A Terrible Temptation: A Story of To-Day
there, and so get turned out, both of them? I don't wonder at your
smiling; but it is a serious consideration, for all that. The soul of
man is immortal: and what is the soul? it is not a substantial thing,
like the body; it is a bundle of thoughts and feelings: the thoughts we
die with in this world, we shall wake up with them in the next. Yet
here are two Christians loading their immortal souls with immortal
hate. What a waste of feeling, if it must all be flung off together
with the body, lest it drag the souls of both down to bottomless
perdition.
“And what do they gain in this world?--irritation, ill-health, and
misery. It is a fact that no man ever reached a great old age who hated
his neighbor; still less a _good_ old age; for, if men would look
honestly into their own hearts, they would own that to hate is to be
miserable.
“I believe no men commit a sin for many years without some special
warnings; and to neglect these, is one sin more added to their account.
Such a warning, or rather, I should say, such a pleading of Divine
love, those two gentlemen have had. Do you remember, about eight years
ago, two children were lost on one day, out of different houses in this
village?” (A murmur from the crowd.)
“Perhaps some of you here present were instrumental, under God, in
finding that pretty pair.” (A louder murmur.)
“Oh, don't be afraid to answer me. Preaching is only a way of speaking;
and I'm only a woman that is speaking to you for your good. Tell me--we
are not in church, tied up by stait-laced rules to keep men and women
from getting within arm's-length of one another's souls--tell me, who
saw those two lost children?”
“I, I, I, I, I,” roared several voices in reply.
“Is it true, as a good woman tells me, that the innocent darlings had
each an arm round the other's neck?”
“Ay.”
“And little coronets of flowers, to match their hair?” (That was the
girl's doing.)
“Ay.”
“And the little boy had played the man, and taken off his tippet to put
round the little lady?”
“Ay!” with a burst of enthusiasm from the assembled rustics.
“I think I see them myself; and the torches lighting up the dewy leaves
overhead, and that Divine picture of innocent love. Well, which was the
prettiest sight, and the fittest for heaven--the hatred of the parents,
or the affection of the children?
“And now mark what a weapon hatred is, in the Devil's hands. There are
only two people in this parish on whom that sight was wasted; and those
two being gentlemen, and men of education, would have been more
affected by it than humble folk, if Hell had not been in their hearts,
for Hate comes from Hell, and takes men down to the place it comes
from.
“Do you, then, shun, in that one thing, the example of your betters:
and I hope those children will shun it too. A father is to be treated
with great veneration, but above all is our Heavenly Father and His
law; and that law, what is it?--what has it been this eighteen hundred
years and more? Why, Love.
“Would you be happy in this world, and fit your souls to dwell
hereafter even in the meanest of the many mansions prepared above, you
_must,_ above all things, be charitable. You must not run your neighbor
down behind his back, or God will hate you: you must not wound him to
his face, or God will hate you. You must overlook a fault or two, and
see a man's bright side, and then God will love you. If you won't do
that much for your neighbor, why, in Heaven's name, should God overlook
a multitude of sins in you?
“Nothing goes to heaven surer than Charity, and nothing is so fit to
sit in heaven. St. Paul had many things to be proud of and to praise in
himself--things that the world is more apt to admire than Christian
charity, the sweetest, but humblest of all the Christian graces: St.
Paul, I say, was a bulwark of learning, an anchor of faith, a rock of
constancy, a thunder-bolt of zeal: yet see how he bestows the palm.
“'Knowledge puffeth up: but charity edifieth. Though I speak with the
tongues of men and of angels, and have not charity, I am become as
sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal. And though I have the gift of
prophecy, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge; and though I
have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, and have not charity,
I am nothing. And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and
though I give my body to be burned, and have not charity, it profiteth
me nothing. Charity suffereth long, and is kind; charity envieth not;
charity vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up, doth not behave itself
unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no
evil; rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth; beareth
all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all
things. Charity never faileth; but prophecies--they shall fail;
tongues--they shall cease; knowledge--it shall vanish away. And now
abideth Faith, Hope, Charity, these three; but the greatest of these is
charity.'”
The fair orator delivered these words with such fire, such feeling,
such trumpet tones and heartfelt eloquence, that for the first time
those immortal words sounded in these village ears true oracles of God.
Then, without pause, she went on. “So let us lift our hearts in earnest
prayer to God that, in this world of thorns, and tempers, and trials,
and troubles, and cares, He will give us the best cure for all--the
great sweetener of this mortal life--the sure forerunner of Heaven--His
most excellent gift of charity.” Then, in one generous burst, she
prayed for love divine, and there was many a sigh and many a tear, and
at the close an “Amen!” such as, alas! we shall never, I fear, hear
burst from a hundred bosoms where men repeat beautiful but stale words
and call it prayer.
The preacher retired, but the people still lingered spell-bound, and
then arose that buzz which shows that the words have gone home.
As for Richard Bassett, he had turned on his heel, indignant, as soon
as the preacher's admonitions came his way.
