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Title: Just in time
Author: Catharine Shaw
Release date: October 11, 2025 [eBook #77024]
Language: English
Original publication: London: John F. Shaw and Co., Ltd, 1895
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JUST IN TIME ***
Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration: Pollie had all the cooking to do and the bread to make.]
_Just in Time._
BY
CATHARINE SHAW
AUTHOR OF
"DICKIE'S ATTIC," "DICKIE'S SECRET," "ALICK'S HERO,"
ETC. ETC.
NEW EDITION
JOHN F. SHAW AND CO., LTD.
_Publishers_
3, PILGRIM STREET, LONDON, E.C.
[Illustration]
CONTENTS.
[Illustration]
_CHAPTER I._
AT THE MILL
_CHAPTER II._
LAURA'S SECRET
_CHAPTER III._
A NEW FRIEND
_CHAPTER IV._
POLLIE KEEPS HER PROMISE
_CHAPTER V._
THE PICNIC
_CHAPTER VI._
APOLLYON MEETS POLLIE
_CHAPTER VII._
POLLIE'S BATTLE-FIELD
_CHAPTER VIII._
HARD THINGS
_CHAPTER IX._
SUBMISSION
_CHAPTER X._
TELLING FATHER
_CHAPTER XI._
HOPE
_CHAPTER XII._
OFF TO LONDON
_CHAPTER XIII._
POLLIE RECOGNISES A FRIEND
_CHAPTER XIV._
"I NEVER THOUGHT OF IT!"
_CHAPTER XV._
VISITORS AT SHANKLIN
_CHAPTER XVI._
MISSIONARIES AT HOME
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
_JUST IN TIME._
[Illustration]
CHAPTER I.
_AT THE MILL._
"POLLIE, why have you not cleared up those weeds?" asked Pollie's
mother from the mill door.
Pollie was sitting in the fork of the old apple-tree, with her head
bending over a book.
She raised it a little, and allowed her voice just to go round the
corner of her sun-bonnet and no more, "I forgot, mother."
"I wish you did not forget so often, my dear," said her mother. "Your
life is a string of forgets."
Pollie's head went down again, but a frown settled on her pretty face.
She did wish that her mother would let her be, and not always be
finding out things she had not done. Her Aunt Elizabeth did not find so
much amiss with Laura or Clara; nor, for the matter of that, did her
own mother seem to rebuke her brother Jim half as much as she did her.
She wished she could live with Aunt Elizabeth, then she would be able
to do just as she liked. Aunt Elizabeth would say, "Pollie, my dear,
would you get so-and-so for me?" or, "Pollie, my dear, I want you and
Laura to go for a message, will you?"
It was much pleasanter than "Pollie, put on your hat and go down to
your Uncle Brown's!"
"I say," called Jim, breaking in on this reverie, "where's the hoe?
Father's been looking for it for ever so long, and I said I knew you
had had it last."
"I forgot to put it away," said Pollie. "It is by the waterbutt. Just
get it for him, Jim."
"Not I," said Jim, walking away down the steep path. "You must go and
get it for him."
Pollie got down quickly. If ever she did anything willingly, it was for
her father!
"Eh, my little girl," he said, "this is like you. To think you should
have wasted ten minutes of my time, and there it was behind the butt
all the while!"
He drew it out from its hiding-place with some difficulty; it would
stick against the brick wall.
"How did it get here?" he asked patiently.
"It fell down behind, and I didn't stay to pull it out," said Pollie.
"Did you never stop to think that whatsoever your hand findeth to do
should be done with your might, eh, Pollie?"
"No, father."
"I have, many's the time," said the miller, "and those sort of
hindrances aren't hindrances at all. They bring you into contact with
your Lord, and I know nothing better than that for helping you along
with your work!"
Pollie did not answer. She did not mind hearing her father talk so, at
least, not much. But if it had been her mother, she would have flown
off and not have heard half of it.
So she went back to her apple-tree and opened her book once more, but
she was not to be left in peace.
"Pollie!" came from the mill door. "Pollie!"
"Yes, mother."
"Come right in and set the tea. I told you that when you heard the
wheels of your father's cart you were to come right in, and I was out
at the back and didn't notice. Your father's been home this quarter, I
do believe, and the tea isn't ready."
"I forgot, mother," said Pollie ungraciously. "I'd have come if you had
called me."
Her mother went back to her work, and Pollie hastened in. That her
father should be made uncomfortable did not suit her at all. But though
she knew her tiresomeness made her mother uncomfortable, she told
herself that she certainly could not help that.
She set about getting the tea with a will, however. And as she was a
very capable girl, it did not take long before she was standing at
the mill door again, clapping her hands as a sign that her father and
brother were to come in.
Jim and she were not always the best of friends. Her faults lay in one
direction, Jim's in another.
If Pollie forgot too often, Jim did not forget often enough. He was
always reminding people of things which were not done, and especially
remembered all his sister's delinquencies, and pointed them out
ruthlessly.
"How late tea is!" he remarked as they sat down.
His mother looked up and said, "Yes it is; Pollie forgot to come in."
Pollie crimsoned, for she had bustled about so heartily that it was but
little after the usual time.
Her father's words, however, brought sudden tears into her eyes, which
she would have given something to stop.
"Say instead, Jim, 'how nicely somebody has got our tea for us!'"
"It's Poll's duty," persisted Jim. "I don't see that she deserves any
praise."
"How did a son of mine feel just now, when I told him that he had put
that hay away very cleverly?"
Jim's eyes went down, and there was silence for a moment.
"I could do all Poll's duties and my own too, if she were not here," he
remarked presently.
"Perhaps you'll have to," said his mother a little dryly, though there
was a smile in her eyes.
"How?" asked Jim, too astounded to say more.
"You will find that you cannot do quite all. But as the holidays are
coming, I am going to spare Pollie to visit her aunt Elizabeth. You
will be at home all day to help me, and a change will do Pollie good."
Pollie turned hot and cold. Did her mother really mean it? But her
mother was not apt to say things which she did not mean. And if she
meant it, why had she not told her quietly by herself, instead of
announcing such a piece of news to Jim.
She felt very bitter, and said to herself that the pleasure of going
was quite spoilt by the way in which she had been told.
"Should you like it, Mary?" her mother said kindly.
"Yes, mother, very much, if—"
"If what, my dear?"
"If—if you do not want me, and if—" then she burst into tears and
sobbing out something about Jim being so unkind, burst from the room.
"What is this, Jim?" asked their mother.
"Nothing at all," said Jim. "I haven't said a word to her but what you
heard. She's a stupid cry-baby!"
Their mother could not suppose that Pollie could take to heart the
chance words of her brother, quite two years her junior, and looking
after her daughter rather soberly, she met her husband's eyes.
"She'll be better for a little change," he said, with that tenderness
which all their lives had been 'just father' to the children. "My poor
little Pollie wants one thing, and until she has that, her heart cannot
be at rest."
"What's that, father?" asked Jim curiously. "I think Pollie has the
best of everything—"
"She needs Jesus," he said softly, as he rose and pushed back his
chair, "and I am praying every day that she may find Him."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER II.
_LAURA'S SECRET._
POLLIE was fifteen, and life had flowed along peacefully as to outward
circumstances. But beneath the surface, there were currents and rocks
and hidden difficulties which no one guessed but herself.
From her earliest days, her strong will had set itself up in opposition
to her mother, and though at times her sweetness of disposition
conquered, life with her was indeed a hard struggle.
Her father, tender and wise as he was, pleaded with her in vain; or
if he succeeded in shewing her her duty for a little while, some
difficulty was sure shortly to arise, and then all her good intentions
flew to the winds, and Pollie was as far from heartfelt submission as
ever.
So she set out to visit her aunt Elizabeth with a clouded heart. Her
mother's preparations, kind and thoughtful as they were, gave her but
little pleasure, for her heart was sore and hard. If only she could
been have taken to her mother's heart with a forgiving hug, she thought
she could have gone in rags willingly!
So her father drove to the market-town and put her into the train under
care of the guard, to be set down at her aunt's station, nearly a
hundred miles off and halfway between her home and Exeter.
"Remember there's always the blessed Lord and Saviour, everywhere,"
were his last words, whispered as he kissed her in the train.
And Pollie set forth on her journey, and in due time arrived at her
destination.
It was three years since she had visited at her aunt's, and she did not
know the tall cousin who was standing on the platform waiting for her.
Laura, a pretty girl of eighteen, soon spied her, however, for Pollie
had not altered much since she had last seen her. She and Clara stepped
forward and claimed their country cousin, who looked quite shy when she
saw what fashionable young ladies were come to meet her.
"Here is the trap," said Clara. "Where is your box, Mary?"
Pollie did not know that her uncle had a trap. She began to be afraid
they would have got too grand for her.
"How you have grown, Mary," said her aunt as they sat at tea, "but you
have the same face. I should know you anywhere. When the girls have
smartened you up a bit, you will look quite as old as Clara."
