NOW, girls, I have got good news for you!”
The speaker was a showy girl, dressed in the height of fashion. She was just entering a room where sat several young ladies, her cousins, pursuing various household employments.
“What is it, Ada?” cried one and another.
“You’ll never believe it; Lizzie Ashbrook has professed religion,” was the half serious, half laughing reply.
“Lizzie Ashbrook?” the girls repeated the name more or less in surprise.
“Lizzie Ashbrook!” said the elder cousin, Julia, seriously; “why, she was forever making sport of the subject.” “And such a fashionable girl; why, she would hardly look at a person who was poorly dressed,” remarked another.
“Her father, an infidel, too, what will he say?” “I heard that he turned her out of the house,” said Ada. There was a long silence. “Well,” it was abruptly spoken by the youngest of the family, “we shall see now if there is any reality in religion that Christians talk about. I don’t believe there is one single person in any branch of her family who is religious. She will have unusual trials to undergo; I wouldn’t be in her place.”
“Trials; pshaw; there’s no such thing as persecution in these days; it would be a rare thing to see a martyr.” This was lightly spoken by Ada, who had been Lizzie’s nearest friend, and who felt an unnatural bitterness springing up in her heart towards the young girl, whom she knew could no longer enjoy her companionship as before. Martyrs are not rare even in these days; aye, and martyrs to religious persecutions, as we shall see.
The cousins made an early call on Lizzie, who received them with her accustomed grace, and a sweeter smile than usual—yet she was pale, and though there was a purer expression on her beautiful face, yet she appeared like one wearied a little with some struggle, in which she was the sufferer. Although she did not speak directly of the new peace she had found, her visitors could see clearly and distinctly the wondrous change in dress, in manners, and even in countenance.
Lizzie was engaged for marriage to a thorough man of the world. George Philips loved his wine, his parties, the race-course, the theatre, the convivial and free and easy club. The Sunday was his day of pleasure, and many a time had Lizzie graced his elegant equipage. radiant in beauty, on that day, as they swept along. He had a dashing exterior, was intellectual—a wit, courted, caressed, admired everywhere.
His brow darkened as he heard the news. “What! the girl of his choice, the woman he would place at the head of his brilliant household becoming a canting Christian. Nonsense, he didn’t believe it; he would see for himself. He didn’t furnish his parlor for prayer meetings; he wanted no long-faced ministers, elders, ex-sisters of mercy to visit his wife, not he. It was a ridiculous hoax; it must have originated in the club-room. What! the daughter of Henry Ashbrook, the freest of free-thinkers? Ha! a capital joke—a very clever joke, nothing more.”
He called upon her not very long after the visit before mentioned. His cold eye scanned her from head to foot—but how gently—how sweetly she met him; surely the voice that was melting music before was still sweeter in its tones now. All the winning grace was there, all the high bred ease; the merry smile dimpled her cheek, but there was something, a subtle something that thrilled him from head to foot with apprehension, because it was unlike her usual self. What could it be? At length, lightly, laughingly, he referred to the report he had heard. For one moment, the frame trembled, the lips refused to speak—but this passed, and something like a flash crossed her beautiful face—it lighted the eye anew, it touched the cheek with a deeper crimson as she replied, “George, please don’t treat it as a jest, for truly, thank God, I have become a Christian. O George!”—her clasped hands were laid upon one of his, — “I have only just begun to live! if you knew—.”
ML 11/04/1906