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"For Father's Sake," or A Tale of New Zealand Life

Chapter XIX

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Chapter XIX.

Whodoes not remember the agitations and doubts with which the end of their first journey by sea is surrounded. How the heart is torn with fear as the wharf, with its crowd of strange faces, appear in sight. How eagerly one scans the undulating mass for a familiar form. What if it be not there? Oh, the pictures of helplessness, loss, cold, hunger, even death. Suddenly, what a bright light flashes across the fearful heart. There it is, there it is. That face upon which so much depends. What joy, where a second before all was dark fear—What relief. The novice may be pardoned for neglecting to study the scenes and faces on the wharf.

The little bird stands up in its nest to stretch its wings. Its bright eyes catch a glimpse of something beyond: something like, yet unlike anything in its nest. The object sways in the breeze, and seems to be laughing and dancing with glee. The bird looks more intently, and there appears several joyous objects, a laughing stretch of level green, numberless new beings.

"What is it?" cries the little bird, sinking back in wonderment.

"It is the world."

"But am I not in the world already?"

"Yes! In a part."

"Why did I not see that other part before?"

"You were not tall enough to see over the boundary of this."

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"And now that I have caught that glimpse, may I leave here, and go there? Methinks I would like to. It is so beautiful, so grand, so new: and I have learned all about here."

The grave instructor lifts its wings to the wind, and soars away, the words of its song floating back on the breeze.

"Thou shalt be guided, my child. The time and the manner I know not. My office alone I fulfil. Behold the worm I have brought. I go another to bring."

The little bird grew. It felt its body getting too large for its nest. Its mind rose above, and again it saw that beautiful strange object. "I wonder why I am so restless," sighed she.

"'Tis the voice of the evil one within," solemnly answered its brothers and sisters.

"Ah, no, it is not," meditated the bird, for in its ears rang that song, "Thou will be guided my child, the time and the manner I know not."

Suddenly it felt its wings thrill with a strange new strength. Terrified by the shock, it fell down and tried to hide itself beneath the twigs of Doubt.

"Arise and go, thou art guided. The time and the manner I have prepared." And in obedience to that low, firm voice, the little bird rose, shook off its baby feathers of fear, and made preparations for its departure. But the grave, wise family interfered.

"This is our day at home," said one of the sisters, "we will discuss the matter over our tea cups." Accordingly they let out hints regarding their purpose, and all the neighbours flocked to afternoon tea. So here they sit, their superior wisdom inciting the laughter even of the fool. The hostess, after doing the duty of bowing and scraping page 226and palavering, draws the red comb of Experience over its eyes, and commences the farce.

"Wise and wealthy friends—you whose opinions are founded upon knowledge which surpasses the wisdom of ancient and modern sages—we embrace this opportunity to consider a foolish, wicked step our sister is about to take. She has seen something outside our nest which she calls the World, and she is going to visit that place. We can do nothing to stop her, but if we all join forces, we may not fail to stamp this mad freak out of her mind."

Responses of "Yes, yes," "Dear me," "How unfortunate," from the company. Do not probe too deeply into the hearts of these bird judges. It is not always pleasant to find one's self indulging in a mistaken sympathy. There may be a little jealousy as well as brotherly solicitude running through their tender feelings. The heart has many valves.

"And now," continues the speaker, "since I have introduced the subject, I will give my views. They are very weighty, as you know, being the result of a close scrutiny of my past. I have wandered throughout the whole length and breadth of the land; I am acquainted with every virtue, every vice; my eyes have beheld every scene; my ears have heard every sound. Take warning, my friend, from one who has taken an active part in the encounter. That world is cold, hard, selfish and wicked, and no place for one so weak and foolish as you."

Bowing with all the dignity of its years of experience, the solemn-voiced elderly adviser removed the wonderful comb, and glanced at the company and at the culprit.

