“Now, girls, I have 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 of yore. 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 theater, 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. Oh George!” – her clasped hands were laid upon one of his – “I have only just begun to live! If you knew – “
The proud man sprang to his feet, almost throwing her hand from him in his impatient movement, and not daring to trust his voice, for an oath was uppermost, he walked swiftly backward and forward for a moment, then he came and stood before her. His forehead was purpled with the vein that passion swelled, his face white, and his voice unsteady, as he exclaimed, “Do you mean to say that you will really cast your lot among these people, that for them you will give up all – all?”
“I will give up all for Christ;” the words were very soft and low, and not spoken without reflection. For one moment he locked his lips together, till they looked like steel in their rigidity; then he said, in a full, passionate voice, “Lizzie, Miss Ashbrook, if these are your sentiments, these your intentions, we must go different ways.”
This was very cruel – it was a terrible test: for that young girl, as it were, placed her soul in his keeping. Before a higher, a purer love was born in her heart, she had made up her human love – an absolute idolatry – and the thought of leaving him, even now, caused her cheek to grow ashen, and her eyes dim. As he saw this his manner changed to entreaty. He placed before her the position he would give her; lured by every argument that could appeal to her womanly heart. He could adapt his voice, his language, his very looks with the most adroit cunning to the subject and object of his discussion. More than once the gentle spirit of the young Christian felt as if she must give way – that only help direct from the fountain of life could sustain her firmness to resist to the end of the interview.
At last it was a final, “All this will I give you, if you will fall down and worship me.” There could be no compromise, – it was “Christ or me”. And standing there, clothed with the mantle of a new heavenly faith, with its light shining in her heart and playing on her pale features, she said, with a firmness worthy of the martyrs of old, “Christ.”
Though his soul was filled with rage so that he could have gnashed his teeth, the slight figure standing there in its pure white robes – the eye that cast an earnest, upward glance, the brow that seemed to have grown white with spirit light – the attitude, so self-possessed, yet so modest – so quiet, yet so eloquent, filled him with a strange admiring awe. But the hostility towards religion was so strong in his heart that it bore down all his tenderness, almost crushed his love, and he parted from her for the first time coldly, and like a stranger.
The engagement was broken off, but who can tell the struggle it cost; this was but the first trial; then came another, while yet the blow lay heavy on her heart.
Her father had never been very loving towards her. He was proud of her; she was the brightest gem of his splendid home. She was beautiful, and gratified his vanity; she was intellectual, and he heard praises lavished upon her mind with a miser’s greedy ear, for she was his – a part of himself; she belonged to him. He called her into his study, and required a minute account of the whole matter. He had heard rumors, he said – had seen a surprising and not an agreeable change in her; she had grown mopish, quiet – what was the cause? It was a great trial, with that stern, unbelieving face, full of hard lines, opposite, to stand and testify for Christ. But He who has promised was with her, and she told the story calmly, resolutely, kindly.
“And do you intend to be baptized?”
“Yes, Sir,” a gleam of hope entered her heart, she did not expect his approval, but she could not think he might refuse to sanction this important step.
“You know your Aunt Eunice has long wanted you to become an inmate of her home.” “Yes Sir,” the gentle voice faltered.
“Well, you can go now. Unless you give up this absurd idea, and trample it under your feet, I do not wish you to remain with me. Be as you were before and you shall want no luxury, no affection; follow this miserable notion, and henceforth I am only your father in name.”
And still, though her heart was broken, she said as she had said before, “Christ.”
She did forsake all for Him, but her step became slow, her form wasted, her eye hollow, her cheek sunken. The struggle had been too much for a frame unable to cope with any overwhelming sorrow.
Swiftly she went down into the valley, but it was not dark to her. Too late, the man who had so sorely tempted her, knelt by the side of her bed and implored her forgiveness. Too late! no not too late for his own salvation, for in that hour his eyes were opened to the sinfulness of his life, and by her dying pillow, he promised solemnly to yield himself to God. Her father, too, proud infidel though he was, looked on his wasted child, triumphing over death, with wonder and with awe. Such a dying scene is the privilege of but few to witness. She had given up all for Christ and in the last hour, the Spirit of God seemed to fill her. And like one, who but the other day, in the vigor of youthful buoyancy, moved calmly and trustingly down the one step betwixt earth and heaven, she said, with a smile inexpressibly sweet, “sing.” And they sang, “Rock of Ages, Cleft for Me.” At its close they heard one word the last it was, “Christ.”