Chapter XVIII: Friends Worth Keeping

"ROBERT," said a gentlemanly young man about Robert Taylor's own height and age, laying his hand familiarly upon his shoulder, "my father says it is a pity poor Matthew should be pining for his letter, though he is so foolish as not to give his address to the postmaster; it may be some time before he is able to go for it."

"He shall not pine long if it is there, sir," said Robert; "I am going to inquire for it this evening after work; I told my mother this morning not to expect me home until late."

"I thought so," returned the other; "and I mean to go with you, unless you have better company, so expect to see me somewhere about the first turnpike."

Robert was very well pleased, and having brought a change of dress with him to the works, he knew that his companion need not be ashamed of his appearance.

Soon after six o'clock, a light vehicle, capable of holding two people, overtook him at the appointed spot.

Young Mr. Dixon drove briskly on for some time in silence, during which we may take opportunity to say that he was now in partnership with his father, a steady, active man of business, and greatly beloved by all in his employ. The early affection he had felt for the son of the respected foreman had ripened into a strong friendship, which nothing on either side had ever interrupted, and which the excellent sense and self-respect of the workman preserved from intrusion or presumption.

"Robert," said Mr. Archibald, after a while, "you have never asked me anything about certain reports which you must have heard. Don't you care what I do for myself?"

"Yes, indeed, I do care," exclaimed Robert, with a rush of bright colour to his honest face; "and, if I hadn't felt good hope that all is right for you, I should have risked even displeasing you by speaking; but otherwise it was not for me to mention such a subject until you gave me opportunity."

"That's like my honest friend," said the other; "but what is your hope about it, on which you have settled down so satisfactorily?"

"That the young lady is a servant of the Lord Jesus Christ, and, by all I can hear, worthy the love of a Christian gentleman," replied Robert, promptly.

"Then you can congratulate me when I tell you that all is settled, and that our God—yours and mine, Robert—is going to bestow on me His best earthly gift, 'a prudent wife'?"

"Yes, I can and do, with all my heart, sir," said Robert; "I saw you several times attending on that lady, and I could feel no rest until I found out all I could about her."

"And what did you hear, may I ask?"

"Nothing but what is good and right?" said Robert, warmly. "That she is a true Christian, with a sweet and gentle temper, is a self-denying daughter, and an accomplished lady, kind to the poor, and thoughtful for every one about her—such a person as your dear mother will be happy to call daughter-in-law."

"Well done, Robert, I could not have made a better sketch myself," said his gratified friend; "and had it been otherwise, you would have told me your thoughts on a matter so important to my happiness."

"I would, sir: I could not have done otherwise."

"Then, Robert, you will understand the feeling which constrains me to speak candidly to you. I am anxious about you, Robert, and some dear to me are anxious too. Miss Eaton knows our regard for you and your family, and is kindly interested in all I love. She employed a young dressmaker lately, of whom in many respects she did not feel able to approve, and was greatly grieved to hear your name mentioned as the admirer of this pretty but indiscreet young woman. It had been, I was going to say, boasted of before the servants, who told their mistress. I know you too well to suppose you would trifle on such a matter, and I want to know the truth from yourself."

"You shall hear it," said Robert, with a blush of annoyance and indignation at the construction that had already been put upon his conduct; "I do acknowledge that I was attracted by the beauty of Lydia Brooks, and that I have tried to ascertain what sort of disposition and principles belonged to it. I have no notion of falling in love with what merely pleases the eye, but I can't tell what I might do if further knowledge of character satisfied my heart."

"You would then yield the devoted attachment of that heart, I know, Robert, and I want to have it worthily bestowed."

"I do not expect to have it called forth, Mr. Archy," said Robert. "My good Aunt Hayes has taken up the cause, and circumstances are eliciting sufficient to guide me safely, under God's kind providence."

"Then you are not hurt at what I have said? You know, Robert, I would not speak or think disrespectfully of any one dear to you."

"I do know it, and thank you heartily for such real friendship, Mr. Archy; and the only thing that causes me regret is to see a woman so gifted with powers to please, and make somebody's life happy, set upon throwing them away for a little idle vanity."