Pollie bit her lips. She had thought her mother had done all that was
necessary for her, and in the remembrance of her thoughtful care,
she felt more tender towards her than she had ever done. She said to
herself that her mother would never have said such a thing as that to a
newly-come visitor.
A wave of home-sickness seized her, and she had much ado to keep back
her tears.
Tea was over at last, and Pollie made her escape.
"Come upstairs and unpack your things," said Clara. "I do love seeing
people's new things!"
Pollie murmured something of not having so very many things, but the
girls did not seem to hear. And presently all her clothes were spread
out on the bed, and her cousins were looking them over with such
remarks as "That will be for mornings—with a nice ribbon for her neck."
"That would be pretty fair for afternoons if that trimming were put on
better—I daresay we could do that. Well, what else have you got?"
"That is my best dress," said Pollie, hesitating. "Isn't it good
enough?"
"That," asked Laura, with an intonation of surprise that made Pollie's
cheeks burn. "Oh, I thought perhaps you had another in the tray of your
box."
"Never mind," said Clara presently, "they will do all right. Ma said
she should get Mary a dress if necessary. You see, Pollie, we go out
ever so much, and have to be nice. But these will do for common very
well."
Laura had turned away towards the glass, and was putting on a very
stylish hat.
"Is that yours?" asked Pollie, glad to leave the topic of her wardrobe
for that of her cousins. She wished heartily that she were back at the
mill, and could hear her mother's voice, saying in those quick tones,
"There's your father, Pollie, run and open the door!"
Instead came Laura's complacent answer—"Yes, of course it is. Do you
like it?"
"It is sweetly pretty," said Pollie admiringly, "only it looks almost
like a fashion-book."
"Do you think so?" asked Laura, gratified; then added with a giggle to
her sister, "That's what H. F. said yesterday."
"Who is H. F.?" asked Pollie.
"Oh, my dear, you don't know of course. H. F. is a new star that has
dawned on our horizon. You will see him all in good time—from afar—if
you keep your eyes open."
Pollie blushed, she hardly knew why. This seemed so different from the
way anyone talked at home.
"Hush!" said Clara. "Here's ma."
"Well, my dears," said Mrs. Brown, "what are you doing?"
"I am going to the Cleavers, ma," said Laura, "and Clara is going to
help Mary put away her things, and then they are going to take you out
if you care to go."
"I do not know that I do to-night. Clara can come down and read to me
while I finish that blouse for her."
"Oh, I don't want to read," said Clara, "it would be so dull. Besides,
I am going out, ma, such a lovely evening. If you want to read so
particularly, do not trouble about my blouse."
Mrs. Brown looked vexed. "Is that the way you do to your mother, Mary?"
she asked, as she listlessly turned over Pollie's dresses.
"I don't know, auntie," hesitated Pollie, "because I haven't anywhere
to go you know—"
"Not anywhere to go? Are you buried alive, child? You look rather like
it!"
"Ma," said Clara, "don't say that. Come, Pollie, I'll turn up your hair
for you, and see if I shan't smarten you up! That will be fun. And then
you and I will go out, and ma can read that old novel in peace."
As she spoke, she drew out the bow that tied Pollie's long plait, and
rapidly undid her beautiful shining braids.
"What a lot. Look, ma! Would you not give something if we girls had
such a head of hair?"
Mrs. Brown did not answer. She gave half a glance at her niece, and
then said suddenly, "I tell you what, if Clara is bent on going out, we
will go to-night and get you a dress for best, or a couple of dresses.
Then they can be made at once, and will be ready in a day or two."
"All right," said Clara, "I shan't be long over this. That is coming
splendidly. Now, what dress will you put on to go shopping with ma?
This best one is the only one that is fit."
Mrs. Brown had left the room, so had Laura.
"I say, Pollie, I'll tell you a secret, only you must keep as still as
still about it. That I know you can do. But if ma were to guess, she
would spoil all the fun."
Pollie was silent, debating whether she should receive the confidence
or not, and half afraid that stormy times were in front of her. Before
she could make any decision, Clara had gone on in a low tone—
"Laura is very much admired, as I daresay you can guess."
"She is very pretty—"
"And where we go they have a lot of folks round, and young men from
the town. We are going to have a picnic next week, and then you will
see some of them. But there is one above all the rest that Laura
favours and there is a little mystery about him which makes him doubly
interesting. He's been abroad a great deal, but he told Laura he had
never seen anyone to compare with her—"
"Does he come here?" asked Pollie innocently.
"Oh no, my dear. How green you are! Even if ma were to allow it, pa is
dreadfully strict, almost as bad as uncle at the mill, and he would
think Laura a great deal too young. Oh, no, it's our secret at present.
Time enough when—"
Clara paused, and Pollie looked up with an earnest gaze into her
cousin's face.
"I'm afraid it isn't right," she said slowly. "I wish you hadn't told
me—or, at least, I wish that Laura and you wouldn't do anything like
that."
"Like what?" asked Clara, drawing back a little. "Don't be
straight-laced, whatever you do, Pollie!"
"I didn't know I was," said Pollie.
"Of course you were! Would you have us bow to any young man we meet,
and say we must not speak to him on any account?"
Pollie felt very foolish, and did not know what to answer, while still
she felt that her favourite cousin had grown different since the year
before, when they had had such a happy time together at the mill.
"There! Now you look lovely," said Clara. "Just peep in the glass. Put
on this dress now, Mary, and I'll go and tell ma that we are nearly
ready."
So Pollie was left alone.
Oh for her father to tell her what was right and wrong. She felt all
mixed up, and so home-sick that she could willingly have packed her box
again and set off home that very minute.
She sat down on a chair by the window and swiped away two or three
scalding tears.
Why would not her dresses do, and why had her cousins glanced at each
other, as they lifted out the hat her mother had trimmed for her with
such care?
"Pollie, Pollie, where are you?" called Clara. "Ma is waiting, and she
is quite vexed we have been so long."
Mrs. Brown had a cloud on her brow. "Put on your other hat, will you,
Mary, my dear? As we are going shopping," she said, as Pollie ran down
into the hall.
For a moment Pollie paused, utter refusal in her heart and in her
eyes. Then courtesy to her aunt and hostess prevailed, and she turned
upstairs again slowly, thinking that this was the very hardest thing
she had ever had to do in all her life.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER III.
_A NEW FRIEND._
"THAT is better, my dear," remarked her aunt, when she re-appeared with
her best hat on. "You must not mind, Mary, if I get you a few things:
I told your mother I should do so. You see town ways are so different
from country ways, and what will do for a village will not do for
Chichester."
So two smarter dresses were purchased, and then Pollie was led into the
millinery department, where her aunt chose a new hat for her, remarking
that Clam had better retrim the one she had on, to make it look more
fashionable.
Pollie tried to cheer up, but her heart felt like lead. Ten times
better would it have been to bear the heaviest yoke that had ever been
given her at home!
The dresses were to be made at the draper's at which they were
purchased, and were promised for the next evening; the hat was to be
sent home at once, and with a few ribbons and gloves the party returned
home, Clara congratulating her cousin with bright smiles, on the pretty
new things which she had received.
Thus, Pollie settled down to her visit. No more was said about her
clothes, and so long as she put on what they suggested, she was now
free to enjoy herself.
Clara was very kind to her, and to a certain extent she did enjoy
herself. But the two sisters had a good many secrets from which she was
excluded.
Laura was out a great deal, and seldom enlarged on what she had done,
and where she had been, to her family circle. She attended classes at
the School of Art, and went and came very much as she liked.
But Pollie, who saw a little more of what went on behind the scenes,
fancied that her devotion to art was more assumed than real. She could
not help noticing that she went early and returned late, and that Clara
and she always had secrets when she returned from the lessons.
Flowers, which were put into vases in her bedroom, but never appeared
downstairs, became more frequent as the days came and went. And once,
meeting her cousin in the hall unexpectedly, Pollie saw her put her
hand down by her side as if to conceal something. And when she next
went into Laura's room, a glass of lovely fresh roses stood on her
dressing-table, which had not been there half an hour before.
Polls felt very uneasy, and once or twice tried to hint a protest to
Clara.
"Oh, my dear, what nonsense!" was her light answer. "All is fair in
love and war, you know. Ma will know all in good time if there is
anything to know, and if not, where is the good? All the girls of our
acquaintance have somebody devoted to them, and why should not Laura?"
"I don't know," sighed Pollie. "I wish I knew. It can't be right to be
secret over it. I'm not at all nice to mother at home, but I never keep
anything from her!"
"That's your way, and this is ours," said Clara, comfortably. "There
would be no fun in life if we came and told ma everything."
"I am afraid it isn't right," persisted Pollie, "and I don't believe
Laura will be a bit the happier for it. She looks so restless now, and
turns so red and white whenever anyone speaks to her."
"Nonsense!" said Clara, looking rather uneasy. "What a stupid little
thing you are. We move in a perfectly different circle from you, and
you can't judge. Pa's shop is ever so much better a position than your
mill, and girls like us do differently of course to what you do. Why we
keep two servants, and you haven't one!"
