Ellen R-, as we must now call her, was soon undeceived as to the hopes with which she had quieted conscience before her marriage. Her house which she had fondly thought to preserve like the dwelling of Lazarus, Martha, and Mary, where Jesus oft resorted with His disciples, presented no token of being graced with His presence, or of being honored with His blessing. Family prayer was out of the question with a master who was insensible of its duty, and undesirous of its accompanying influence—who thought this delightful service to belong only to ministers of religion. The day began there as if they had nothing to do with God; so it passed throughout, and so it closed. Ellen sometimes mentioned it with desire to her husband; but every allusion to the holy practice was answered with some general evasion, some playful banter on “nun-like purity she had received in her solitude,” and “which should now be exchanged for conformity with the practices of social life,” When she sought to discourse more seriously on these topics, she found the subject was irksome to her husband, and was obliged to suffer the conversation to be diverted into some other channel. Indeed, on all other points it was so interesting, that, before she was aware, her mind was engaged on matters more congenial with his taste, and the subject dropped. Thus repeatedly foiled in the attempt to engage his thoughts on the things of God, the effort was more seldom renewed, and at length it ceased for a while altogether, in a kind of understood, though not expressed, arrangement, that each was to pursue unmolested the course most agreeable to inclination.
But on Ellen a most seductive influence was being exercised in a thousand forms; all her husband’s friends and connections were as averse to heart religion as himself, although they paid it homage as to outward forms. Many of them were of a literary or scientific character; and their intelligence, with readiness of expression, won her towards their habits, and sometimes induced her compliance with worldly practices, at which, before her marriage, she would have startled. The few pious friends whom she retained found their converse so little acceptable to her husband, and the general conduct of her household so repugnant to their views of propriety, while she herself had so far immerged into the torrent of worldliness, that they fell off one by one. And here, oh, what a sad reverse was experienced to her former joy and peace! She felt, when attempting to retire for prayer, as entering into the presence of One whom she had displeased—whom she was continually displeasing. There was no sacred fervor in prayer, no filial resting on her God and Father’s love and promise; self-examination was a torture, and was less and less attempted, till it was given up altogether. The most fearful doubts preyed upon her mind as to the reality of all she had experienced of the work of divine grace; and these doubts were continually called into exercise, and strengthened by the converse of almost all with whom she mixed. She felt that she had sustained a loss of happiness which worlds could not compensate.
In this condition she continued almost nine years, during which period she had become the mother of four children. Jane, the eldest, now nearly eight years old, had always been delicate in health, and was remarkably quiet, affectionate, and humble in her demeanor. She took little interest in childish play, and appearing always to prefer her mother’s society, she became her almost constant companion when at home. The Scriptures attracted her greatest attention, and she would sometimes ask such affecting questions from them as brought tears into her mother’s eyes. The dear child would notice them, and weep with her, then frequently endeavor to kiss the tears away, and ask their cause. Alas! the unhappy parent could not explain to her beloved child how grievously matters stood between her soul and God; but she would retire to pray if yet she might possibly once more rejoice in the light of God’s countenance, from whom she had departed. Generally, the dear child would offer her hand so affectionately that refusal was impossible; she became the companion of her retirement, and kneeling by her side, would silently unite in her solemn petitions. From such affecting causes Jane was very dear to her, and she cherished the hope that her after life would not witness those wanderings from God, and those bitter sorrows which had been her own portion.
Anne, giddy, playful little Anne, then five years of age, was her father’s darling, and indeed partook much of his natural vivacity, as well as of his likeness. Henry was three years old, a fine, healthy, promising boy; and William, only twelve months, had but lately been weaned, and began to run alone. At this period Ellen was seized with a violent fever, and as it soon assumed infectious and alarming appearances, it was determined to remove the children, who had from the first been kept separated from her, to an adjoining village; but before this could be accomplished, the affectionate little Jane, who could not bear the thought of departing without seeing her mother, left the nursery unobserved, and gently entered her beloved parent’s room. Ellen had just been left in a gentle doze, and the dear child had, after silently watching the panting breath and flushed countenance for a few moments, knelt down by the bedside to pray for her sick mother. In this posture did Ellen behold her daughter, and following the first impulse of nature, would have clasped Jane to her beating heart; but immediately recollecting her own condition, she rang the bell, and could only give the child her blessing, before she, sobbing with anguish, was removed. Jane went with the rest to the village; but that same evening she sickened, and in four days she died.
It was three weeks before Ellen was able to have the sad tidings broken to her; but the shock was less than had been feared, for the near prospect of eternity had greatly altered her state of feeling; she heard it, and bowed submissively to the will of God. Yet, when able to leave her room, the company of her Jane was everywhere missed and her image recalled by every object. On this account, as well as for change of air, an immediate temporary removal was advised to the south of Devon; and as soon as the journey could be borne, her husband took her with the family to lodgings prepared at the lovely watering-place, Torbay.
They were now removed from worldly company, and a continual succession of parties, which for years had been the bane of spirituality of mind. This was the time and opportunity for thought, which she so greatly needed, and while here, the first hope of recovering the peace and happiness, and of walking with God, entered her heart; especially did she date the expectation from a meditation one evening, while seated on a bench provided for invalids on the “Rock Walk” of Waldon Hill.
Ellen almost unconsciously repeated to herself, “Return unto thy rest, O my soul.” Hope fixed on the idea, and from that moment she never abandoned the cheering thought of restoration to communion with God. This change gave a fresh impulse to both body and mind; health again bloomed in her countenance, and she decided to return home.
(Continued and to be continued).