"Ah, me," said a low, sweet voice, and a beautiful fairy-like form sank back in her chair, and half closing her eyes, looked through her long sweeping lashes of Home Comfort page 227and Ignorance. "It is not often I speak, less often I act, but on such an occasion as this I must lay aside a little of my dignity." There was a slight pause. The feathery fan waved to and fro, and the gentle motion brought a faint bloom to the pearly cheek. "My friend—my dearest friend, do you know what you are doing by thus seeking to leave the comfort and happiness here? Look around!—food, rich, enough, and to spare; clothing, soft, warm, and costly. Nothing to do but to order and be obeyed. Eat, my dear, eat, drink, and be merry. To know much is to become unhappy. Happiness is the whole end of man. Why worry the mind by filling it with worrying thoughts. Behold my peace; take my cue. 'Tis comfortable to the mind to live in ignorance." The feathery fan continued to wave, the sweet voice ceased. Hush! do not disturb the soothing impression made by this bright-winged, tender-eyed, gentle bird.

"I am the last, but not the least," uttered a deep stern voice, as its portly owner raised his eyes from the leaf upon which was written an account of his own Righteous deeds, and wonderful power of Reasoning. "You have heard what these, your kind advisers, have said," and two haughty, piercing eyes were fixed upon the poor little offender. "Have their words produced no effect upon your mad intention? If so, mine will not. I stoop neither to warn nor to entice. I Condemn. What is your object in leaving your home? Avaunt with all your lame excuses. Some dark purpose you have in view. A design so vile, so selfish, must have a corresponding aim. Fool, you will rue the day you let your passions be the director of your actions." The Champion of Conduct turned his attention back to his leaf. And amidst the flapping of wings and the stroking of beaks, several mocking voices cried "Defend yourself if you can!"

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Lower and lower bowed the head; faster and faster fell the tears.

"Poor little bird, have ye none to defend ye? Why are ye weeping? Arise, defend yourself. You can." But the wounded bird raised its eyes beseechingly to the kind face bent compassionately over it. "I am so weak, they are so strong. They hear not the voice that bids me go. They do not understand."

"Am I not greater than thousands? I will help you. Come arise." And gently that dear friend lifted the crouching figure; and parted the feather's of sorrow from the tear stained eyes. "Child, child, this is weakness, indeed." The voice was so low and tender that no one else heard it. The form was so radiantly beautiful that no one else saw it. "But I know your frame. I remember you are dust. I will spare you the pain. Here rest upon me, I will bear you away. You shall not fall. Rest a while." Tender words soothed the pain in the aching heart. Loving hands bound up the wounds with bandages from his own bleeding side, A meek "Bearer of the iniquities of us all" lifted the bruised reed on his shoulder, and bore it away. On, on until he reached that other part of the world; and there he placed his burden in the arms of one of his own. At that magic touch the allegory was transformed, and lo—

"Nellie, Nellie, my bright-eyed, light-hearted Nellie. What have they been doing to you?" Something misty came over the kind blue eyes, something heavy fell upon the kinder heart, and two loving arms folded around the girl's slight form, two tender lips were pressed again and again upon Nellie's pale wasted cheeks.

"Doing Auntie, nothing. And O, I am so tired of it all." A great sob finished the sentence, and at that sound page 229Mrs. Remay pressed the heaving breast closer, murmuring, "My darling, you shall never go back, pleases God."

But the crowd was surging around. Inquisitive eyes were turned in their direction; and Mrs. Remay, rermembering the dignity of her position, released her fond embrace, and led the way to an open carriage.

"Forgive an old woman's whims," she said, as she drew the young girl down on the soft-cushioned seat beside her. "My treasure is so new, so long denied me, so dearly prized, that I cannot bear it out of my arms."