"It is not riches but right," said Pollie, stoutly, though she felt
very hurt, and turned to her book resolutely, wishing once again that
she were back at her mother's side, helping her with the housework, and
doing even the little services which she particularly disliked.
One morning her uncle said to her at breakfast, "Mary, I am going to
drive a little way out of town to-day. There's an old lady lives there
that your father wished you to call on. I have not had an opportunity
yet, but we will go to-day."
Pollie was delighted to go with her kind, genial uncle, especially as
she would have him all to herself, and she enjoyed that drive more than
anything she had done since she had been at Chichester.
Mr. Brown said he had business further on, and promised to call for her
in half an hour. So Pollie entered the little rose-covered house, and
was ushered by a smart little maid into the presence of her father's
friend.
"Welcome, my dear," said the old lady. "I have been looking for you
for a fortnight, but you've come now, and we will enjoy each other
I hope. Sit down, my dear, and take that plate of strawberries, and
help yourself to some cream. There! Such a hot day as this, they are
acceptable. And while you eat them, I will have some too, to keep you
company."
Pollie had been dreadfully shy, but the sweet old lady was so cosy that
she felt at ease at once. And by the time she had helped her to some
fruit and sugar, she thought it was impossible she could have been a
perfect stranger only five minutes ago.
The old lady chatted away to her, and only seemed to play with her own
strawberries. She told her stories of her dear father when he was a
boy, and described his home so vividly that Pollie felt as if she had
been to Exeter, and had sat in the farmhouse kitchen and shelled her
grandmother's peas in the sunny window.
The half-hour slipped by all too fast, and Pollie had taken a low
stool, and was holding her new friend's hand and looking in her face,
when she said gently: "Little Pollie, is your father's Saviour your
Saviour?"
The colour rushed to Pollie's cheeks. What would she have given to be
able to have said "Yes" to that question?
The old lady saw the answer even before Pollie's lips framed the
sorrowful little sentence, "I'm afraid not, ma'am."
"Poor little Pollie," she said softly, then added brightly, "There's no
reason why He should not be this very day though. He says, 'Him that
cometh to Me I will in no wise cast out.'"
Pollie did not answer. It seemed so hard and difficult to her.
"Ask him to draw you, dear! Will you?"
Again Pollie hesitated. Did she dare to give such a promise as that?
The old lady did not press it. "Has your uncle taken you to the Town
Hall, where they are having such beautiful meetings?"
Pollie shook her head.
"Not? Well, I am surprised. There's a young man there that is drawing
quite a crowd every night, and numbers are finding a blessed Saviour,
and through Him eternal life. Will you go and hear him, Pollie?"
"I will if I can," said Pollie, looking up earnestly.
Then they heard her uncle's trap draw up at the gate, and Pollie jumped
up and flung her arms round her father's friend.
"Oh, I'm so glad I came!" she said. "May I come again if uncle will
bring me?"
"By all means," said Miss Loveday. "Good-bye, dear!"
"Good-bye," said Pollie, hastening to the door. Then, ere she opened
it, she ran back and imprinted one more kiss on the white cheek. "I
didn't answer you," she whispered. "I will do what you said!"
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER IV.
_POLLIE KEEPS HER PROMISE._
POLLIE had made two promises, and as she drove along by her uncle's
side, she was earnestly considering how she should set about keeping
them.
She did not, however, guess the difficulties that would be raised when
she got back, or she would have gained her uncle's permission at once.
When she asked at dinner if she could go to the meeting that evening at
the Town Hall, her aunt and cousins made so many objections that Pollie
did not know how to press the matter further.
She subsided with burning cheeks, and the more they told her she ought
not to go, the more she longed to do so.
"What is it, Mary?" asked her uncle, coming in just as Laura was saying
something about its not being respectable.
"I promised Miss Loveday to go to the Town Hall to-night if you and
Aunt Elizabeth would allow me?" said Pollie, her eyes filling with
tears at his kind look.
"Well?"
"But Aunt Elizabeth does not think I can go."
"I'll talk to your aunt, Mary. If you have promised an old friend, I
should like you to go—I will take you myself."
Mrs. Brown shrugged her shoulders, and no more was said. But in the
evening, her uncle told Pollie to bundle on her hat, and they went
together.
She had another promise to keep, and as she sat in the packed audience,
her heart beat fast when she remembered that now was a chance which
might never come again, and what if she did not take it?
* * * * *
"Some of you have come here to-night above all things to make a
decision, and you almost dread that the evening should be over and you
should go back to the old life just your old self.
"And well you may. You feel you cannot save yourselves; that is true,
to be sure. You say you have no faith, and that is probably true too.
"But don't look for faith with your weary eyes; don't try to save
yourselves with your weary hearts. The remedy is Jesus.
"Look how these Israelites got better of their deadly snakebites. Not
by trying to save themselves from the fiery serpents; not by looking
within themselves to see if they had faith; but they were saved
simply by looking off to the appointed way of healing which God had
provided—the serpent of brass raised high on a pole in their midst—and
so looking, and so believing, the thing was done; they lived.
"That is how we believe in Jesus Christ. He says Himself, 'As Moses
lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, even so must the Son of man be
lifted up: that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have
everlasting life.'"
* * * * *
It was over. Pollie and her uncle walked slowly home in the June
twilight.
"Wonderful!" said Mr. Brown, looking up into the deep blue vault above
him. "Wonderful that I never saw that before."
Pollie was almost sorry that he had spoken, but she thought that she
ought to answer, so she said:
"What, uncle?" thinking it was a bright star he meant.
"I've heard those words hundreds of times, but to-night God has opened
my eyes, and I have seen His glory for the first time—"
Pollie squeezed his arm.
"I thought it was some great thing to do to be saved. I find it was
only a look, eh, Pollie?"
"Yes," whispered Pollie very low.
"How long have 'you' known what that look meant?" he said, bending down
to her.
Could Pollie speak? Her tongue seemed as if it were tied. Then she
thought suddenly, "With the mouth confession is made," and she suddenly
looked up with all her heart in her eyes.
"Oh, uncle, I've had father and mother all my life, but it's only just
now that I—that I've had Jesus! I never knew before, but I do now."
"Mary! Mary! My little girl, how glad I am we came!"
They walked along in silence after that.
But when they reached home, her uncle went in straight to the
drawing-room, and kissed his wife affectionately. "My dear," he said,
"I'm glad I went, and so is Mary. We have learned what is worth the
whole world. Thank God for it."
Thus Pollie began her new life, and she had reason to thank her uncle
many times for linking her so kindly with himself in the change of
which he spoke. But for that she sometimes felt as if she never could
have got through the next fortnight.
Her aunt and cousins treated the whole matter as an absurd joke. The
obnoxious meetings were now over, the young man who had conducted them
had returned to his home before sailing (he had said) for a distant
country, and now all thoughts were centred on the picnic to which they
were invited, and, except for an occasional sarcastic allusion to
"excitement" and "sensationalism," the subject was dropped.
Pollie was thus thrown back the more completely on the love and
tenderness of her new-found Saviour. As she had no earthly helper, she
went away by herself and told Him; and thus waiting upon the Lord her
strength was renewed, and she learned to find her rest and satisfaction
in Him, as perhaps she never would have done in brighter hours.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER V.
_THE PICNIC._
THE day of the picnic drew near at last, and Laura and Clara could talk
of nothing else.
Pollie had a dress specially prepared for it, and her cousins said
at least she would be no disgrace to them, which she considered high
praise.
They, however, had so many secrets about the whole matter that Pollie
often wished herself at home, in spite of the natural anticipation
which such a day's pleasure was likely to create to one who had lived
such a quiet life.
Her cousins were constantly whispering about H. F., and openly talked
of the numbers to be there, the splendid arrangements made, and the
picturesqueness of the woods to which they were to drive.
"Shall you introduce me to H. F.?" asked Pollie of Clara, as they were
dressing on the eventful morning.
"Oh, don't fuss!" exclaimed Clara, hurrying with her tight dress, and
despairing of being in time. "You just keep quiet, and you'll see! I do
not suppose there will be any introducing. I expect he will come and
make ma's acquaintance soon, for he is devoted to Laura, and I expect—"
But there she broke off, and then added hastily, "But don't fuss or
stare, there's a dear, and you will see for yourself."
So they started, and Pollie's quiet eyes had plenty of time to note
everything, as her cousins took but little notice of her. Had it not
been that she made acquaintance with a little lame girl, she would have
been utterly alone.
Hand in hand they wandered among the lovely woods, picking honeysuckle
and wild roses, while from afar they could see the groups of young
people flitting hither and thither, Laura and Clara in their bright
pink dresses being conspicuous among the gay crowd.
By-and-by Pollie missed Laura from the rest, and was wondering where
she could be, when two girls came strolling up and seated themselves on
the blue bank of wild pansies, where she and her little new friend were
sitting.
