Chapter XIII: Marian's Class

"I DO like consistency," said Alick.

"Don't most people?" asked Lionel.

"They 'dislike' inconsistency at any rate," said Marian.

It was a bright Sunday in the middle of the winter, and such of the members of the three houses as were strong enough to face the cold were wending their way to church. Mrs. Chantry and Mrs. Malden were behind, walking together as they always did on Sundays—two loving sisters enjoying a brief spell of heart-communion.

Their two husbands were at home—Mr. Chantry unable to venture out in the winter on any but the mildest days; Mr. Malden confined to his chair, a peaceful, even, joyful prisoner, who spent his morning happily by himself, with one of his children in turn as his attendant. To-day it was Leslie who was at home with him—a proud child, feeling his responsibility great of being left in charge. The rest of the children had joined company, as they always did, and were walking together near the elder ones chatting pleasantly.

Courtenay rented a very small stable close to the church, and had a little pony chaise which he had purchased on purpose to drive Margaret and Mrs. Bruce to church. Thomas, the coachman, walked up early, and met him at the door; and after housing the little "Sunday carriage," as it was called, he came in to join in the service with his master. On Monday the little pony had his day of rest, and was never used.

On this bright day Alick and his cousins were some way in front of their two mothers, and Marian had just agreed that people do like consistency.

"But why do you say so particularly?" asked Lionel.

"I was only thinking," he answered. "One hears people say so often, 'Well, I would not have done it!' When very likely, they themselves will fall into the same thing a little while after."

"It says so often, 'Judge not, that ye be not judged,'" said Lionel thoughtfully.

"That is one good of seeing our own sinfulness," said Marian; "it makes one much more sorry for other people."

"Is that the reason you are always so charitable?" asked Alick in a low tone. "I have often noticed that you are slow to blame other people."

"I suppose so," she answered. "When I see how much I have been forgiven, I should be ashamed not to forgive."

"Let's have the benefit of that," said Lionel, looking round, "or is it private?"

"It is not private," answered Marian, "but it will not bear repeating."

Curiously enough, when the sermon came, it was on the words,—

"I forgave thee all that debt."

The three listened, their conversation having already helped them towards a beginning of the subject.

And when they turned homewards afterwards, their thoughts were very full of it, but there was no opportunity for further talk. Alick and Lionel joined their mothers, and Marian was soon claimed by Ruth and Sydney.

"Marian," said the little boy, "did I sit still?"

"Very still, dear."

"Were you looking at me?"

"Sometimes."

"I put my hands so, and peep through my fingers, Marian."

"Oh, Sydney, 'I' don't!" said Ruth reprovingly. "You should never look about in church. If you can't do anything better, you should count how many people there are, or something like that."

Marian kept her countenance and said gently:

"You see, dears, what we have to think about is God. Not so much how we sit, or whether we put our hands this way or that, but whether our hearts are in earnest in wishing to please our heavenly Father."

"My heart is," said Sydney gravely. "I always do think about God."

"I don't expect you do," observed Ruth; "for lots of times I've seen you fidgeting with your gloves and folding your pocket handkerchief."

"But then I'm such a little boy," said Sydney.

"Of course," answered Ruth briefly. "Only you shouldn't say you are so good, when I don't believe you are better than anyone else."

"Hush, dear," said Marian, "that was just what our sermon was about. Did you not hear it, Ruthie?"

"I heard every word," answered Ruth; "but I do not understand Mr. Arthur, Marian. I wish he'd be as plain as you."

"I must try to explain it to you then," said Marian.

"At our class meeting this afternoon?"

Marian nodded. Her thoughts were looking down a long avenue, whose end was hidden in the blue distance.

"What can you see?" asked Sydney, squeezing her hand to get attention.

"Something which I will tell you after dinner."

For on Sunday afternoons Marian gathered a number of children together in the dining-room at Sunnyside and gave them a Bible-lesson. Her little cousins came over, and several children from Courtenay's cottages near at hand, whose mothers gladly dressed them in their best and brought them smiling to the door, as the stable clock pointed to five minutes to three.