Nellie almost broke down. Her heart was too full to speak. Were it not for the semi-torpor state into which she had fallen, there certainly would have been a scene; as it was, the faint light of her mind revealed things faintly, itself remaining unrevealed. Oh, how beautiful to be at rest; to feel motherly arms around you; to hear soft murmuring words of motherly comfort and love in your ears, in your heart; to lay your storm-tossed head upon a motherly bosom, feeling beneath the beating of an overflowing heart of sympathy, of longing to give what your own yearns to receive. Motherly love. 'Tis to thine influence we own the noblest qualities and highest achievements of the human race. In the height of our prosperity, and in the blaze of earthly triumph, thy homely light burns beneath, and supports, our upward flight. Our ambitions are seasoned with thine essence that its pathway may be strewn with a more lasting nutriment than that of friendship's glowing garnish. And our hopes, our strength, our fortitude, are sucked into our beings from thy inexhaustible paps. How desolate is he who knows not the flavour of thy milk; how dry and unprepossessing his own life. But for the weary sufferer, the torn and lacerated soul, O what relief, what balm, what Heaven-provided blessing. Mother, mother, in fancy I feel the peace of thy presence page 230stealing over my weary heart. I sink, I sink. Waken me not, let me rest; let me live: let me close mine eyes, they ache, they are tired, they lone, O how they long, for the sweet forgetfulness of sin and strife. Relief, relief. Rest, rest.

When the luggage had been seen to, and the driver mounted into his seat, Nellie raised her head a moment, and looked at the flying trees and houses, the lamp-posts and telegraph wires, then her eyes wandered to the lady's face. A smile reassured her, and she sank back with a sigh of contentment. The carriage bowled along, through the small sea port town, up a steep road, bordered on each side by cream clayey cuttings, over a slight elevation, and into the main town: then taking several sweeping turns, it entered a wide open gateway, passed swiftly through a neat carriage drive, and drew up in front of a moderately large house. An elderly gentleman, who had evidently been watching for them, appeared at the door; his kind old face the picture of benevolence, as he awaited the carriage's approach. Hardly waiting for the horses to stop, Mrs. Remay sprang out, and taking Nellie's hand, she led her young friend forward, saying, "Here Nole, I have brought our dear daughter home. Tell me, is she not all my fancy painted her?"

The old gentleman took the small hand from his wife, and, placing his disengaged one upon Nellie's shoulder, looked down into the shy dark eyes upturned to his. "Welcome home, my dear," was all he said, but the tone of his rich low voice, and the true light of his grave blue eyes were more eloquent than the best of speeches: and Nellie felt as if the last film of doubt had been swept away. Gently leading the way, Mrs. Remay proceeded her young charge through a spacious hall, decorated with exotics and curios, up a broad flight of stairs, and ushered her into a neat little bed-room.

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"Remove your things, my dear," she said, opening a large wardrobe and displaying its well-filled interior; "you will find something useful here," and, touching Nellie's sombre, faded gown, "do not throw a chill over our first breakfast by wearing such as that. I do not object to mourning, but I certainly do to this. Jock will be up with your boxes presently." Another hug, another kiss, and the kindest and the dearest of ladies went down-stairs to do something dearer and kinder. Nellie had indeed fallen into good hands, if she only knew it. How strangely alike is the heart's great land to earth's physical aspect. We leave a sunny land of childhood's innocence. Over a sea of maidenhood, or youth's uncertain dreamy years we pass. On the border of that sea lies the land of a great unknown country. We step on shore—a desert of scorching sand stretches across our onward track; we journey, but our journeying is so dangerous; Lo! we sink down on the sand, and our eyes turn up to the pitiless heavens. A vision of something green floats before our minds; we lift our dying sight—a step, a stumble, forward. What? Not death, as we thought, but life. A spring of clear, pure water; an oasis in the desert; fruit in the midst of thorns. Nellie sank down on her knees and gave thanks to Him who gave so much to her; then rising, she removed her travelling dress and donned a soft loose wrapper. Very fragile and very sweet she looked as she descended the stairs and entered the breakfast room. Her hair was smoothed back from the broad low brow. A frill of rich lace curled around her throat, a bow of tantalizing ribbon kissed her tiny ear, and in her hand those indicators of every emotion, a bunch of fragrant purple violets.

