OTHER events had occupied that winter besides the building of the garden house, the blowing of wintry winds and falling of snow; a terrible war was going on, and Louie heard many sad tales of the sufferings endured by the soldiers who were exposed to cold and sword, and of the sorrow of their friends when news of the deaths of fathers, husbands, and brothers reached them. Altogether it was a gloomy time. The pear-trees stood forlorn in the silent garden, and their thin shivering branches looked as though they had lost all life and heart, and would never again bear the juicy pears that had ripened so often on the sometimes sunny wall. Crowds of little brown feathered beggars collected on the stone terrace, and found themselves there safe and welcome to the feasts of crumbs, which always plentifully scattered the flagstones and windowsills; the children had some warming games in the play-room, but very often they gathered round the fire, and while they helped to make lint, their hearts were quite sad in thinking about the hundreds of suffering soldiers far away, lying shivering and wounded among the biting winds and cruel snows of a Russian winter.
But at last, even this winter, with all its dreary strength of frost and storm, began to give way before the milder breezes and melting rays of a spring sun; the worst of the war too, it was hoped, was over, and suddenly, everybody everywhere seemed to awake to the fact that spring was coming, and to be in a bustle. They painted their shutters bright green, and their houses bright yellow; and those who did not paint did their best with mops and buckets, to share in the general brightening. Children crowded every street corner, full of noise and play, and armed with wicker battledores, by means of which they sent red, blue, yellow, and green shuttlecocks flying in all directions.
As to the trees, more bustle went on among them than even among the people. Every branch of every tree was swelling with fresh spring sap; the tiniest twig was not forgotten, and when the branch was so full that swelling would not do for it any longer, it broke out into little juicy buds, which softened and stretched until, by degrees, tiny leaves popped out, and without any help of paint or brushes, the branches put on suits of bright new green. Besides all this, trees which stood in quiet corners experienced quite an extra sort of bustle which those in the squares and streets of the town knew nothing about; all the little birds were glad enough to leave off begging on doorsteps and window-sills, and instead of beggars, were fast becoming owners of lovely nests among leafy branches, and were making as much noise as possible, to express what they felt in looking forward to the joy of seeing tiny, smooth eggs lying amid the soft moss and wool which lined their little homes.
However, all this stir seemed to Louie quite like nothing at all, compared with what happened one morning, in a quiet square in the town: it was the very square in front of her bedroom window, and so it was quite a difficulty for her to get dressed in time for breakfast, for she was only just awaking when the beating of a great drum announced some unusual event, and losing no more time than was needful in reaching the window, she saw line after line of travel-worn soldiers entering the square; there, they formed themselves into companies, and their commanding officer rode briskly from one to the other, until every two soldiers were provided with a little slip of paper. “They are being billeted," said Augustine, the children's maid; "these soldiers have come from distant parts of the country; on each of those little slips of paper somebody's address is written, and the soldiers who receive it will come to stay at that house until the camp on the cliffs is ready for them all to go to."
The children hoped much that some soldiers would be sent to them, and every moment that could possibly be spared from the business of dressing was spent in watching the couples who marched from the square; and at last two soldiers did come, nearer and nearer, until they actually were ringing at the door. I do not know whether their elders were quite as anxious to have these unknown guests as were the children, but, at any rate, they were made welcome, and very grateful, quiet occupants of their part of the house, which was a great granary under the roof, these poor stranger soldiers were.
Many another couple came to the house after these first, for hundreds of soldiers passed through the town on their way to the great camp on the cliffs, where they waited in readiness for orders to join the army in Russia, and fill up the blanks which had been made in many a regiment by the fearful slaughter which took place during that terrible war.
The children, and numbers of other people, frequently visited the great camp, for it was an interesting sight to see the rows of neat little huts so cleverly and quickly built of clay; some of the soldiers took a great deal of pains to make the little abode as home-like as possible, and employed their spare time usefully. The children were particularly pleased with some bunches of lovely flowers which these clever and grateful soldiers, made from their bread, and presented to those who had shown them kindness when they were billeted in the town. In order to make these pretty flowers, they rolled the soft, crummy part of their loaf between their hands, until it became a smooth paste; this was molded into thin petals, formed exactly in the shape of geranium or rose petals, then colored with soft powdered chalk, fastened together into a proper shape, and surrounded with bright green leaves, all made of bread, except the stalks, which were of wire.