Marian was rather silent at dinner, and when rallied by Lionel as to the cause, she confessed that she was thinking over her lesson.

"I thought you always got that ready by Friday at any rate."

"I do generally; but our talk and the sermon afterwards, and then finding that Ruth could not understand it, have made me alter my plan."

"I shall come in and listen," said Lionel.

"Indeed you must not," she answered. "I will not even admit dear old Salome, though she begged very hard."

"She goes to the stables to read to old Thomas's wife," said Lionel.

"I know she does. She says she goes to learn, not to teach. I suspect, however, that it is a little of both."

"Yes," answered Lionel. "I used to go and read to her sometimes, because Courtenay so particularly asked me to, and I thought it was very kind of me to do so. But since my accident, I have come quite to a different conclusion."

"Isn't it so kind of you now?" asked Muriel.

"No, it's just the other way," said Lionel. "It's kind of her to let me go. She gives me a drink of the water of life every time!"

"Oh!" said Muriel, wondering.

"I know what you mean," said Mrs. Malden. "I have often felt humbled when I have been there."

"Humbled and lifted up too," said Lionel.

After dinner, Marian got her room ready for the children. She opened the windows for a few minutes, she built up a nice fire, she placed her seats in readiness. Then when they came trooping in, she only had to place them, and take her seat and begin:

"Generally, children, I give you a regular Bible-lesson. To-day I shall only read one verse and tell you a story upon it for a change, because I want you all to understand it. And so, if you will repeat this one verse after me, I will begin—

"'Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy.'"

* * * * * *

"Such a short journey, and such a rich reward."

"But the journey seems long to us, mother!"

"Only two little days."

The mother stood at the house door, bidding good-bye to two well-grown boys, who appeared to me (for I was dreaming, I think) to be just starting on a journey. They had bags slung over their shoulders, which doubtless held provisions; for the mother was arranging them, and giving them charges concerning them at the very last moment.

"Remember," she said, "you will sow them, whether you will or not; so, my boys, look well to what you do."

This I did not understand, though the boys evidently did, but I determined to watch them very carefully, and find out what this was which they had to sow.

As I looked down the quiet valley, where the early sun was only just beginning to peep through the gaps in the eastern hills, I saw other boys and girls emerging from different cottages, and setting forth apparently on a journey too. All seemed to have the same knapsack or bag to carry, but there was a notable difference in the dresses of these children. Some were clothed in white garments, some in black; and though they had added to their dress ornaments of various kinds, yet I could see beneath these, the two different colours plainly enough.

What astonished me most of all was, that when the road through the valley divided into two paths, the children parted company too; and some went one way, and some another.

"We shall meet at the end, Ulric," said one bright-looking girl, nodding towards a companion who chose the right-hand path, though he looked regretfully after her as she turned down the other.

"Perhaps," he answered sadly. "I wish—"

But she laughed gaily. And as she ran off, and her light-coloured cloak flew back in the wind, I saw that her dress was of the sombre hue which all her companions who turned that way seemed to wear. Then I looked closer at those who went to the right, and I found that their garments were invariably white; and though in some cases soiled and torn, were even then pleasanter to look upon than the others.

I felt compelled to follow the fortunes of the travellers who kept the road to the right, along the middle of the valley—the more so as I was much interested in the young man, who ever and anon turned to gaze so anxiously after the others who had left them. These were however soon lost to our view. Their way led them up a rocky path between two high hills, with a stream of water rippling by the side of it, and very soon they were hidden over the top of the pass, and we saw them no more.

Then the young man turned away, and walked along with his head bent, as if all the energy and hope were gone out of his life. He led the way, the rest following slowly. As they walked, I noticed that every now and then a seed would fall to the ground from the bags on their shoulders. And on looking closer, I perceived that there was an aperture in the bags on purpose, through which a seed could pass at intervals.