"They've gone up the hill to see the view," remarked one of them.
"I have not seen them at all," said the other.
"She looks sweetly pretty to-day," said the first, "and ever since he
has been staying here, he's been devoted to her. But then he always is
to the last pretty face he comes across. Then he goes away and forgets.
At least that's what he has done where I live near Exeter. There are
two or three girls whose hearts he has broken there—"
"I hope he will not treat Laura—"
"Oh, please!" said Pollie, starting up. "I did not know you were
talking of anyone I knew. Please, I will go away."
She hurried from the spot with burning cheeks, her little lame friend
hobbling after her as quickly as she could.
"Did you ever see so many wild flowers?" she said, when at length she
caught her up.
"Yes," said Pollie absently.
"Are you very vexed?" asked the girl, looking up at her. "I don't like
you to be vexed."
"Rather," said Pollie, "but it is a thing I can't do anything in. I did
not mean to hear their secrets, and now I do not know whether I ought
to tell Laura."
"Perhaps she knows," suggested the girl.
Pollie shook her head. "They've been carried away with the fun, but I
am afraid it isn't right to keep it all from their mother. That's why I
am vexed."
The lame girl put her hand into Pollie's with comforting little
pressure, but her next words surprised her very much. "Did you notice
that it was I who sat by you on that Thursday night?"
That Thursday night was to Pollie truly "a night to be much
remembered." There could be no other in her calendar.
She turned and looked into the lame girl's face. "Were you?" she asked.
"Yes, close to you. I guessed what you felt by what I felt. And when I
saw your face coming out, I knew you had 'come' as I had."
"Oh, Daisy! I was just going to tell you about it when those girls came
and sat down by us."
"And I was just going to tell 'you,'" said Daisy smiling. "I
thought—but I know so little—only when you looked worried just now I
thought—"
How delicately the words were spoken! Pollie knew by the flush on
Daisy's face that they were costing her a great deal.
"You thought, dear?"
"That it was so nice to carry our worries, whatever they are, to the
Lord Jesus, and He would see to them."
"Yes," said Pollie, with a little sob, "I do. I've had so many worries
since that Thursday; and yet—"
"Yet you would not go back, would you? That's just like me. I do
believe since that Thursday I have minded more about my bad uncle than
I did before, but then I've been more comforted than I ever was before."
"Oh, so have I!"
"And only this morning," Daisy went on softly, "when we got out of
the brake, your cousin would have stayed to help me out. But he—that
gentleman who was talking to her all the way—he said 'Don't stop for
that lame child; she will be all day getting out!'"
"Oh!" said Pollie sorrowfully. "How could he?"
"That is why I said I thought she knew. She could not help knowing
after that."
"Poor little Daisy!"
"It did not matter. That was just another time that my Lord Jesus
comforted me. I just told Him that my heart was made heavy, and somehow
it was like the look at the brazen serpent again—I mean when I spoke to
Jesus—I was made whole. Isn't it wonderful?"
Thus the day passed away, and to those two at any rate it was a happy
day. They kept near each other all the time, and drove back in the
evening in the same brake.
Clara and Laura arrived home very tired and strangely dull. Very little
could be got out of them by their mother, who expected to hear long
histories of what they had done and whom they had seen.
But when Pollie was undressing, Clara came in and shut the door.
"Mary," she said in a low tone, "don't you let out a word to ma about
H. F. I believe, after all, he's a dreadful flirt. He's going away by
the first train to-morrow morning, and I do not believe we shall ever
see him again."
"I don't think he can be very good or kind," said Pollie gently; "for
if it is the one I once saw with Laura, who gave that poor dog such a
kick—"
"Yes, that was he. He has wished us good-bye, and it is all over I
do believe; for when I asked him if he were not going to fulfill his
promise of calling on ma, he said laughing, 'I'll keep it ten years
hence, Miss Clara, if I don't forget!' And then he jumped back into the
brake and drove off."
"Does Laura mind much?" asked Pollie, hesitating.
"You don't know how much!" exclaimed Clara. "He's been with her almost
all day long for a month, sometimes at one place and sometimes at
another, and if ma knew about it, I don't know what she would say. Well
it can't be helped, I suppose; and Laura will have to get over it as
best she can."
Pollie had never seen Clara so dispirited before. She got up and put
her arms round her lovingly.
"I'm so sorry," she whispered.
"It's very kind of you to say so," said Clara, wiping her eyes, "for
I'm sure we have not deserved much pity, we've been so horrid to you
all this fortnight. But if you'll not tell ma, we will never cease to
thank you."
She raised herself hastily as she heard a step outside.
"I do not see that it is my business unless I am asked," said Pollie
slowly, "but you'll be ever so much happier if you tell all yourselves.
Do, do, Clara!"
But Clara only shook her head. "I couldn't," she murmured.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER VI.
_APOLLYON MEETS POLLIE._
POLLIE'S return home had been postponed till the picnic was over. Now
there remained nothing to do but to pack up.
She longed to wish her father's dear old friend good-bye, but did not
like to propose it. Her uncle however settled the matter by offering to
drive her out there the last evening.
The old lady received them with open arms, for Mr. Brown had already
called upon her and told her their good news, and Pollie never forgot
the joy which they had as they sat together and talked of their
Saviour's love.
"I've proved Him for fifty years," said Miss Loveday, "and have found
Him faithful."
They had not long to stay, however, and just as they were going, the
old lady said to Pollie, "My brother is vicar of your village, Pollie.
Do you know our niece, Mary, who lives with him?"
"I have often seen her," said Pollie, "but I did not guess she was your
niece!"
"Here is a note to her to ask her to persuade your father to let you
join her class. You would like that, Pollie?"
Pollie's eyes glistened. "Indeed I should," she answered earnestly.
So it came to pass that before another week was out, Miss Mary Loveday,
the vicar's niece, came up to the mill, and made acquaintance with
Pollie, and obtained permission for Pollie to attend her class. And
there sprang up between them a strong attachment, which bid fair to be
lifelong.
Thus, Pollie began her new life. She had written to her father to
tell him about that wonderful Thursday, and the first time he had the
opportunity, he invited her to drive to market with him.
"So Pollie," he said, when the horse was well on its way, and they had
left the village behind, "so you've come home a different girl!"
"Yes, father," said Pollie, with her usual straightforward candour.
"It's a solemn thing to take His name upon us," said her father. "It
needs watching as well as praying, Pollie!"
Pollie had not thought of that exactly.
"How do you mean, father?"
"Why you see 'tis like this, Pollie," said the miller, "we read a
goodish bit about soldiers and armour and fighting and watching in the
Bible, and many of us would as lief as not put on a sword and a helmet
and a drum and march along to battle!"
Pollie laughed a soft little laugh at her father's quaint way, in which
he often lodged a thought in his children's hearts, which would not
have got in perhaps in a long sermon.
"And if Apollyon were to come to meet us, we should be very brave with
our drum, and try to frighten him off, or fetch him a cut with our
sword, and think to demolish him at a blow, eh, Pollie?"
"I don't suppose the 'drum' would do much good," she answered smiling.
"No; nor do I," said her father, smiling too. "But the fact is, Pollie,
Apollyon doesn't come stalking along the road with fire coming out of
his mouth! And the battle isn't out of doors on a wide plain, or even
in a dark valley! It's at home, my child, in the mill and in the school
and in the market, we have to face our foes. They come to some of us
the first thing in the morning with—
"'Pollie, mind you clear out "all" the ashes from the kitchen grate,'
or 'Pollie, where's my hammer that you had last night?'"
Pollie's head went down; how true that sounded; how like that very
morning!
"Or the battle-field may come to some of us like this—it may come in
thoughts of worry, in cares for the future, in fretting over the low
price flour fetches—half a dozen things—all invisible foes, but as bad
as Apollyon nevertheless.
"Or it may come to Jim in his sister's voice like this: 'Jim!' (sharp
as a nettle sting) 'Jim! You haven't washed your hands for breakfast!
Jim! You said you'd take that note to Miss Loveday, and you haven't!'"
"Oh, father!" said Pollie in a low distressed tone.
"'Tisn't that I want to grieve you, my little girl," continued her
father kindly, "but I want you and myself to remember that Satan is
very strong and very watchful, and we are very weak and very careless.
Let us watch as well as pray, Pollie; let us 'stand fast in the Lord,
and in the power of "His" might.'"
"I will try to remember," said Pollie humbly.
"Your greatest enemy is your not being willing to submit to your
mother, my child. Apollyon meets you every day there!"
Pollie knew that that was true, and her father's words had been so
tender that even her proud little spirit did not take offence.
It was hard work to settle in to the homely duties of the mill after
her gay, easy life at Chichester, but now she understood what it was to
have strength "renewed," and when she went for it, she received it from
her Lord and Master.
So the months rolled on. Occasionally she heard from Clara, but her
letters were not satisfactory. They still kept their secret from their
mother, and nothing more had been heard of "H. F.," as Clara still
called Laura's friend.