But pleasure and interest were not the only things that drew visitors to the camp, for it was a solemn sight to look upon row after row of the little huts and to remember that each contained two soldiers, immortal beings who might be called upon to leave the peaceful camp for a scene of danger, and, to very many, of death; so, as well as hundreds of soldiers, hundreds upon hundreds of Testaments and little books came into the town, and it was the business of conveying and distributing these which generally engaged Louie's mother and her friends when they visited the camp. Louie herself often helped in carrying the Testaments and little books, and perhaps sometimes gave one away. She heard a great deal of conversation about the soldiers, and those who were active about the Testaments seemed very anxious that the poor men should be converted; and while Louie listened to all the hopes and wishes expressed for them, she felt that she needed the same. She seemed now suddenly, instead of only a reader, to have become a part, an actual part, of one of the many stories she had read about preachings and conversions, but she longed to change sides, and take the place which she felt in truth to be hers, among the needy and unsaved ones. It was, no doubt, the goodness of God which awakened this wish in Louie's heart, for there was nothing in the conversation she heard which could have given rise to it. The wish most constantly expressed about the soldiers was that they should become Protestants, and Louie was a Protestant, a very firm one too, though whether there was anything more Christ-like in her Protestantism than in the foolish superstition of the Romanists is very doubtful. When the poor ill-taught papists crowded to touch a fragment of an image, said to have been carved by St. Luke, Louie looked on with a feeling that was very far from pity or love; and when they bowed their heads, in obedience to the priest's tinkling bell, before the wafer which they called holy, Louie held her head stiffly erect. I think that had she obtained a clear view of her heart at this time, she would have seen, in the midst of all the fears and self-reproaches and longings, a great deal of pride and self-righteousness at work there.
On such occasions she was, I fear, like those "who trusted in themselves that they were righteous and despised others," while perhaps some poor untaught soldier, reading for the first time in his little camp hut of Him who came not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance, was crying out "God be merciful to me a sinner," and getting an answer of peace. "For that which is highly esteemed among men is abomination in the sight of God; for man looketh on the outward appearance, but the Lord looketh on the heart."
“All our righteousnesses are as filthy rags." Could such a covering bring peace to the conscience, or give boldness in the day of judgment?
No. It is not our righteousness but God's perfect love, shown in His giving His own Son to be the propitiation for our sins, which casteth out fear. Louie had not learned that love yet, but it still followed her, for it is perfect: it would not allow Satan to satisfy her with her own wretched little rags of righteousness, neither would that perfect love leave her to be deceived by pleasures of this life which, just at this time, began to open with fresh promises around her. She was invited to pay a visit of some length to a relative, whom she had not seen since she was the tiny child who pointed her way down the reading book, and then delighted herself with the elephant and other toys in the nursery.
A friend who was going in the same direction, took care of Louie through her journey, but it was the first time in her life that she had been on a visit quite alone; and when her friend wished her good-bye and left her at her aunt's door she felt like a very shy little girl, and almost wished herself quietly at home again. These uncomfortable feelings, however, soon vanished before the kindness which was shown her, and the many new pleasures which were put in her way. Louie much enjoyed the conversation, the music, the pictures, the drives, the visits and many other things; and she might have been quite happy if only she had not been what she was, a poor weak child, who could not for one moment preserve herself alive, or secure to herself the enjoyments which surrounded her; a traveler along the road of life, who found herself, as the moments passed by, drawing ever nearer to a solemn eternity. That eternity was a deep reality to Louie. It is a reality, a solemn, an ever approaching reality to every one, though some may never have waited to think about it.
Often in the very height of the pleasures, a question would rush unbidden into Louie's mind; at least, a question unbidden by herself, but sent perhaps by the love which followed her. It was this: What will be the end of these things? Will these things, pleasing as they appear, give us any help in the day of judgment?
