Chapter XIX: Lilian's Peacemaker

"AND this is Marian?" said a ringing voice, belonging to a face and figure the most beautiful Marian had ever seen.

"Yes," she answered, turning rosy red.

"And I have come all the way from Scotland to see you, and now have you no welcome for me, little one?"

She put her arm round the shy shoulders, and looked down into the blushing face. Then thinking she had been almost unkind, she stooped and kissed her, saying:

"Your little note was so nice that I could not but come. But why did you let Evan go away till he had seen me?"

"He said he had business which must be done."

"Eh? Oh, well, in the old days Evan never had any business." A shade crossed her bright face. "But I must get used to him as he is."

She was taking off her hat and smoothing her luxuriant hair in Margaret's spare room, whither Marian had been sent to make her acquaintance and attend upon her.

Marian looked on in silence. Her heart was very full. Only this morning she had parted from Mr. Fortescue, and his last words were sounding in her ears—

"Marian, when I come back next week, you will say what will make me happy?"

And she had said nothing, had been frightened and vexed that she had had no courage to answer. She began to understand that it would make her happy too to give the reply he wanted, and she had let him go and had never said so.

Now here was his sister—this Lilian who had given him, long ago, that fifty pounds which had kept him from starving. Yes, Marian did not forget that. But how should she get on with this bright, fashionable girl, who looked at everything from such a different standpoint from hers?

Meanwhile, Lilian Fortescue was making up her mind about the little lady sitting so quietly there with folded hands, of whom her brother was so proud and fond, and she felt puzzled; for who could know Marian from seeing her for five minutes?

"I am ready now," she said, and then they went downstairs together.

"Marian is going to stay with us for a little while," said Margaret; "for though she only lives next door, we should never see her, she is such a busy little person. It is quite a treat to catch sight of her."

"Oh, Margaret," expostulated Marian, "I come in and out as if this were my home almost!"

Margaret laughed, and added, "But you do not stay, Marian. However, I do not quarrel with any girl for keeping at home."

Margaret, in her fresh grief at her mother's death, felt it a great relief to have her young sister-in-law to help in the entertainment of the Scotch young lady. But she did not guess that besides this, Marian's peaceful society would be a rest to her own weary spirit.

"This is bad weather to pay us a visit," she said, exerting herself to talk, "but I hope, in spite of the cold, you may enjoy yourselves. Do you ride much?"

Lilian brightened up.

"I love it dearly," she said.

"We have several horses, and my husband is very fond of riding, so perhaps that will be a resource. Then, you know, you will have to get acquainted with the inmates of all the Cliff houses: if only our boys were here. But our relationships are very puzzling."

"Yes," said Marian. "If Miss Fortescue can say them off at the end of a fortnight, she will be clever."

"Shall I?" asked Lilian, looking up, surprised that the demure girl could say anything bright.

Margaret saw the look, and smiled to herself.

"She looks down on our treasure," she thought, and was very glad that at the moment, Courtenay came in, and dinner was announced.

No; the Cliff was not the same without the two boys, and every day made it more apparent.

At first Mrs. Bruce's sudden death had taken up everyone's thoughts. But after a week or two, the blank became more and more great, and Courtenay found himself asking for Alick, or expecting to hear his step continually.

As to Margaret, the loss of the three whom perhaps of all on the Cliff, next to her husband, she had loved the best, was so great that she drooped exceedingly, and Courtenay hailed the advent of their two young visitors as something to occupy her and change her thoughts.

So a few days passed away. The girls found an unexpected and charming occupation in using their water-colours. Marian had happened to say one day that she wished she could paint, and Lilian had eagerly volunteered to teach her.

"We shall get quite sisterly over this," she said, looking up into Marian's absorbed face.

Marian started and blushed.

"It is very nice," she answered; "more nice than anything I ever did before."

"Better than stocking-mending?" asked Lilian, a little disdainfully.

But Marian looked up gravely.