Presently the two boys whom I had seen at first sat down on a stone to rest, and as they sat, one of them pulled his bag round over his shoulder and poured some of the contents into his hand. Then I perceived that these bags were not for provisions at all, but were filled with pure white seeds, the bag bearing an inscription embroidered on it in golden letters—

"'Be ye therefore merciful as your father also is merciful.'"

Then I heard one of the boys say, "They look all alike, Fritz. I do not see how some should come up and bear good fruit, and the others come up and bear thorns and prickles."

"That depends on how we sow them," said Fritz.

"It's a great bother; I've a good mind to sow mine all at once," remarked Athred discontentedly.

"We may not do that. No, we must be patient and watchful. At every action of ours, a seed will fall into the ground, but the journey will soon be over. We have only to sow to-day, and then our day's work will be done, and we shall be allowed to return home."

"And to-morrow we shall reap what we have sown to-day?" asked Athred.

"Yes, those were the conditions of our journey."

Athred kicked his foot discontentedly.

"I almost wish I had gone with the others," he said; "they will not trouble themselves one bit about sowing their seeds, but are going to make their journey into a pleasure picnic."

Fritz shook his head.

"When the few sowing journeys are over, it is only those who have accepted the White Robe who will be welcomed at the Golden Gate. 'They' would not any of them take the White Robe."

"Oh, that is a long way off!"

"Not so long as you think. A few more days, and then—"

Athred sat silent. He had accepted that White Robe at early dawn, but as yet his heart was more full of pleasing himself than of doing the will of the King, who had given it to him. He wanted to be accepted at last at the Golden Gate, but he wanted also to get as much enjoyment out of the journeys as he could.

This Robe, pure and white, had been bought with a great price—the price of Blood—and to those who remembered this, it was a precious robe; and the One who had paid that great price was a dearly-loved One. But Athred was selfish and thought but little of it, though he prized it enough to accept it.

So he sat turning over his seeds.

"Why must we sow them?" he asked at last.

"That I do not know, unless it is that we must do the will of the King."

Athred began to put his seeds back into the bag, and rose up to proceed on his way.

Fritz sat still for a moment looking thoughtfully along the peaceful valley. The sun had risen above the tops of the hills now, and streamed down on the still dewy meadows. The fresh green of the hedges and trees, waving gently in the breeze and showing new lights and shades as the bright clouds passed across the sun, made him happy, and he thought with joy of the journey he had undertaken, and of the entrance by-and-by into a country where there would be never-fading spring.

His reverie was roughly broken in upon by Athred's voice.

"Come along, Fritz, what a time you are!"

"I shall catch you up in a moment," answered Fritz.

"I wanted to make haste," pursued Athred, "but you are never one of the ready ones. That is what they say of you at school—always slow."

As he spoke, I observed a seed from his bag fall to the ground and sink in. Was it my imagination, or really the truth, that in its brief transit to the earth the white seed had turned black? I would look closer next time, I thought.

Fritz was stung by his brother's thoughtless words, but did not reply.

He rose from his seat and hastened to follow the others, saying, however, softly to himself, "He does not think how earnestly I strive against my slowness, but then how should he? How can he know?"

Then I saw a seed, dazzling white, slip quietly from the bag on his shoulders and fall down into the earth.

He seemed quite unconscious of it, and pursued his journey with what speed he could, for he found the others were somewhat ahead of him. Just as he was hurrying along, a slight sound attracted his attention; it seemed like a cry of someone in pain. He stopped abruptly and listened. Yes, there it was again, in the bushes near his path.

One moment's thought flashed across him of how far he was already behind the rest. But he remembered his charge—the golden writing on his bag—and he turned aside to see who it was needed help.

Then another white seed fell into the ground.

He looked about, and at length a little voice said, "I'm here, please, and I've caught my dress with these thorns, and my arm, and I can't get away."

It was a little child whose steps, straying in her play, had taken her out of the path.

He hastened to her side, and began gently to disengage the bramble which had caught her, with tender, comforting words assuring her that her pain would soon be better.