Sir Charles Bassett stood his ground rather longer, being steeled by
the conviction that the quarrel was none of his seeking. Moreover, he
was not aware what a good friend this woman had been to him, nor what a
good wife she had been to Marsh this seventeen years. His mind,
therefore, made a clear leap from Rhoda Somerset, the vixen of Hyde
Park and Mayfair, to this preacher, and he could not help smiling; than
which a worse frame for receiving unpalatable truths can hardly be
conceived. And so the elders were obdurate. But Compton and Ruperta had
no armor of old age, egotism, or prejudice to turn the darts of honest
eloquence. They listened, as to the voice of an angel; they gazed, as
on the face of an angel; and when those silvery accents ceased, they
turned toward each other and came toward each other, with the sweet
enthusiasm that became their years. “Oh, Cousin Ruperta!” quavered
Compton. '“Oh, Cousin Compton!” cried Ruperta, the tears trickling down
her lovely cheeks.
They could not say any more for ever so long.
Ruperta spoke first. She gave a final gulp, and said, “I will go and
speak to her, and thank her.”
“Oh, Miss Ruperta, we shall be too late for tea,” suggested the maid.
“Tea!” said Ruperta. “Our souls are before our tea! I must speak to
her, or else my heart will choke me and kill me. I will go--and so will
Compton.”
“Oh, yes!” said Compton.
And they hurried after the preacher.
They came up with her flushed and panting; and now it was Compton's
turn to be shy--the lady was so tall and stately too.
But Ruperta was not much afraid of anything in petticoats. “Oh, madam,”
said she, “if you please, may we speak to you?”
Mrs. Marsh turned round, and her somewhat aquiline features softened
instantly at the two specimens of beauty and innocence that had run
after her.
“Certainly, my young friends;” and she smiled maternally on them. She
had children of her own.
“Who do you think we are? We are the two naughty children you preached
about so beautifully.”
“What! _you_ the babes in the wood?”
“Yes, madam. It was a long, long while ago, and we are fifteen now--are
we not, Cousin Compton?”
“Yes, madam.”
“And we are both so unhappy at our parents' quarreling. At least I am.”
“And so am I.”
“And we came to thank you. Didn't we, Compton?”
“Yes, Ruperta.”
“And to ask your advice. How are we to make our parents be friends? Old
people will not be advised by young ones. They look down on us so; it
is dreadful.”
“My dear young lady,” said Mrs. Marsh, “I will try and answer you: but
let me sit down a minute; for, after preaching, I am apt to feel a
little exhausted. Now, sit beside me, and give me each a hand, if you
please.
“Well, my dears, I have been teaching you a lesson; and now you teach
me one, and that is, how much easier it is to preach reconciliation and
charity than it is to practice it under certain circumstances. However,
my advice to you is first to pray to God for wisdom in this thing, and
then to watch every opportunity. Dissuade your parents from every
unkind act: don't be afraid to speak--with the word of God at your
back. I know that you have no easy task before you. Sir Charles Bassett
and Mr. Bassett were both among my hearers, and both turned their backs
on me, and went away unsoftened; they would not give me a chance; would
not hear me to an end, and I am not a wordy preacher neither.”
Here an interruption occurred. Ruperta, so shy and cold with Compton,
flung her arms round Mrs. Marsh's neck, with the tears in her eyes, and
kissed her eagerly.
“Yes, my dear,” said Mrs. Marsh, after kissing her in turn, “I _was_ a
little mortified. But that was very weak and foolish. I am sorry, for
their own sakes, they would not stay; it was the word of God: but they
saw only the unworthy instrument. Well, then, my dears, you _have_ a
hard task; but you must work upon your mothers, and win them to
charity.”
“Ah! that will be easy enough. My mother has never approved this
unhappy quarrel.”
“No more has mine.”
“Is it so? Then you must try and get the two ladies to speak to each
other. But something tells me that a way will be opened. Have patience;
have faith; and do not mind a check or two; but persevere, remembering
that 'blessed are the peace-makers.'”
She then rose, and they took leave of her.
“Give me a kiss, children,” said she. “You have done me a world of
good. My own heart often flags on the road, and you have warmed and
comforted it. God bless you!”
And so they parted.
Compton and Ruperta walked homeward. Ruperta was very thoughtful, and
Compton could only get monosyllables out of her. This discouraged, and
at last vexed him.
“What have I done,” said he, “that you will speak to anybody but me?”
“Don't be cross, child,” said she; “but answer me a question. Did you
put your tippet round me in that wood?”
“I suppose so.”
“Oh, then you don't remember doing it, eh?”
“No; that I don't.”
“Then what makes you think you did?”
“Because they say so. Because I must have been such an awful cad if I
didn't. And I was always much fonder of you than you were of me. My
tippet! I'd give my head sooner than any harm should come to you,
Ruperta!”
Ruperta made no reply, but, being now at Highmore, she put out her hand
to him, and turned her head away. He kissed her hand devotedly, and so
they parted.
Compton told Lady Bassett all that happened, and Ruperta told Mrs.
Bassett.
Those ladies readily promised to be on the side of peace, but they
feared it could only be the work of time, and said so.
By-and-by Compton got impatient, and told Ruperta he had thought of a
way to compel their fathers to be friends. “I am afraid you won't like