MORE than twenty years have passed since the incident occurred which I am about to narrate; yet it seems as if it had happened only a few weeks ago, so vividly has it remained in my recollection. A friend invited me to her house, where, at dinner I met several of her relatives, among the rest a young lady of whom I had heard a great deal.
This young lady’s attractive looks and manners, as well as her talents for music and study, had made her a general favorite in several circles, and as she was the pet of her father, a gentleman of considerable scientific knowledge, she had gained a readiness to converse intelligently upon subjects that lay beyond the usual line of young ladies’ acquirements.
After dinner, and having retired to the drawing room, we found abundance of matter for conversation, and as one topic after another came up and engrossed us, I at length observed that the rest of the company had gone to other rooms, and that we two were left alone. I had several times wondered if, with all her knowledge, this young lady knew the Lord, and now that we were alone, I felt a strong desire to speak a word for Him.
My heart throbbed and my lips quivered as I somewhat abruptly broke the thread of the conversation, which had hitherto run so smoothly, by putting the solemn question, “Do you know the Lord Jesus Christ as your Saviour?”
There was no answer, her eyes fell and she bit her lip. I knew it was a struggle between politeness and anger as I marked the change in her face, but I felt I must use the unexpected and much desired opportunity. I had looked to the Lord in my heart for the suited word, so continued, “I am sorry if I have pained you by my question, but you will forgive me when I tell you that I have believed in Jesus, and found in believing such peace and joy, that I now wish everyone I know, and you especially, to be as happy as I am; if you have not yet trusted my Saviour, I beg you to hear Him, as He says to you, My daughter, give me thine heart, and as He holds out the offer of free and full pardon to the chief of sinners, casting no one out who comes to Him. Believe me,” I added, “I do not speak thus to pain you, but from a deep desire for your salvation and happiness.”
I saw that her patience was now almost exhausted, and one moment only remained for me. I felt that I must use that moment in pressing home a question of eternal importance, and said, “If the Lord Jesus were now manifestly present here, in this room, and put the question to you ‘Will you give me your heart?’ what would be your reply to Him—Yes or No?”
The home thrust was too much for her. I fear she deemed my whole conduct only impertinence—it seemed so, at least, for rising from the chair, and tossing her head, so that the long, graceful curls covered her shoulders, and hid her face from me, she walked to the door of the room. Then holding the handle of the door, she turned an indignant glance towards me, and said, “I am not demonstrative.”
The door closed behind her, and I was left alone—I could hear her go to the room where her hat lay, and after a few words with the hostess almost immediately leave the house. I felt as if my heart could have broken with disappointment and sorrow. I feared I had been too hasty with my words, yet would not have recalled one of them. I could only leave the matter with God, who knew what a conflict there had been in my soul, and what it had cost me to speak to her about the Saviour.
Her last words to me, “I am not demonstrative,” sounded still in my ears, as a few weeks later I stood beside a coffin in a darkened room. The coffin contained the lifeless body of my young friend.
The eyes that had looked so indignantly at me were now closed, the brown curls lay gracefully along, and all that taste could do to beautify death had been done. About her and in her hand were clusters of snowdrops, scarce more white than the hand which held them, or the face they were meant to adorn.
She had died unexpectedly. When I heard of her illness I sought admittance to her room, but this was peremptorily refused by her mother, who seemed to think the hope for her daughter’s recovery consisted in her not knowing that the illness was a serious one. Peace had reigned in the sick room, but not God’s peace, for it was only maintained there at the expense of truth. Led to believe that she was not seriously ill, but was gradually recovering, the poor girl was deceived until the last night, when the anxiety of her friends could be hidden no longer. Two doctors remained by the bedside. Looking up into the face of one of them, her own father, with an indescribable eagerness she said, “You will bring me through, papa, won’t you?”
“No, my dear child,” he replied, “I cannot bring you through, I tell you you are dying.”
“Oh papa!” she exclaimed in intense agony, “I won’t die—I can’t die!”
Covering his face with his hands to hide his emotion, her father rushed from the room, nor did he enter it again until all was over.
As I stood by the lifeless body, and looked on the pale face, I wondered if, as she died, the solemn sense that she was really about to meet her God bore in upon her, whether she turned to Jesus as a lost and ruined hell-deserving sinner and found Him an Omnipotent Saviour, able to save her; but I had to turn away, her words still ringing in my ears. “I am not demonstrative.”
J. S.