"Forgive me, uncle," she said, as she placed the flowers on the table, "but these friends looked at me so page 232lovingly, and seemed to plead so hard to be taken, that I could not refuse."

Mr. Remay smiled, and motioning her to take her place, said, "Water will always find its own level. It has not taken you long to discover your natural element, my dear."

After a prolonged breakfast, which was taken up for the most part by questions and answers concerning Nellie's goings out and comings in, Mr. Remay rose to go. "I would like to have stayed a little longer, but duty calls me away." He put his hand on his adopted niece's head as he was passing out, "God bless you, my child, and show us how to make you happy." That loved caress, how it brought back memories of the past, when a more beloved hand was laid upon "His lassie's head," and a more beloved voice whispered "Daddy's girlie."

Mrs. Remay looked at her husband,; their eyes met in a meaning glance. Mrs. Remay smiled. Mr. Remay returned the smile. Nellie sat unconscious of it all. And here it may be as well to offer a word of explanation. Mr. Remay had never seen Nellie; Mrs. Remay had. Mr. Remay had never spoken to Nellie; Mrs. Remay had. Until that meeting Mr. Remay knew Nellie only by repute; Mrs. Remay had known her personally. Consequently it may be understood that the whole responsibility of bringing Nellie into their home rested upun Mrs. Remay. It was no light matter to assume the charge of a young girl—this her husband pointed out. Her up-bringing had been left to others—this her husband also pointed out. His wife's kindness might cause herself to be deceived—this was another question to be considered. But everything had been overruled, everything was as a breath before that one great word—Love, love.

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"I shall risk it," she had declared; "we will consider it my speculation. If I fail, there is an end to it. If I succeed, oh Nole think!—a dear sweet girl to love and be loved by."

"I wash my hands of the whole affair," laughed Mr. Remay, but in the kindling eyes Mrs. Remay read her husband's approval. Nevertheless, as the time drew near for its accomplishment, the kind lady's heart beat a little nervously, and she wondered how the years had dealt with the child of her former acquaintance. She was not disappointed. Her fastidious husband was satisfied. That night, after Nellie had gone to bed, Mrs. Remay took the opportunity to ask "Nole his opinion."

"I never had any doubts regarding my wife's discernment," he answered. "And I own I am a little surprised at my mistake. There is a timidity in Nellie's manner I I do not care to see. Timidity, my dear, is often a cloak for deceit." Mrs. Remay could not believe her senses. What did her husband mean? Was he mocking her? Her face was expressive of her thoughts. Mr. Remay smiled. Mrs. Remay collapsed.

"I do believe you are making fun of me, you wicked old man." The knitting was thrown down, and Mr. Remay received a good shaking. "How dare you amuse yourself at your wife's expense. Don't you know I am dying to hear you say you love my little friend?"

"Of course, I know. Such treatment as I am receiving at your hands bespeaks a dying person. There, my dear." And the old gentleman drew his wife of forty years on his knee, and kissed her as fondly as he did when they were sweethearts. "Pretend you want to hear me praise your works, when all the while you want me to praise yourself. Such a conceited old woman as it is: just as fond of flattery as ever."

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"Do stop your nonsense Nole, for pity sake, and tell me what you think of Nellie. Really, you are more incorrigible now than ever you were."

"Very well, little woman. How do I like my niece? A little less than my wife."

"Och! It is a waste of time trying to reason with you to-night," exclaimed Mrs. Remay, playfully boxing her husband's ears, and laughing her rippling happy laugh. She looked very fresh and very pleasing that night, for the light of benevolence shone on her face, and the shades of a noble action played among her silver ringlets. But we must return to our interrupted breakfast, with its two remaining partakers, the old and the young.

"Come child, you must not stay here any longer. We will begin investigations to-morrow. Go and rest awhile. Jane will bring you a cup of tea by-and-by."

Nellie threw her arms around her kind benefactress' neck, murmuring, "Dear Aunt, why have you no children of your own? You who could so capably fill a mother's office?"