"I do not believe you would grudge mending stockings for those you loved, Lilian?"

"Perhaps not," answered Lilian lightly; "but you take everything so seriously. That is like Evan. Why do all the good people make themselves so obnoxious?"

But even as she said it, she knew it was untrue.

"Some day, when you are in a serious humour, I'll explain it to you," said Marian.

"Am I not serious now then?"

Marian shook her head. She and Lilian had by this time become very intimate, but there was an invisible barrier between them, over which they did not step.

"Tell me what you do at home?" said Marian.

"I? Oh, I ride about with my father, and keep house, and entertain company, and dress myself and make the most of my looks, and talk nonsense, and practise for two hours a day, and—"

"What a list!" said Marian, busily going on with her painting. "But to me, Lilian, all that does not 'sound' very peaceful. It may be, but it does not sound so."

"'Peaceful'? Marian, I do not know such a word in my vocabulary. Now I see the secret of you. Is not that the motto you have put up in your room at Sunnyside?"

"Not exactly a motto. My text I suppose you mean?"

"Well, your text. Say it, Marian, and explain it to me; I really will be serious."

"To-night," said Marian, "you know, we were going to have a moonlight stroll on Margaret's terrace, and I will tell you then, if you do not mind. I can't talk while I am painting, not on those things."

Lilian was a little curious, but more careless about the whole matter. She liked Marian, but it was in spite of her religion, not in consequence of it.

As to Marian, she had passed many anxious hours of thought about this gay young girl who had been thrown in her way.

"Margaret," she said that afternoon, when their guest was out riding, and they found themselves alone, "I cannot make any impression on her. I tremble to think how important it is that she should think of these things, and yet I have not courage to begin the subject in good earnest. What can I do?"

Margaret smoothed the soft cheek with her hand in silence for a few moments, then she said:

"Do you know, Marian, that reminds me of how I used to feel with my dear mother years ago, when she cared for nothing of the sort? Oh, you cannot think how difficult it is for anyone to speak to a mother!"

"I can," answered Marian. "I think near relations must be the most difficult."

"It was some time before I could venture, and I used to break the ice by reading a chapter to them every day (but I have told you that), and mother and father used to listen. Then gradually their hearts began to open, and after a while, God helped me to speak plainly to dear mother. She was very angry, but for all that, the seed took root. And almost the first words she spoke to me when I reached India were, 'Margaret used to tell me about Jesus.' Was not that reward for any effort?"

Marian listened with beating heart; could she ever be so brave?

When she went to her room, she knelt down by her bedside, and asked to have courage to begin the subject, and be strengthened to say the right words.

That evening she thought Lilian was particularly flighty. She talked and sang, and looked so beautiful, that Marian sat and gazed at her, and felt it would be impossible to say a word to such a lovely, fascinating creature.

By-and-by, she turned round suddenly.

"Little sister," she said, in a smiling whisper, "you are very silent. Where is that walk you promised me? Or have you forgotten it?"

"Forgotten" it? When every thought since early morning, when they had sat painting together, had been centred on this interview.

Lilian ran to the window, and peeped out.

"Lovely!" she said. "How I wish Evan were here. Come out, Marian, and blow away your cobwebs."

Marian only knew of one way of blowing away cobwebs, and that was casting all her care upon Him who careth, and these words reminded her of it. While she went for her shawl, she had time to raise her heart for one moment in an earnest entreaty that this care might be removed, and then she and Lilian met in the hall, and went out.

"Yes, the moon is very lovely," Lilian exclaimed. "Do you not wish you could paint it? But how few do justice to moonlight? Look how dark the shadows are on the water, except the place where the rays strike. There, Marian, do you not see?"

"I see," answered Marian thoughtfully.

"It seems to me something like my life," pursued Lilian, half in spite of herself, "just light where I walk, and dark everywhere else. Such a pleasant pathway for me, but outside of it, so many dark bits which might be very gloomy."