Of Laura she said very little, but Pollie gathered that she was
restless and sorrowful. She thought how such a secret would prey upon
her own mind, and did not wonder.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER VII.
_POLLIE'S BATTLE-FIELD._
"YOU'LL have to go down to the stream, and bring up the biggest goose,
Poll," said her mother, wringing up a towel very hard, and throwing it
in the basket. "I can't think why you have not done it an hour ago!"
"I was busy," grumbled Pollie. "You told me to wash the teacups, and
sweep the kitchen, and make the beds, and clean the step, and peel the
potatoes—"
"So I did," said her mother vexedly; "and still there would have been
plenty of time if you hadn't idled away half your morning. I never did
see any one so provoking in my life!"
If there was one thing Pollie hated to do, it was catching and carrying
the struggling, cackling geese when her mother happened to sell any.
But even that unpleasant duty had not been the chief reason of her
delay that morning.
Her Sunday-school teacher had offered a prize for the greatest number
of texts found on a certain subject, and she had been searching for
them when she was upstairs making the rooms straight. Her conscience
told her that she was not doing right, but she had persuaded herself
that it could not be wrong to be reading her Bible.
She sauntered forth now very unwillingly, and made her way over the
stony path down to the brook.
Her teacher would be pleased, at any rate, she thought, even if her
mother was not. And her teacher was more important than mother. Miss
Loveday always spoke gently, and never seemed to have any difficulties.
She couldn't have rooms to sweep, or tiresome geese to catch.
Pollie had a long chase, and a hard struggle with the strong bird
before she turned homewards. And just as she was battling up the hill,
with the wind nearly blowing her down, and the geese making a hubbub
around her, who should cross her path but Miss Loveday herself, walking
slowly along.
"Why, Pollie!" she said.
Pollie held on to her charge and blushed crimson, thinking of her late
thoughts.
"I've done the texts, ma'am," she said, after a moment.
"Already?"
Polly hung her head, while Miss Loveday added, "I hope it was not
instead of some duty, little Pollie. Girls at home haven't much time
in the morning, and this is only Monday! To please Jesus, the 'right'
thing must come before the pleasant thing."
With a gentle smile she passed on, and Pollie pushed up the hill, and
at length stood before her mother, still holding on to her burden.
"The geese nearly tore me in pieces," she said ungraciously. "I wish
James would have caught it before he let them out this morning; he
might just as well!"
"What have you been doing upstairs, Pollie?" was her mother's greeting,
as she took the heavy bird from her.
No pity for the wind, no sympathy for her hard struggle and hot climb,
no thanks for her work, only sharp blame implied in the tone of her
mother's inquiry!
"I was making the beds, mother."
"You couldn't take an hour over two beds, and that's how long you were!"
Polly was silent. She did not wish to explain, and was only anxious to
get out of the way before any more questions should be asked.
"Where shall I put the goose, mother?"
"In the coop; your father's going to kill it when he comes home to
dinner. What was it you did while you were upstairs?"
"Something for Miss Loveday."
"Instead of your work? Then you will not go to class next Sunday."
Sharp and unalterable came the blow. Pollie knew that she had lost her
chance.
Full of passion, she slowly took the goose from her mother, and walked
out to the empty hen-coop. Then she went back again, and began to clean
the knives for dinner with a black frown on her face.
Miss Loveday never had such things as this to bear! Such hard, hard
things! She had all things smooth in her life, she was sure!
When she thought of Sunday, she felt as if she could not bear it. The
knives flew along the board, and the brickdust flew about the floor,
and still Pollie felt stunned with disappointment and anger.
"What's up?" said her father's voice in the doorway.
"Only Poll's doing things for her class, and neglecting her home," said
her mother's voice from the kitchen.
"I'm sorry for that," said her father gravely, "because Pollie will
have to let go the class, if so."
"That's what I told her," said her mother.
Pollie was going to speak, but her passion sealed her lips. She only
went on cleaning faster than ever.
Her mother went upstairs for a clean apron, and Pollie found herself
alone with her father, who was standing warming his hands at the fire.
"Mother's so hard on me, father," she said bitterly, from her position
at the knife-board.
There was no answer, and the girl came to the doorway.
"It is cruel to keep me away from the class, when I didn't mean to do
any harm."
"Your mother won't do anything cruel," answered her father. "If you
haven't done wrong, she'll not punish you. If you have, it's best to
find it out, Pollie, and not be let go on wrong."
"It can't be wrong to search for texts!"
"I don't know that! There's many a one that does a lot of God's 'work,'
and forgets to do His 'will.'"
Her mother came back at the moment, and Pollie retreated from the
doorway and fetched the knives, wiping them carefully and setting them
round table, that her father, at any rate, might see no fault in her
performance of that duty. She did not glance towards her mother, and
sat in silence for the rest of the dinner.
When it was over, she cleared the things into the scullery, and, as was
her habit, she shut the door and began to wash the dishes.
Her mother's voice rose and fell for a few minutes in the kitchen, and
then she heard her father go out, and all was still.
Pollie worked away perhaps all the faster that her spirit was so high,
and soon all was done, and she stood still, undecided as to what she
should employ herself upon for the rest of the afternoon.
She would have gone up to her texts, but this involved passing through
the kitchen, and she did not care to face her mother. Besides, what was
the use of doing them if she might not go to the class?
This thought made her almost frantic. She had promised Miss Loveday,
yes, promised; what could she do now? Slowly her hand was put out
towards the kitchen door, and softly she turned the knob, uncertain
what she should say to her mother when she got there, but, at any rate,
very certain that she should not ask her forgiveness.
The kitchen stood empty and bare. No mother, only a clean-swept hearth
and her mother's workbasket closed and orderly.
Pollie was too astonished to know what to do. Generally at this time
her mother sat there mending those everlasting stockings; and if she
were going out, every one knew it.
Pollie did not like to follow her mother upstairs, after her temper at
dinner, so she looked round for occupation, and seeing none that suited
her, she drew forth her knitting from the cupboard and tried to amuse
herself with that. She was even glad to hear her brother's step coming
up the path, and to know that she would not be alone any longer.
"Where's mother?" asked James on entering.
"I don't know. Come here, Jim, and hold something for me."
"What's that?"
"My wool. I've been waiting to get this tangle out this half-hour."
Jim did as he was asked, but added, "I expect mother's took sick!"
"What?" asked Pollie, putting down the skein.
"Took sick. She said her heart was bad before I went out after dinner."
Pollie looked pale and miserable.
"I wish you'd go up and see after her, Jim," she said presently.
"Why don't you?"
"Because I'd rather you did."
"Haven't you seen to her all the afternoon?" asked James, rather
severely, as he put the wool down.
Pollie shook her head. She opened the staircase door for him in
silence, and then came back to the fire.
How long his steps seemed going up, and then how long before they were
heard coming down again!
"She's bad, Poll," he announced abruptly, "and she don't want anything,
and you may go out if you like."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER VIII.
_HARD THINGS._
TO go out was exactly what Pollie longed for, but to be sent off, and
not to be wanted, was a different thing.
She put on her hat and hurried out of the house, dashing down the hill
at hot speed, nor even stopped until she stood breathless outside her
dear Miss Loveday's gate, where, bending over her flowers, her teacher
stood all unconscious of her presence.
When she looked up, she saw something was wrong.
"Oh, Miss Loveday, may I come in?" pleaded Pollie.
Miss Loveday led the way into the back garden, and in a shady corner,
where they were quite alone, Pollie poured out her tale of woe, of how
angry she had been and was, of how hard her mother had seemed, and now
that her mother was sick and did not want her to nurse her.
Miss Loveday listened very patiently and gently till it was all out.
"Poor little girlie, Jesus is sorry for you," was almost all she said.
Pollie was very hard still, her grievances stood out large and bitter,
and she thought she was quite right to be angry.
And then Miss Loveday drew her to her side, and smoothing the
wind-blown hair with her hand she said softly—
"Pollie dear, the hardest thing to bear in life is getting ever so
little away from Jesus. Sometimes it is a very small thing that comes
between us and Him, and then it grows very quickly into a big thing!
Let us go back to Him, and ask Him to forgive us and make us good."
Pollie hung her head.
"You don't have hard things, Miss Loveday, I expect," she murmured.
"Do I not, dearie? Did you think that the girl who belongs to the Lord
Jesus, called Pollie Brown, is the only girl who has hard things to
bear?"
"I don't see that anyone else can be so tiresome as I am, nor need so
much scolding, nor have mother so cross!"
"Those are your trials just now, Pollie, but I have had hard things
too—if you only knew."
Pollie did not know enough of the world to understand that each heart
knows its own bitterness. That trials which seem trifles to one looking
on may be heavy burdens to the weak strength which has to bear them.
But Miss Loveday understood, and that was why she could give out such
true sympathy.
"Dear Miss Loveday—but you do not have anyone telling you to do what
you do not like, do you?"