No wonder, when such a question was sounding in Louie's mind, sounding and resounding and getting no answer; no wonder that she looked grave, and did not, at times, show the bright face of interest, which those who were doing so much to entertain her might have expected. One evening, Louie had been taken to the house of some cousins; two or three little friends of her own age were there, and older people also; some very fine music was performed on various instruments, and some more childish entertainments were provided for the younger ones; but somehow, before the evening came to an end, Louie found herself sitting in a quiet corner, and from thence looking on at the scene which, though bright, appeared before her, at that moment, in all its real vanity and uselessness. All these people love me, thought Louie, they mean to give me pleasure, but oh! how I wish that they would show their love in some other, some better way. Louie hardly knew in what way, but I dare say that her face, while she made these reflections, was very grave and unsuited to its bright surroundings; her aunt noticed it, and when they reached home reproved her, telling her how unmannerly and ungrateful it was, when everyone was taking pains to make the evening agreeable, to sit in a corner and engage herself with her own thoughts.
“The other little girls," said Louie's aunt, "did not behave in this way; they tried to be happy, and to show that they were pleased."
“I did feel grateful," replied poor Louie, "and I should have been happy and pleased if only I knew what was to become of me in the future; but, until I know that, I cannot take pleasure in enjoyments which, it seems to me, will all pass away and be quite useless in the day of judgment."
Louie's aunt was a believer in the Lord Jesus Christ, but she did not then know that any one could say—I am saved, I have Eternal Life; neither had she learned that the death of Christ delivers from this present evil world, or that the love of Christ satisfies those longings of the heart which enjoyments of this world seek in vain to still. All this was unknown to her, and so the child's simple speech seemed to her very extraordinary; but she was full of love towards her little niece, and felt sorry for the poor little fearful heart, so she answered kindly.
“I believe, my dear child, that the Lord will draw you to Himself, but you must try to behave more properly in society another time; and you must never speak in this way again, or people will think you are mad."
Louie felt some comfort from the first part of her aunt's reply, but it was not the help she wanted, and she wondered very much why eternal realities were to be kept out of sight, and whether the things which are seen and which are temporal ought to engage all, or nearly all, the time and attention of those who were to live forever. Perhaps, while she made these reflections, Louie thought herself wiser than those around her; I dare say she hardly understood all that she felt that night, but since her hope was still in herself, and in what she could offer to recommend herself to God, she was very foolish, and had yet many a lesson to learn.
Soon after this evening's conversation, Louie left her aunt and went on another visit; this was to an old lady, and the days spent in that old-fashioned house were much quieter than the days spent in London had been. The change suited Louie's present frame of mind; there were some younger ladies in the house who were very kind to the little visitor, and these weeks were, on the whole, a time of enjoyment; but the last day came, and Louie was to go away in the afternoon. A little while before she left, one of the younger ladies took her into her own room and, after talking affectionately to her for a little while, said, "Now I must leave you for a few minutes, and while I am gone you may look through my book-case and choose some book which you would like to take away with you as a remembrance of me."
Louie was very fond of books, and she went at once to the book-case, eager to make her choice. As she rapidly read over the many titles before her, her attention was arrested by an old-fashioned volume which, in its shabby binding, had remained for years unnoticed in its corner; but its title attracted Louie beyond everything, and at once her choice was made, she would have this book, "The Whole Duty of Man." She had just taken it from the shelf when her friend returned. “Well, have you made your choice?" “Yes," replied Louie, as she handed the book.
“Why! what is this?" said the lady, in astonishment, "‘The Whole Duty of Man!' oh! that is a most old-fashioned book, I had forgotten that I possessed it, it is not at all meant for you. Here," she continued, reaching down a bright volume from an upper shelf, "you will like this, I am sure," and she put it into Louie's hand. She had resolutely set the first choice aside, so Louie could say no more, and the time was going over; there was only just time to pack the unwelcome volume among her other possessions, to say her goodbyes and be off.
She went away much disappointed; she had seemed just within reach of what she needed, and it had been taken from her, for Louie's uneasy heart had been attracted by that word "Whole," and she thought that if only she had possessed a book which would teach her her whole duty, she should have found the way to that peace of conscience and rest of heart which she as yet sought after in vain.
Child as she was, she did not stay to consider that a man's book of instruction, however well meant, might have misled her; and how little she knew her own heart, since she believed it capable of answering to the claims of a holy God, however plainly set forth. She was like those Israelites at Sinai, who said, "All that the Lord hath said will we do and be obedient." And scarcely had they spoken the words, when they made a golden calf to worship.