CHAPTER II.

CONTRASTS.

ROBIN, after a brief rapid striding up and down deck, returned to the side of his brother. The youth was flushed and excited.

"Harold, if that woman tack herself on to us during all the voyage, what shall we do?" he exclaimed.

"Bear and forbear," was the quiet reply.

"That's easy enough for a calm, self-possessed, sensible fellow like you, but not so for me!" cried Robin. "Of all things on earth, what I most dislike is an elderly butterfly, with dyed hair, and a mischief-making tongue."

"A species unknown to entomology," observed Harold.

The remark brought a smile to Robin's downy lip, and so almost restored his good-humour.

"I am afraid that we shall have a very disagreeable voyage," said Robin, "and the worst of it to me is—that I am to blame for all that we may have to bear."

"How so?" inquired his brother.

"If I had not been in such a desperate hurry to join our father and begin our work, we would never have embarked in this 'Alligator.' Instead of waiting till the proper month, October, I was eager to start in August."

"I was your partner in that piece of folly," said Harold.

"Then it was your kindness to me that made you choose a vessel for cheapness rather than for anything else, so that what would have taken you to India comfortably had you travelled alone, might cover the expenses of two."

"If I thought that my boy's company would more than compensate for petty discomforts, this second piece of folly must be entered entirely on my side of the account," said Harold, looking with a loving smile on his brother.

"I am afraid that we shall have more than petty discomforts," observed Robin; "one can laugh at trials if they are confined to rough fare, bad accommodation, slower sailing, or such-like trifles; but one cannot be quite indifferent as to the company which one keeps. Miss Petty always puts one out of patience, and from what I have heard and seen of the captain, I am sure that he is neither a gentleman nor a Christian!"

"Dear old boy, I thought that you and I had resolved to speak evil of no one," said the young clergyman.

"Ah! Broken resolutions! They vex me more than anything!" cried poor Robin, throwing himself on the bench which Miss Petty had vacated. Harold, more leisurely, took his seat beside his brother. "You know, Harold, that we have lately been studying together the life and character of St. John, and I have been setting that loved and loving disciple before me as a model, determined that I would, by God's help, try to be in every thing like the holy apostle. New, I have not been a day on board before I have flared up like a fury, said bitter things, and thought more bitter, just as if I were still just a foolish, passionate child."

"My brother," said Harold, and he intuitively drew nearer to Robin as he spoke, "do you think that the Apostle John was born a saint, or that he developed into a saint?"

"I think that he became one by living very very near to His Lord, resting on His sacred bosom, and learning love from close intercourse with Him who is Love itself."

"John seems to have been naturally of a fiery disposition," observed Harold Hartley. "Christ gave to him and his brother the title of 'Sons of thunder,' and it is remarkable that it was the disciple whom we commonly associate with ideas of gentleness and tenderness who proposed to call down fire from heaven on an inhospitable village."

"It is some comfort to know that even the beloved disciple had human imperfections," said Robin, "as it prevents our being utterly discouraged at our own. But, Harold, some people, and good people too, think that they can attain to perfection even in this life."

"It seems to me," observed the young missionary, "that they do so by unconsciously lowering the standard of perfection which God has placed before us. It is not even St. John, but his Divine Master, whom we are to seek to resemble. It is indeed only a growing likeness, such as was doubtless seen in St. John; but would not the apostle, even when almost ripe for heaven, have shrunk from indulging such a thought as this: 'I am as good, as holy, as perfect as was Christ, my Divine Master, when on earth'?"

"John would have rejected such a thought as blasphemous," exclaimed Robin. "St. John's words are, 'We know that when He shall appear we shall be like Him, for we shall see Him as He is.'"

"And this assurance of future perfection in the Divine Presence made the apostle add, 'Every man that hath this hope in him, purifieth himself even as He is pure,'" remarked Harold.

Robin was silent for several minutes, and then observed in a different tone, "It would have been much easier for me to have kept my good resolutions, if I had not had Miss Petty for a travelling companion."

"Do you think that her being in the same ship is a matter of chance? Is it not possible that she may have been made our fellow-traveller without any choice on our part, on purpose to show us how imperfect is our patience, and to give us an opportunity of improving it by practice?" Harold smiled as he spoke, but his words were not uttered in jest.

"Then you think that intercourse with those whom we naturally dislike or despise may be an actual means of grace?" inquired Robin.

"Undoubtedly so, if we are enabled to conquer the inclination to dislike and despise them," said Harold.

The conversation then took another turn. "If I can in the least, judge of character by face, I think that there is one of our fellow-passengers whom we shall like," observed Harold, glancing in the direction of a lady, past middle age, who—clad in deep mourning—was sitting on the other side of the deck, engaged in reading.

"What a beautiful chastened expression is hers!" exclaimed Robin. "That is a face that can never grow old; it has the stamp of heaven's loveliness on it. Do you know who the lady is?"

"One of our people," replied Harold Hartley. "I was so much struck by her gentle meek dignity when Captain Gump spoke to her in his rough way about her luggage; her mildness made me inquire about her. 'Mrs. Evendale' is marked on her boxes, and I understand that the lady is the widow of a missionary, and that she is going out to take charge of some orphanage in South India."

"I shall try to sit next to her at table," said Robin; "one could fancy Mary of Nazareth like our fellow-passenger, allowing for the difference of costume, and the veil over the dark braided hair, and the simple drapery of her dress, makes even that difference less striking. The lady looks like one chastened by deep sorrow—sorrow borne in calm faith; one who has trod a thorny path, but with heaven's brightness upon it."

"My informant told me that Mrs. Evendale is not only widowed but bereaved of her children," said Harold. "She received the tidings of the death of one son by a fearful accident, when she was closing the eyes of the other."

"I wish that I could be as a son to her," said kind-hearted Robin. "Mrs. Evendale reminds me a little of our mother in expression, though not in feature and colouring. Our mother was so fair, and Mrs. Evendale looks like a daughter of Italy. Perhaps this fellow-traveller, such a contrast to the other, may not have been sent to us by chance."

A sudden puff of wind blew away from Mrs. Evendale a packet of papers which she had placed on the seat beside her, and sent them careering over the deck. Robin sprang up and gave chase to the fluttering leaves, glad of the opportunity of doing some slight service to the widow who interested him so much.

When the youth had picked up the last paper, he courteously carried all back to their owner. The lady thanked him in a voice which was melodious as music. Thus began an intercourse between the elder and younger traveller, which was to be fraught with consequences to both, which,—could they have been foreseen,—would have sent a strange thrill through their hearts. They now met for the first time, but they were only to be parted by—but we must not anticipate the rest of the story.