"I have even had that, in a harder way than you can understand. Would
it help you to tell you, Pollie?"
"Please, dear Miss Loveday," she answered, still dwelling on her own
grievance, and thinking nobody else's could be as great.
"Pollie, did you ever hear of any one having some one she loved more
than all the world, taken away without a moment's warning, and told
never, never to come back?"
Pollie looked up questioningly, but when her eyes met Miss Loveday's,
she buried her head in her lap.
"And then I found out that I had loved him more than Jesus! Some of us
love ourselves more than Jesus, and some of us—"
"I'll go home now and tell mother I'm sorry," whispered Pollie. "Oh,
Miss Loveday, I wish I could comfort you!"
"You have, dearie. Let us both take heart. He is such a precious
Saviour!"
Pollie knew her time must be nearly gone. Pressing a passionate kiss on
her teacher's hand, she hurried homewards, the mill standing out dark
and gaunt against the sunset sky. She had promised Miss Loveday to beg
her mother's pardon for her temper at dinner, but though her heart was
softened by the remembrance of a grief which was infinitely greater
than her own, yet a hard task was in front of her. And the nearer
she got to home, and the steeper the hill got, the harder became the
struggle to confess herself in the wrong.
From intending to do it the moment she got in, she began to find
reasons why it would not be a suitable time; and then came reasons for
putting it off till to-morrow or next week, until the thought presented
itself that really after all there was very little reason to do it at
all, only she had promised Miss Loveday.
At length, she got to the mill door, and by this time she was too out
of breath to say anything.
James was sitting at the tea-table, and looked round as she entered.
"Father's up with mother, and you are to put those clothes to soak
after tea, and then mother wants you to mend those stockings."
"I shall take mother's tea up," said Pollie, feeling her heart die
within her.
Never before had she received messages like that through her little
brother; never before had she been anything but head and chief to do
anything her mother wanted! Was her mother so angry with her that she
would not even see her?
"Father has taken that up," pursued James, "and so we can begin. I
thought you would be home to get the tea, Pollie."
"I was busy with Miss Loveday."
"You always are busy with Miss Loveday now; you think about nothing but
her!"
"I'm sure I don't!"
"Ever since you began going to her class, you've taken to being fine in
your ways, and disagreeable at home."
"That I'm sure is wrong!" exclaimed Pollie hotly. "What fine ways have
I taken up, I should like to know?"
"Why, you brush your hair ever so many times a day, and wash your
hands, too; and you are always wanting me to do the same."
Pollie tried to laugh, but the conversation was too much in earnest,
and she went on—
"Well—there's no harm in that, I should hope."
Jim thought there was, but he pursued—
"Then you are cross to mother, and are always thinking of what you can
do for Miss Loveday; in fact, you think of her before mother!"
Pollie crimsoned, for she felt that the indictment was true.
"Well, come to tea," she said abruptly.
She sat down at the table and filled the two cups, the only two which
were there. Was father up with mother then, and was she so sick as not
to be able to be left?
Pollie felt utterly miserable. She longed for her father to come
downstairs; she longed for James to go to bed; she longed for anything
which should give her relief from her heartache.
And all the while the relief was close to her, had she but turned to
it! "He is such a precious Saviour," Miss Loveday had told her, from
the depths of such a sorrowful heart as Pollie could not even dream of.
And yet the girl nursed her own grievance, and forgot to look to Him in
whom is comfort and relief for every care, be it large or small.
What a long time it seemed before James had finished his lessons!
Pollie washed the teacups, and put the washing in to soak; she soaped
all the clothes in the way her mother liked, and did her work with a
will, so that long before she wished it, there was nothing left to do.
While she was busy in the scullery, her father came down the little
staircase into the kitchen, and went out to do something about the
mill, and she did not hear him come in again, for the splashing water
drowned all other sounds.
At last, too uneasy to bear it any longer, she took off her shoes, and
passing through the kitchen, she ascended the few steps to her mother's
room, and stood trembling outside her door, but she could not pluck up
her courage to enter. All was still, except that she thought she could
hear the occasional turning of the leaves of a book.
So she crept down again. Surely she had not deserved such punishment at
this!
"Jim, why won't mother let me go and wait on her?" she asked, as she
entered the kitchen.
"I don't know, unless it's your black face," said Jim, with a very
superior feeling of having his chance now to pay off a few old scores.
"Black face?" asked Pollie, glancing in the little glass which hung by
the window, "I don't see—"
"Of course you don't! But I did, at dinner, and so did mother. When
people's hearts are bad, they don't want black faces about 'em. I heard
mother say so!"
Pollie crimsoned, first with shame and then with anger. She clenched
her hands together with a pressure which positively hurt her. And then,
after a moment's bitter struggle, she proudly took her candle and went
to her little room next to the kitchen where she could be alone, to see
no one again that night, if she were wanted so little as that.
Suddenly a thought struck her. If her mother would not see her, she
would write her a letter.
That would be a great deal easier than saying it, and it would do just
as well.
She hurriedly seized a piece of paper, and tossed off a few words.
Then, having by this given some vent to her feelings, she sat down
dejectedly as before, listening for an opportunity to ask her father to
carry the note for her. She was sure he would do that!
And then she looked out on the quiet moonlight, and as she did so, she
saw the spire of the church glittering in the soft beams, and she could
picture Miss Loveday's eyes resting on the same sight, and could even
hear again her soft thrilling tones, "He is such a precious Saviour."
She thought it was all very well for a girl like the Vicar's niece to
be able to get on.
Pollie thought of her own cousins at Chichester, and even wished
herself back with them, and in her discontent even began to envy them.
She liked smooth things; and now, just as she had come home with the
new-found joy of her new-found Saviour, to have every day such hard
things to face seemed to her inexplicable. She suddenly thought of what
her father had said about Apollyon meeting her in her-every day life,
but she put the thought away with a shudder.
No, Pollie's heart was hard yet. She only looked at the moon, and
thought of her friend down in the valley, but as yet she refused to
hear the voice of her best Friend, One who sticketh closer than a
brother, who would surely have aided her if she had turned to Him.
The old-fashioned clock which stood in the kitchen struck the hours one
after another, and the candle burned down to half its size. So Pollie
put it out and got into bed by the moonlight.
After some time, she heard James go up to his little cupboard of a room
over hers; she heard her father go round with his swinging lantern to
shut up the mill for the night. She heard him rake open the fire, and
then clink a cup and saucer; she heard him stir something for ever so
long, and then go up to her mother with the cup and saucer. She heard
him talking in a low tone, and then he came down again and shut the
kitchen door, and all was still.
What could have happened? Surely that was ten o'clock striking, and her
hard-working father was invariably in bed by that time.
The sense of desolation grew unbearable. Several times she had
determined to speak to her father, but now she could stand it no
longer. Hastily lighting her candle, and taking her letter in her hand,
she stepped noiselessly to the door opening into the kitchen, and
peeped into the dim fire-lighted room with beating heart.
There sat her father, fast asleep, with his arm resting on the large
Bible.
Pollie did not know what to do. All at once, she felt ashamed of that
hasty, passionate apology which she had written.
Would her father think it worth taking to her mother? "Was" it worth
taking?
She hurriedly put it on the glowing embers, and then stood waiting and
trembling till her father should stir.
At length the candle flickered in its socket, and he woke with a start
to find his little daughter crouching by the fire wrapped in a big
shawl.
"Why, Pollie," he said, "I thought you were in bed."
"So I was, father, but I could not sleep. How is mother now?"
"She's a bit easier, I hope."
"Why are you sitting up then, father?"
"I was waiting to give her her medicine at eleven o'clock. I was afraid
if I got to bed, I might oversleep myself."
"Father, why did not mother want me to wait on her?" asked Pollie,
hesitating, while her cheeks burned.
"Mother was too poorly to be worried, Pollie. I've been very anxious
about her. I saw that you hadn't come round to be a right down good
girl, and so thought you'd better keep out of her room."
Pollie was silent. Was she "a right down good girl" now? She hardly
knew.
"Go to bed now, my dear, and ask God to help you. He can soften hard
hearts when we can't ourselves."
Pollie hurriedly kissed him, and went back to her room. She thought she
would kneel down and do as her father advised, but how cold she was,
and of how little use it could be to be sorry if she might not go to
her mother even if she were.
So she crept into bed, sad at heart, and only longed for the morning,
when the bright sunshine should perhaps help to banish the clouds of
vexation which hovered over her spirit.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER IX.
_SUBMISSION._
THE morning sun streamed into Pollie's room, and her eyes opened to it
with a sense of relief. But soon came back the dull ache of yesterday's
wrong feelings, and she wondered if to-day could possibly be as unhappy
as that had been.
She heard her father moving about in the kitchen, and in another
moment, he put his head in at the door.
"Get up now, Pollie, and light the fire, while I go to see to the mill.
Your mother's a bit better, I hope, to-day."
