THE HOME CIRCLE | AdventAI

Pacific Seventh-day Adventist Publishing Association · Oakland, California · Mar 28, 1878

THE HOME CIRCLE.

All for Christ.

"Now, girls, I have got news for you!" The speaker was a showy girl, dressed in the hight 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; Lizzy Ashbrook has professed religion!" was the half-serious, half-laughing reply.

"Lizzy Ashbrook!" The girls repeated the name more or less in surprise.

"Lizzy 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 girl who was meanly dressed," remarked another.

"Her father an infidel, too; what will he say?"

"I heard that she 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 that 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 would n't be in her place."

"Trials! pshaw! there's no such thing as persecutions in these days; it would be a rare thing to see a martyr!" This was lightly spoken by Ada, who had been Lizzy's nearest friend, and who felt unusual bitterness springing up in her heart against the young girl who she knew could no longer enjoy her companionship as of yore.

Martyrs are not rare, even in these days! aye, and martyrs to religious persecution, as we shall see.

The cousins made an early call on Lizzy, who received them with her accustomed grace, and a sweeter smile than usual, and there was a purer expression in 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 vows she had taken upon her, the new peace she had found, their visitors could see distinctly and clearly the wondrous change in dress, in manner, and even in countenance.

Lizzy was engaged in marriage to a thorough man of the world. George Phillips loved his wine, his parties, his race-course, the theatre, the convivial free-and-easy club. The Sabbath was his day of pleasure, and many a time had Lizzy graced his elegant equipage, radiant in beauty on the holy day, as they swept along. He bore 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, become a canting Christian! Nonsense, he did n't believe it; he would see for himself. He did n't furnish his parlors for prayer-meetings; he wanted no long-faced ministers, elders or sisters 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 long after the visit before mentioned. His cold eye scanned her from head to foot—but how sweetly! how gently she met him? Surely the voice that was melting music before was heavenly in its tones now. All the winning grace was there, all the high-bred ease—the merry smile dimpled her cheek—but there was a 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 flush crossed her face—it lighted the eyes anew, it touched the cheek with rich crimson, as she replied—"George, please don't treat it as a jest, for truly, thank God! I have become a Christian! I have only just begun to live! If you knew—"

The proud man sprang to his feet, almost throwing her hands from him in his impatient movement; and not daring to trust his voice, for an oath was uppermost, he walked swiftly back and forward for a moment. Then he came and stood before her. His forehead was purpled with the veins 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 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:—

"Lizzy—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 the young girl had, as it were, placed her soul in his keeping. Before a higher and purer love was born in her heart, he had made up her human love—an absolute idolatry—and the thought of ever losing him, 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 her by every argument that might appeal to the womanly heart. And he knew how to win by entreaty, by the subtlest casuistry. His was a masterly eloquence. 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 giving away—that only help direct from the Fountain of Life could sustain her with 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."

It came to this—"Christ or me." There could be no compromise, it was "Christ or me." And standing there clothed with a mantle of a new and heavenly faith, with its light shining in her heart and playing over her pale features, she said, with the firmness of martyrs of old:—

"Christ!"

Though his soul was filled with rage, so that he could have gnashed his teeth, the slight figure standing there with an earnest upward glance—the brow that seemed to have grown white—the attitude so self-possessed, yet so modest, so quiet and yet so eloquent, filled him with a strange, admiring awe. But the hostility toward 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 struggles it cost.

This was but the first trial; there came another yet, while the blow lay heavy on her heart.

Her father had ever 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 praise lavished upon her mind with a miser's greedy ear, for she was his—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 entering 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 can 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 for 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 before:—

"Christ."

She did forsake all for him, but her step became slow, her form wasted, her eye hollow and 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 her bedside and implored her forgiveness. Too late? No, not too late for his own salvation, for in that hour his eyes were open to the sinfulness of his life, and by her dying pillow, he promised solemnly to give his heart to God. Her father, too, proud infidel that he was, looked on his wasted child, triumphing over death, with wonder and with awe. Such a dying scene it is the privilege of but few to witness. She had given up all, absolutely all for Christ, and in the last hour, like Stephen, she saw heaven open. Her face was angelic, her language rapture, her chamber the gate of heaven. And like one who, but the other day, untied the sandals of life, and moved calmly and trustingly down the one step between earth and heaven, so 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."—Sel.