When at last she was free, she flung her little arms about his neck and kissed him with a grateful sob, saying, "It did hurt so, and the more I tried to get away, the deeper it went in!"

"I saw it did, poor little girl. Now shall we run on and catch the others?"

He took her little hand, and as they set off, again a white seed fell from the bag.

It was some time before they even caught sight of the others. And soon Fritz found that his companion's weary little feet dragged heavily along the path.

He lifted her up in his arms, and as she rested her golden head on his shoulder, she said softly, "What makes you so kind?"

"The thought of my Father and King," he answered, "but I am a long way off from being as merciful as He is."

"Are you?" asked the child with wondering eyes. "You seem to me as if you were getting very near it at any rate."

He smiled brightly; this was better praise than being thought quick at school.

All this while, as his burden grew heavier and heavier, and the boy still pressed on, the white seeds fell at intervals one after another and sank down unseen into the ground.

It was no wonder it seemed long before they overtook the other travellers; for meanwhile, they had found an easier means of pursuing their journey than that of walking.

They had come up with an empty waggon, whose driver lay asleep while his horse jogged along the road.

"Let's get in here," said Athred; "the old fellow will be none the wiser, and the horse none the worse. He has to pull the cart all the same, and it makes no difference to him whether it is full or empty."

This reasoning sounded very plausible, and the children laughed and climbed in, sitting on the sides where the trusses of hay usually rested.

All but the young man who was in front of them, and whose spotless clothes shone out a long way ahead. Anxious as he was to get on, when he turned round and saw what his companions had done, he waited silently by the road till the waggon came up.

"Going to get in?" laughed one. "We will make room for you if you like."

"Oh, no! I was not stopping for that. I say, fellows, do you know that horse is 'lame?'"

"Is it?" said one of them carelessly, and as he spoke a black seed fell down behind him and sank into the ground close to the wheel.

"Yes; you have no business to be making him pull you along."

"He'd have to pull the cart," said Athred, "and he may as well drag us with it."

The young man stopped the horse and began to take off his collar, the carter comfortably sleeping all the while.

"I thought so!" he exclaimed indignantly. "Could none of you notice that the poor beast was limping along? Look at this place!"

One or two of them leant over the sides to see, but the rest sat still.

"It is all humbug," said Athred, "thousands of horses do their work like that." And then a black seed went tumbling down.

"I daresay they do," answered Ulric, turning pale with emotion; "it makes me sick to think of all the cruelty that goes on all over the world."

He proceeded to tear his handkerchief in half, and went to the side of the road, where he dipped it in the stream, and returning laid it folded on the sore place. And as he stooped, a dazzling seed fell down unobserved.

"And yet you mean to be a doctor," said Athred scornfully.

"Well?"

"And won't you kill the poor animals, and torture them and cut them up, and think nothing of it, while you are learning?"

"There is no need to do that," answered Ulric; "I can learn to be a good doctor without being cruel. I have my instructions here."

As he turned away, he touched the Golden Letters on his bag, and read them with reverent, obedient eyes:

"'Be ye therefore merciful, as your Father also is merciful.'"

The children, influenced by Ulric's example, determined to leave the waggon, and proceed on foot. They put a small coin in the waggoner's hand, and began to climb a long hill which lay directly in front of them.

Thus, they went on sowing their seeds as they went, some black, some white. Many of them were so anxious to please their King, and so watchful of their actions, that I never saw a black seed fall the whole day. Others were less careful, and many an unkind speech passed their lips, many a harsh judgment crossed their heart, many a thoughtless unkindness marred their life. And at each of these, a black seed fell to the earth.

One or two forgot all about their instructions, all about their White Robes, and all about keeping in the straight path. They wandered here and there, doing what pleased them best, without regard to the feelings of others or the command of their King. They forgot that they would have to retrace their path to-morrow.

At last, the sun began to go down. The shadows of the hills grew deeper and deeper, and the golden light made the peaks stand out like dark spectres against the sky.

"Our day's work is over," said Ulric, "here is the resting-place for to-night."

