in talking to you so long as you justify yourself all the time. These fears of yours are a great sorrow and trouble to me; because, unless they can be overcome, they present an insuperable obstacle to a plan on which I have thought a great deal, and on which my heart has been set for several years."

Ethel's heart began to beat fast. "Do you mean—" she asked, and then stopped.

"I mean that I have for several years cherished the hope that I might take you to Persia with me, as an assistant to our friend Miss Beecher in her girls' schools. It would be very pleasant to me to have a home and housekeeper of my own; and we are always in want of help. I thought I might begin at once to teach you the languages, especially Syriac; and I calculated that at the end of the three years I expected to remain at home, you would be ready to return with me. But my pretty castle in the air is likely to vanish like a bubble," he continued, smiling rather sadly.

Ethel was so much agitated that she could hardly speak. So Henry had been cherishing the same plans as herself.

"But, brother Henry, I don't understand," she managed to say. "I thought you were going to India again."

"No; I am going back to Persia, where my work began in the first place, you know. I have always hoped that it might be so arranged, and my wishes are likely to be fulfilled so far as that is concerned. But it, seems that I must give up all thought of taking you with me, unless, at least, you can learn to be a brave woman. The journey is a long and somewhat dangerous one; and there are many unpleasant things constantly to be encountered in the life of a missionary. A coward would be only a hinderance and a burden to me. I am very sorry, very much disappointed; but, as you say, there is no use in talking, and we will drop the subject."

"But going to Persia is not like going to India," faltered Ethel.

"No; in some respects it is better, and in others rather worse. The journey is far more toilsome and dangerous. If you are afraid to go to bed with the office door unbolted, how would you bear sleeping in a tent where you have no fastenings at all, and hearing the wolves howling outside; or hiding from savage hordes in a haystack, as Miss Beecher was once obliged to do? It would not do to succumb or faint under such circumstances, you see."

The conversation was here interrupted, and Ethel escaped to her room, feeling more unhappy and ashamed than she had done in all her life before. She had often considered how she should open the subject of her becoming a missionary, to Henry. She had pictured his surprise, and had gone over and over again the objections he was likely to urge, and the arguments she would bring forward to meet them. And now, it appeared, that Henry had been cherishing the same idea,—that he had wished to take her to Persia, whither she had always wished to go, and as an assistant to her dear Miss Beecher. He had meant to have her teach the very girls in whom she had always felt such an interest. The only obstacle in the way, as it seemed, was one of which she had never thought—her own utter unfitness for the place and its duties. She could not but see that Henry was right. It would never do for a missionary to be a coward. And she was an egregious coward. She would not deny it, and hitherto she had felt no disposition to do so. She had, as Henry said, thought it "fine" to be nervous and timid. It was all because she had such delicate sensibilities. But what if these delicate sensibilities were to interfere with and thwart the grand plan of her life? What was to be done about that?

The first thing to be done about it, according to Ethel's view of the fitness of things, was to sit down and cry. Crying was an amusement in which she frequently indulged, and she did it very prettily, it must be confessed. Her tears came easily, in large, bright drops, without any violent sobs and disfiguring convulsions of the face. But somehow she did not find her usual comfort in tears. For almost the first time in her life, she had a real heart trouble, and she did not find it at all nice,—not at all like the sentimental distresses which she was apt to conjure up for herself. She was thoroughly disappointed and mortified. The real strength and earnestness which lay at the bottom of her character, and which had been enlisted on the side of her missionary scheme, was aroused by her brother's words, and protested against being baffled and put down. She was really and truly unhappy.

Ethel had for a year been a member of the church, and believed herself to be a true disciple of Christ; and it must be confessed that in most respects she was a consistent Christian. Her religious life, as far as it went, was a real, genuine life; and though her religious experience was not very deep, it was true. As fast as she was made aware of her faults, she strove to conquer them, and to live very near to her Divine Master. She had had the advantage of a thoroughly Christian bringing up and training, which had taught her to be truthful, kind, and polite, industrious and faithful in her work, conscientious and self-restrained in her amusements. Hitherto her way had been easy to her.

In all continued efforts, like pursuing a study, for instance, the hard place does not lie at the beginning, but a shorter or longer time afterward. The lion which guards the threshold does not show himself at the gate, but hides somewhere inside, ready to take us unawares. Every one who has learned music or a new language, knows what it is to come to the "hard place." It is when the interest of novelty has worn off and that of use has not begun; when we work day after day, seeming to make absolutely no progress; when we cannot understand something—meet with some unexpected difficulty—that we are discouraged, and wish we had not begun. But if we keep resolutely on doing our best, working doggedly and steadily at whatever hinders us, we presently find, we hardly know how, that the hard place is left behind, and we are going on finely again.

It is very much so in the matter of the Christian life and experience. Nobody sees the whole of his sins and imperfections at once. If we did, we should perhaps be utterly discouraged. We go on honestly correcting one fault after another, and perhaps congratulating ourselves that we are so ready to sacrifice all for Christ, till, by-and-by, we are plainly shown that something must be given up which we are by no means ready to relinquish. We are shown that some habit or quality on which we have perhaps prided ourselves must be overcome or laid aside; our pride which we call self-respect; our resentment of injuries, just resentment, as we think it; our dainty self-indulgence which we call refined taste; or a love of the beautiful, or some darling desire of self-culture and improvement, perfectly legitimate in itself, but conflicting with the duty we owe to others. Then, indeed, comes the real hand-to-hand struggle, the real conflict with Apollyon, which shows us what we are made of. If we have the love of God in our hearts, and strive with humility, and a due dependence on the aid which is promised us, we are sure to conquer at last, though we may be sorely wounded and bruised in the battle, and even defeated over and over again; but if we decline the combat, and try to avoid it by shutting our eyes and refusing to see the enemy, woe to us. Not one more step of real progress is possible; and though we may fancy we are going forward, we shall find to our sorrow that we have turned our backs, and are travelling again to the city of Destruction.

Ethel had now come to this place. It had been easy walking hitherto. She had not been called upon for any great sacrifice or humiliation. But here was a barrier stretching right across her way. After she had made up her mind to enlist openly on the side of her Saviour, the idea of devoting her life to the cause of missions, which had at first been only a childish fancy, became a fixed and settled purpose. She had talked the matter over with Juliet, and Juliet had made no objection, provided Henry's consent could be gained. Ethel felt that she had promised herself to this work; and, yet, how was she ever to perform it? Never, it was plain, unless she could conquer her cowardice, which she had always declared she could not conquer, and which she had never really wished to conquer. She must own that cowardice to be a fault—a sin—and this in itself involved a great sacrifice of pride; and she must make many painful efforts, and probably be defeated many times. Ethel felt instinctively that if she were to give up the purpose of being a missionary for any such reason, she should never be good for anything else. If she were providentially prevented from going by her own illness or that of friends, or by some plain call of duty at home, that would be another thing; but to give up because she was afraid to go, it would be a final defeat. No: she was not willing to give it up; but, on the other hand, neither was she willing to own herself a sinner in that which kept her back, and to strive humbly after amendment. It was a very hard plan, and she saw no escape.