He went, and Pollie hastened to dress herself. She lighted the fire,
filled the kettle at the well, and then set the breakfast; after which
she called James, and then when her father came in, she asked if she
might take up her mother's breakfast.
Her father hesitated, glanced at her intently, and then gave her
permission.
So Pollie poured out the tea, and slowly began to mount the stairs.
Here was her chance, but though she had assured herself last night that
she had had none, when it came she was not ready to take it.
She entered her mother's room, and crept across to her side.
"I am sorry you are ill, mother," she said gently. "I hope you feel
better now."
Her mother looked pale and quiet, but answered pretty cheerfully that
she did feel better, and should get up after breakfast.
And Pollie, having deposited the little tray, had nothing further to
do, and came down again.
Yes, she had missed her chance! It would be infinitely harder to meet
her mother next time, and have to say it then. How could she have been
so stupid, she thought, not to have done it when she might?
"You can go down to the village after breakfast with those eggs,"
remarked her father, as they sat together. "There's more than we can
eat, and it's a pity to let them spoil."
"The first thing?" asked Pollie, with beating heart. Then she should
perhaps see Miss Loveday, and have to tell her that she had broken her
promise.
"Yes, directly; because if your Uncle Brown is going to sell them, he
will want them early."
So she started at once with her basket of rich brown and white
treasures, and soon her quick steps brought her to the bottom of the
hill, and in front of the church where her Uncle Brown's shop stood.
She handed them across the counter with only the number named, and then
running out of the shop, looked up the street to the vicarage, where
her darling Miss Loveday lived.
Yes, there she was, standing at the gate waiting for the postman, and
Pollie came quite close before the quiet eyes turned in her direction.
"Oh, Miss Loveday!" she exclaimed. "I've never done what I promised! I
said I would tell mother, and I haven't."
Miss Loveday looked down in her face inquiringly.
"I couldn't; I did not see her last night, and then this morning I did
not feel as if I could. Miss Loveday, why is it so hard to do things?"
"Then I am afraid, Pollie dear, you did not ask the Lord Jesus to do
for you what you were not willing to do yourself?"
Pollie hung her head. "I was so vexed I did not care to—"
"Poor little girlie," said her teacher, with tender sympathy, "I know
how hard it must be. I have gone through it myself lately, so I know.
But oh, Pollie, I know one thing too, and that is, that the Lord works
in us by His Spirit to do the things to please Him, which otherwise we
could not do. With God 'nothing' is impossible."
How earnestly she gazed down the road! And what a colour flashed into
her face as the postman came in view, and trudged into one cottage
garden after another.
Pollie stood spell-bound, watching him too. Would he pause at Miss
Loveday's side, and hand her a precious missive? Why had her pale
cheeks turned to deep crimson? Was the letter she was expecting of such
great importance?
No! He came up quickly to where they stood, and with a smiling "None
for you, miss," passed on.
The crimson cheeks were pale now. Miss Loveday seemed as if all life
and hope had gone out of her face.
"Come into the garden, Pollie," said her teacher slowly.
Perhaps she craved human sympathy; perhaps she thought that Pollie's
own struggling little experience would help her to understand better
than anyone at the parsonage.
They walked quickly through the garden, and Miss Loveday led the way
down to the stream which flowed so quietly at the bottom of the hill;
nor did she stop till they stood close to the water's edge.
"Pollie," she said, catching her breath, "I have need to remember what
I have said to you!"
"Did you want a letter so much, dear Miss Loveday?"
"Oh, Pollie!" Miss Loveday sat down on a rock and hid her face.
"Perhaps it will come another day," comforted Pollie.
"I do not think it can. He will have sailed by this time," she
whispered.
Pollie did not know what to answer, for she did not know all that had
come and gone. She laid her little trembling hand on her teacher's
knee, and knelt down by her side in silent sympathy.
"I will tell you, Pollie, because—oh, because I'm so very, very
miserable—because I want to do right, and it is so hard!
"You know I live with my uncle and aunt? My father left me to their
care, to take their advice, to do exactly as they bid me. He made me
promise that I would obey them as if they were my own parents."
Pollie pressed her hand softly; she did not dare to interrupt by a word.
"Then I went on a visit to Devonshire, and while I was there I met
someone who—who wanted me to go out to China with him, to make his home
happy there."
Pollie shrank—Miss Loveday going away! But how selfish of her to think
of herself! It was evident Miss Loveday wanted to go, and that she
thought it would make her happy.
"When I came back from Devonshire I told my uncle and aunt, and they
said they would make inquiries about—my friend—Harry Fulbert.
"When the answer came to their letter, I thought my heart would break.
My uncle forbade me to speak to him again. I was to write to him once
and say so, and that was all."
"Oh!" said Polka with filling eyes. "How dreadful! Did you have to?"
"For days and days I could not—I would not. I felt sure my own father
and mother would not have done such a thing, and my heart was all in a
tumult, and I felt dreadfully angry that my uncle and aunt could be so
cruel.
"I would not speak to them about it, I felt so bad. And so it went on
for nearly a week.
"At last came Sunday, when we had those words in our lesson (do you
remember them, Pollie?): 'If ye do not forgive, neither will your
Father which is in heaven forgive your trespasses'; and I thought how
could I prepare to give you girls that lesson, if I could not say the
words from my heart myself?
"Oh, Pollie, it was dreadful. At last I thought, as I have told you,
that what I could not do of myself God could enable me to do, and I
knelt down and asked Him to help me to submit to His will, and to feel
rightly towards my uncle and aunt.
"Then, Pollie, I went down to them, and I told them how wrong I had
been to be so angry; and then I asked them why it was I might not see
Harry, and begged them to let me do so.
"Then, Pollie, they told me that they had heard, on authority which
they could not question, that Harry was not good and steady, and told
me that I must have nothing to do with him. I cannot tell you all, but
at last I had to let him go; they would not give way, and I dare not
disobey; and that is the end of it!"
Pollie listened intently, her eyes gazing in the sad ones which, like a
dumb suffering animal's, sought her sympathy.
At last she said shyly:
"'Did' God help you to do His will?"
There was an instant's breathless pause. Then Miss Loveday's head sank
lower, and she said brokenly, "There was nothing else to do; I dare not
disobey."
"Then I suppose it must have been," added Pollie reverently.
"And if it was His will—you think I ought to be glad to do it, Pollie?"
Pollie was sobbing now. Miss Loveday opened her arms, and they cried
together for ever so long.
At last, Miss Loveday wiped away her tears, and began to prepare
herself to go back to the house.
"I'll never forget—never," said Pollie, clinging to her; "and I'll pray
every day that God will let him come back!"
"There 'must' be some mistake, Pollie, or I ought not to wish it, of
course. But I am sure—so very sure—that he loves my Saviour, and wishes
to serve Him."
"I will pray," whispered Pollie brokenly, and then she sped home, her
anger all gone, nothing but love left in her heart which had been so
hard.
"Oh, mother!" was all she could say when she found her sitting in the
kitchen. And then she found kisses of forgiveness pressed on her face,
and arms of forgiveness clasping her round.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER X.
_TELLING FATHER._
THAT night, Pollie's mother went to bed early, and after her father had
finished his work, he came in and settled down by the fire.
How different Pollie felt now that she was what her father called "a
right down good girl."
Jim was upstairs reading to their mother, so she took her knitting and
sat thinking of Miss Loveday.
Suddenly she looked up.
"Father!" she exclaimed.
"Well?" he asked.
"Father! Isn't it Devonshire where grandmother lives?"
"Why surely!" said father, smiling. "What's made you think of that?"
"I was wondering who you knew there."
"Why do you ask?"
"Father—" Pollie paused. "I don't want to tell anything I ought not,
but I have somebody's secret that makes me very sad, and I wanted to
know if you knew somebody there very particularly. But I can trust you,
father."
"You may, my dear; and if I can do anybody any good, you can tell me."
"Do you know anybody of the name of Harry Fulbert, father?"
"Devonshire's a large place, but I do happen to know some one of that
name there too."
"Do you, father?" asked Pollie, with her heart beating fast.
"And the funny thing is I know two of 'em, Pollie, as far asunder as
the poles though they are."
"Two of them! How?"
"First cousins of the same name. A stupid thing, as I take it, to name
'em alike, but they do tell that neither of the sisters knew what the
other was doing till they were named, and then 'twas no use cryin' over
spilt milk! One of 'em is as good as gold, and the other, sad to say,
is not worth a brass farthin'!"
"Where does the good one live, father?" asked Pollie, almost
breathlessly.
"His 'mother' lives at Exeter. He comes home to see her now and again,
but I believe he lives in foreign parts somewhere."
"And the bad one, father?" Pollie's voice was almost faint with
anxiety. Which was the one who was a friend to her dear Miss Loveday?
"The other knocks about everywhere. He has plenty of money, and travels
a great deal, but I would be sorry for any one 'I' loved to have much
to do with him. Why do you ask me, Pollie?"