"Oh, Lilian, you give me the shivers!" said Marian.

"Do I? I did not mean to do that. Let us go in then."

"But," said Marian, making the plunge, "you were going to have a talk; and your words reminded me of just what we were going to talk about. Now it seems to me that instead of that silver pathway being an emblem of your life, it is just the other way. Your life is like the restless waves in the dark, and it is only the love of Jesus that makes the pathway bright."

"Nonsense, child," said Lilian, half-angry, "mine was a much prettier thought."

"But, Lilian, we were going to be serious, and, after all, these similes are not to be depended on. Do you 'really' want to know about my text? Because, if you do, I want to tell you so much; for—"

"Well, little sister?"

"Don't say that, dear," said Marian, distressed. "But oh, Lilian, I am so unhappy that you trifle with things that I believe are the most important in the world."

"I am not trifling now. You can say what you like, and I will listen; for though I seem so giddy, Marian, I'll confess to you, what I have never confessed to anyone before, my heart aches terribly sometimes."

Marian's arm stole round her waist, and her head, with its soft, shining hair, laid itself on Lilian's taller shoulder.

"I did not guess that," she whispered; "then my text may speak a message to you."

"How can it?"

"'Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God.'"

"Well?"

"'He' is the Peacemaker; 'He' is the child of God Who has pleased His Father in all things, and has made peace for a lost world."

"'He?'" questioned Lilian.

"Jesus Christ our Saviour. I put up that text, Lilian, for two reasons. The first was by far the most important in my thoughts. It reminded me that 'He' is our peace. The Lord hath laid on Him the iniquity of us all. He is the best of Peacemakers, and His Father acknowledges His perfect work by saying out of heaven, so that it should come down to us even to-day, 'This is my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased.'"

"Why was He well pleased?" asked Lilian softly.

"Because He was making peace for this sorrowful world—'my' peace, 'your' peace, Lilian."

"Not mine," answered the girl slowly. "I have never wished for it, nor sought it. Now—"

"Now you do?" asked Marian, pressing her closer. "Oh, do say you do!"

"I cannot say that to please you. I wish it with a kind of weary wish that I had something solid to rest on, but to-morrow I may be as light-hearted as ever; and I fear that so it will ever be."

Marian was silent. What could she say more?

"And supposing that to-morrow should never come?"

Lilian shrugged her shoulders.

"Can't you trust Him as your Peacemaker?" Marian asked wistfully.

"To make peace for what?"

"Because of our sins; that's what He makes peace for. We never could meet God if He did not make peace. Why, Lilian, have you never thought of that for one moment? If a rebel wants his conqueror to show him mercy, do you not suppose he had better find some way of appeasing the conqueror's just wrath?"

"I suppose so."

"And is it not wonderful that God has found out a plan by which we sinners can come near Him without fear?"

Lilian was listening intently.

"And so He sent His Son, that 'whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life.'"

The moon still shone on the rippling sea, and the light clouds passed over it, and then it came out as bright as before, and still the girls stood silently watching it.

"I begin to see at last," said Lilian, turning caressingly towards her companion; "and seeing even dimly makes me understand many things which Evan tried to teach me. Marian, if what you say is true, I need a Peacemaker as much as anyone."

"Then you will not wait, but find one to-night, will you not, Lilian? I cannot bear putting off."

Lilian kissed her tenderly, and only answered—but it was in a reassuring tone—"I have found that out already."

And with this, Marian was forced to be satisfied.

But when she was in bed, lying awake looking at the moon, and praying for the girl who all at once had become so dear, a light tap at her door was followed by a white figure crossing her room.

"I shall not frighten you, little sister?"

"Oh, no! Do you want anything?"

"Only to tell you that 'I' do not like putting off any better than you; so I have come to the Peacemaker, and asked Him to make peace for me."

"And He has?"

"Yes; did you expect Him to cast me out when I came?"