"She is a selfish, giddy, vain creature, so far as Miss Eaton can ascertain," said Mr. Archibald, warmly; "and to see you choose such a woman would distress me. But we can trust your good Aunt Hayes, and of course I ought to have trusted you also, never to attach yourself to a woman who does not fear God. Only one sees such strange miserable things in this queer world sometimes. I have not selected my wife for her beauty, Robert, though she is lovely enough in my eyes."

"And in every one's else," said Robert, smiling, as he sprang out at the post-office to inquire for the expected letter.

By the open window of the bedroom over Miss Lydia's special apartment, and in spite of the advice of his landlady, sat the invalid lodger, looking very pale and weak yet. His usually curly hair hung lank about his brow, and an expression of anxiety was on his countenance; his tall figure drooped wearily, and altogether Matthew Hill was very much changed for the worse in appearance.

It was a sweet, calm evening, the soft air refreshed him, and many an effort he made to give attention to the little book that lay open on the table at his side.

"It's of no use," he thought at last, closing the book, "I can't pretend to care as I ought for the news from a better world, while I'm longing so hard for some in this." And again he gazed along the road wishing for restored strength to try another journey to the post-office at B—. His young friend had not been to see him either that day, and Mr. Hill felt alone in the world.

Presently, however, a little carriage drove up, and in a few seconds, up three steps at a time came Robert Taylor, and laid two letters before him.

"How kind! How thoughtful!" murmured the grateful man, as he clasped Robert's hand. "Don't go until I have opened them."

"They have been lying for some days," said Robert. "I will wait and see whether you want to answer them to-night."

But Mr. Hill did not hear. He was gazing in mute surprise upon the seven words in printed letters which me his eager eyes on tearing open the first letter.

"DEAR FATHER, COME HOME, DAISY WANTS YOU."

It was some minutes before the other letter, written by Mr. Field, was opened, and its contents, though cautiously and hopefully worded, impressed the unhappy wanderer with the conviction that some untold evil had befallen.

"Will you have pen and ink? Shall I post a letter for you?" gently asked Robert, thinking the fit of musing had lasted long enough for an invalid.

"To-morrow, if I cannot travel, but I must try," said Matthew. "I cannot say anything now. Will you pray for me? For I am very very miserable, and I deserve it all."

"I don't like to leave you miserable," said Robert, kindly; "but though I can't help you, I know who can. He says,—

"'Call upon Me in the day of trouble, I will deliver thee, and thou
shalt glorify Me;'

"'Cast thy burden upon the Lord, and He shall sustain thee;'

"'Come unto me, all ye that are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give
you rest.'"

And with the last words, Robert softly closed the door, leaving the sick man still gazing on the printed sentence before him.

Left alone, Matthew Hill tried to think, and found the effort only further exhibited the confusion of his mind. Yet over the chaos seemed to float in tender tone the last words of his young friend,—

"Come unto Me . . . I will give you rest."

"Come unto Me."

"Oh, I must. I cannot bear this.

"My God, teach me, hear me, help me!"

He cried, in an agony of distress, and sinking on his knees by the chair in which he had been sitting.

Tears, bitter, miserable tears, forced themselves into his eyes, his hand pressed hard on his burning forehead, and he was conscious of nothing for some time but an intolerable load of remorse and wretchedness.

Was it strange that he thought not now of others' faults or tempers or unkindnesses? He saw something of himself, his cruel desertion of duty, his stubborn pride, his former odious self-indulgence.

"Oh, what a sinful wretch I have been!" he murmured. "Can the good God ever pity or forgive me? Oh! May I but see them again—my poor wife, my darling children! Shame, shame on me, for an unnatural father, an unfeeling husband. Can they ever love me any more?"

Now was poor Matthew indeed humbled. He saw himself now in the light of God's holy word, and lay with all his pride, and self-will, and crushing sense of utter worthlessness before the Cross of Christ. And that was the right place to find help; there hung the only arm that could raise up the fallen. And now was felt the "repentance" that the Prince and Saviour was "exalted" to give. "Remission of sins" was in twin-relationship with "godly sorrow."

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