Mrs. Remay let her cheek rest upon the dark head, caressingly; and for a few minutes remained silent.

"God has not thought fit to let me keep my darlings. They were so beautiful that he wanted them for his choir. I often see them in my dreams. They are so happy, so very happy. I could not have the heart to wish for the return of one of those white robed, fairy forms, I used to be puzzled over the apparent mistakes in nature. Where was the wisdom in giving to my poorer sisters so many little ones, that, in order to furnish them with bare necessities, their lives have been made perfect drudgeries? while I am denied the joy of one little child. I could heap upon it every comfort, and crown it with every affection. page 235But lately I have learned to be reconciled, and in God's will I see the great wisdom of the Father. A broken-hearted mother. A sorrowing father. A dissipated son. A son who would have to be cut down as a cumberer of the ground. These thoughts force me to bow my proud head to God's divine decrees. There child, run away, or I shall keep you here all day, listening to my imaginary grievances."

Nellie went to her room. Her dainty little room, with its neat white bed, its soft drapings, its books, its flowers, its nick-nacks. O, how good, how thoughtful her aunt had been. Crossing to the window, she drew aside the lacey curtains, and looked out. What a glorious sight met her vision. What a feeling of rest settled upon her heart. Knowing Nellie's love for the sea, Mrs. Remay had taken care that her young friend, niece we shall henceforth call her, should have a room, the window of which commanded a view of the Bay. There it lay, that great blue sheet, fringed with its shelly beach, its tall green and golden trees, its shaggy water-riven hills, its houses, and its gardens. The house itself stood on an elevation, and the grounds sloped down toward the busy part of the city. In the front lay a small grass plot and garden, adorned with gay flowers, and fringed with stunted shrubberies. At the north-east end of the house was a beautiful lawn, and around the whole was planted a double row of trees. In the further extremity of the lawn nestled an ivy bower with rustic seats, and leading to it was a narrow path, which winded its way between plots, through shrubbery, and around lawns. Behind the house was a steep cutting, and above the cutting, more cuttings, and more houses. Between the houses and the cutting were the kitchen gardens, the stables, and toward the south winded the wide carriage drive that led from the spacious hall door to the dusty high page 236road. Neither house nor grounds boasted of display; though neat and trim and well kept, Mrs. Remay's home took upon itself no pretensions of wealth and grandeur, but the most striking thing about it was its air of peace and comfort. Indeed, no one else but Mr. and Mrs. Remay could have made it look half so homely, half so fair.

Fastidious in her taste as she was, Nellie could not help being satisfied with the landscape before her, and those beautiful lines of Bryant's floated across her mind: "To him who in the love of nature holds communion with her visible form, there speaks a various language. For his gayer hours she has a smile and eloquence of beauty; and she glides into his darker musings with a mild and gentle sympathy which steals away its sharpness ere he is aware."

Every element seemed to be introduced into that view, yet there was neither too much of each to tire the sight, nor too little to leave one unsatisfied. Ah! I believe we have seen that picture before, at anyrate, we have been introduced to it at the early part of our narrative. It was the same scene that called to a passion-tossed soul, charging it to leave the famine-stricken Egypt of remorse, and inviting it to follow the lead to a Canaan of promise: a Canaan filled with wine and milk, which could be bought without money and without price.

Two hours afterwards, when Jane appeared with the tea, she turned and retraced her steps, taking her tea with her.

"Go an' see yerself, ma'm," she answered to her mistress' question, which command her mistress obeyed.

Nellie had sunk down on a low chair beside the window; her hands were loosely clasped together in her lap; her dark hair, which was just beginning to grow about her temples, rested against the cushioned back—she was fast asleep.

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A wave of love and pity swept over the heart of the silent watcher as she noted the tell-tale marks of recent conflict and failure upon the white, pinched face. Turning away with tears in her eyes, Mrs. Remay inwardly prayed that she might be granted the joy of relieving the sorrows of that young heart.