They had come to a small village, where tables were spread in the twilight for all weary travellers. Before Ulric sat down, he looked long and intently around, but no other travellers came in sight from any other road, and at last he had to go to the chamber prepared for him, with the certainty that none were to be expected that night. He laid his empty bag by his side, its golden letters still shining in the darkness, and thus, he fell asleep.

Athred and Fritz too, and the little golden-haired girl, took their suppers, and went to their chambers. And so rest fell on the little company till the morrow.

When the sun first peeped out into the valley, an attendant, who had waited on them the night before, roused the sleepers by a silver bell. Ample refreshment for their journey was again provided, of which each one could take what he liked. And when the meal was finished, the attendant presented each traveller with a small silver thread.

"This," said he, "will guide you home by the same way you came, and you will find it lead you in the very steps you took yesterday. Whatever you have sown, that will you reap."

He looked gravely and lovingly upon them, and set them forth on their way.

They had no power now to tread where they would. They found themselves compelled to follow the silver thread. Where they had sown a black seed, there I perceived a bramble or nettle had sprung up, and the boys and girls were forced by their silver thread to walk through it, or scramble over it. On the other hand, where I could remember a white seed had fallen, the happy sowers of it found the path straight and easy. Now and again a carriage would be waiting for them at the spot, and would take them a mile or two of the weary road, or they would be invited to a table where delicate fruit and flowers were spread for their entertainment.

When Fritz came to the long dusty road, over which he had with such pains carried the little child, he found that for both of them had sprung up a shady avenue of trees, under which they walked hand in hand for a long way.

Thus, I followed the fortunes of these boys and girls. Those who had sown white seeds got on much better in their journey and left the others far behind. For the children who had sown black seeds were often hindered by having to disentangle their silver threads from some briar which had sprung up, or they had to wait to find an antidote for the sting of some nettle on which they had stepped. Even when walking on what seemed an easy straight path, I could perceive an unseen thorn often pierce their feet, which caused them an anguish of pain.

At such times, the children would sit down by the side of the road and mournfully try to extract the cause of their suffering, and when they found this to be impossible, they would bethink themselves of some balm for their wound. I could watch them searching about here and there till they found what they wanted, and then I saw them apply the same Blood-red leaves which, when once laid on the place, seemed to give instant relief. Then the healed ones would arise and go on their way once more, thanking the King in their hearts for providing the wonderful Remedy so near at hand for every need.

Thus, while some of the travellers reached home in good time and received a rich reward at the Golden Gate, the others, weary and spent with battling with the fruits of their own doings, came in late, and were glad enough to be given the refreshment which, in spite of their failures, was waiting for them.

As I noticed all this, I could not forbear asking one question of someone standing near me:

"Then the first get a reward; the rest, are they to be punished for their unfaithfulness?"

He shook his head. "It is not a question of punishment," he said, "but of reward for faithful service. The White Robe which they have received covers all the failure. Those who have that on need fear no punishment at the end of the journey, but if they are not faithful in sowing whatever is given them to sow (and there are many things), it will cause them much grief during their journey, and at the end, they will not receive so much reward."

Then I awoke from my dream.

* * * * * *

Marian paused in her story.

"Do you understand what I mean now, children? Can you realize a little bit better, that what we sow to-day bears fruit to-morrow?"

"It don't always come up in one day, teacher," remarked a little round-faced rustic.

Marian smiled. "It begins to 'grow,' Jemmy, as soon as it is sown, and comes up quicker than you think. But I was speaking of deeds, not of real seeds, you know."

Jemmy laughed a little, for his sister had nudged him for being so bold as to venture on a remark. But Marian liked her class to speak a little now and then, and not to be afraid of her.

"Now, children, I am going to ask you to learn correctly for me by next Sunday two texts, and if any of you think that is very difficult, I shall be quite satisfied if you will copy them out for me on a piece of paper. I would rather you could say them of course, but if you find them difficult just write them out.

"These are the texts—

"'Be not weary in well-doing: for in due season ye shall reap, if ye
faint not.'

"'Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy.'"