"Father, I hope—oh, I hope I am not wrong to tell you, but could you
find out for me? It is Miss Loveday, father; and he has gone out to
China to-day, and Miss Loveday is so sad because—." And then Pollie
told her father as much as she knew herself, and begged him to help her
find out all about it.
"I told her I would pray, and I have. But I never guessed the answer
might come so soon, nor that perhaps I might bring it to Miss Loveday.
Oh, father, do you think God will let me?"
"That I can't tell, my dear, but this I do know, it says, 'Commit thy
way unto the Lord, trust also in Him, and He will bring it to pass.'"
Pollie could hardly sleep that night for thinking of what she ought to
do about Miss Loveday. Her father had advised her to "commit her way
unto the Lord," and she did, but what was the next step?
Dare she go to the vicar and ask him if there were some mistake? Would
he tell her she was an impertinent girl?
If it were "right" to go, she would dare even that. But "was" it right?
What if Miss Loveday's friend should not turn out to be the true gold?
So she tossed till morning, and no light came. She got up early and
busied herself in her duties at the mill, but still no light came.
Her mother was not very well, and Pollie had all the cooking to do,
and the bread to make. Her father was off early to the market with his
sacks of flour, and would not be in till afternoon. She thought and
thought, but could come to no decision.
At last, just as she had washed up the dinner-plates, and was going up
to fetch her mother to the tidy kitchen, a thought came which comforted
her: "'Trust also in Him; and He will bring it to pass!'"
"I've been worrying and not trusting," she said to herself.
And when she had placed her mother comfortably, and brought her
workbasket, she went into her little room and knelt down in silence by
the bedside.
Then she took her knitting, and sat down on the doorstep to watch for
her father.
Before long, she saw a girl making her way up the steep hill, and as
she came nearer, she found it was one of the maids from the vicarage.
Her heart beat fast, and she jumped up and stood waiting, hardly liking
to run and meet her; and yet—
"Pollie!" said the maid eagerly. "My Miss Mary is very poorly, and she
wants to see you, and I was coming all the morning, but I was too busy.
Can you run down to see her now?"
So, in less than half an hour, Pollie stood at her bedside, finding it
difficult to repress her eagerness. Miss Loveday put out her hand and
drew her down to kiss her, and began at once—
"Pollie, I wanted to tell you—Yesterday I thought it was harder than
I could bear. I felt forsaken, as if I never could get over it. But
to-day—"
"To-day?" echoed Pollie, with her heart in her eyes. "Has it come
right? Oh, Miss Loveday!"
"Right so far as this," answered her teacher gently, "that I have
trusted it all to my Lord, and left it with Him to do as He likes."
Pollie's lips parted to speak, but the heavenly look in Miss Loveday's
face stopped her. She knelt down by the bed, and covered her friend's
little white hand with kisses.
"Dear Miss Loveday, I may pray that it may all come right, mayn't I?"
"Oh, yes, dear but—indeed I want to do His will—not mine."
Pollie was silent. How could she break her news? And yet all the way
down the hill, she had been sure that it would be right for her to tell
Miss Loveday herself all about it.
"Father knows Devonshire," she said very softly; "he knows people
there."
"Does he, dear? Why do you tell me that?" asked Miss Loveday, looking
at her.
"Father said he knew two people called that name. I thought you would
not mind, because father is perfectly safe, and he was so sorry."
And then Pollie told her all she had heard, and Miss Loveday's pale
face brightened into a flush of hope.
"I know he's the golden gold!" she whispered. "And God has sent you,
Pollie, to show my uncle that there is some mistake. Oh, I am so glad
that I wanted God's will better than my own, for He gives abundantly,
Pollie!"
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XI.
_HOPE._
BUT though the first thought had been that the Harry Fulbert she knew
was golden gold, the second came with terrible desolation.
Too late! It was too late now! That letter, so hard to write, had gone
on its way, and ere this Harry would have started for China, with his
hopes crushed and his heart sore.
Miss Loveday tried to recall what she had said as she had sat that
evening, three days ago, doing her uncle's bidding.
"If I were to disobey those whom my father told me to obey, I should
never have a happy moment, nor could I look for God's blessing; and
what would life be without God's blessing, Harry?" she had said.
She could hardly remember the words; it seemed months ago, instead of
days. But at any rate, she was sure that they had not conveyed one word
of hope!
Hope! As she lay on her bed with these thoughts chasing each other
through her mind, it seemed as if there were some soothing balm being
applied to her aching wounds.
"Hope thou in God!"
Yes, she had! She had hoped in God when things had been at their very
darkest, when no ray of light had come, or seemed as if it could come;
and now she would praise Him, who would not allow His child to be
tempted above that she was able to bear.
Pollie had sat very still; she had waited till the closed eyes should
open, and the contracted forehead grow smooth, like her own dear Miss
Loveday.
"Pollie," said her teacher gently, "will you go down now and tell my
uncle what you have found out for me?"
Pollie crimsoned, but rose to her feet instantly. If there were one
person in the world she was afraid of, it was the vicar.
"Am I asking too much?" said Miss Loveday.
"No, no; I will do it," exclaimed Pollie. "But where shall I find him,
and what—"
Her hand was already on the door.
"He will be coming in to tea very soon; go down and wait for him in the
study. Ask one of the maids to take you there. I would rather my uncle
heard it from you, Pollie!"
With one look at the dear face she loved so well, Pollie, with beating
heart, sped on her errand.
She reached the hall and looked around. There were the pretty ferns and
palms, making the hall look like fairyland; the stained glass doors,
the drooping curtains, the carpeted floor, all joined in making Pollie
feel strange and shy.
Where were the servants? She could hear a murmur of voices and the
sound of teacups, but how could she dare to pass through one of those
closed doors?
At length a bell sounded. The fact was, Miss Loveday had guessed her
plight, and had rung for her maid so that she might insure Pollie's
safe conduct to the study.
Suddenly one of the glass doors was pushed open, and the servant who
had fetched her from the mill came forward.
"Why, Pollie," she said, "can't you find your way out?"
Then Pollie, with many blushes, explained that she had a message to the
vicar, and was forthwith shewn into the study to wait his arrival.
The maid fidgeted round the room, looking at Pollie several times
uncertainly, which increased Pollie's discomfort tenfold. She looked up
in her face enquiringly, waiting for her to speak.
At last she said, "Hadn't you better come and sit in the kitchen till
master comes in?"
"I don't mind," answered Pollie, "only Miss Loveday said I was to go to
the study—"
"Master is very particular, and perhaps he won't like to find anyone
here," objected the maid, who, it must be confessed, was somewhat
jealous of Miss Loveday's evident partiality for her pupil at the Mill.
Pollie felt very uncomfortable, and though she had a dim perception of
the state of the case, she was so disconcerted that she would fain have
run home to escape from her difficulties.
But then, what would become of her important errand?
At length she said bravely, "If you don't think he'll like it, I'll go
up and ask Miss Loveday! Shall I?"
"Oh no," said the maid carelessly; "I daresay it doesn't matter. Stay
where you are."
She went back to the kitchen to her tea, and Pollie was left alone.
She waited in the darkening study till her heart was faint within her.
She had had time to grow hot and cold three or four times over before
the vicar came.
But at last, a thought quieted her, and, like Hannah of old, "her
countenance was no more sad."
"If God has this in charge, why am I so worried and fearful?" was the
thought.
And so when the vicar really did come, with his grave, dignified
presence, Pollie told her story as sweetly and clearly as her friend
upstairs could have wished.
"Don't you think he 'may' be the true golden gold?" she asked, looking
up in the vicar's face as he bid her farewell.
"I hope so, my little girl," he said heartily; "and it shall be my
business to find that out at once. But, Pollie—"
"Yes, sir."
"You would not wish your dear Miss Mary to love any one who was not
good?"
"Oh no, sir! Nor would she—"
"No, no; I am sure of that. She and you may trust me to do the very
best for her. Is she not God's child, as well as my brother's?"
He said the last words almost to himself, and Pollie, hearing them,
went away comforted.
She ran homewards breathlessly. What would her mother think of her
absence?
She had left home that afternoon assuring her mother she should only
run down to the Vicarage and back again. She had had no idea of being
detained, and was afraid her mother would be vexed with her.
Just as she reached the corner of the village street, she recognized
her father's cart, making its way round the road to the back of the
mill.
"Oh, father, stop!" she called. "I want to get in!"
"Eh, Pollie! Bless you, child; what do you want out so late?"
Then Pollie told him, glad to pour out all her news into such kind,
sympathising ears.
"I'd not like you to keep anything from your mother," he said; "you had
better tell it all to her when James is not by."
"Yes, father," said Pollie slowly.
"Mothers are good friends," said her father.
How she wished that he had been willing to let the secret be between
her and himself!
But that was not her father's way. Once before Pollie had hoped her
father would not tell her mother something, but she soon found her
mother knew all about it.
"Mother's as safe to trust as I am," he said then, "and I never keep
anything from her, nor she from me. It's a safe rule, Pollie, and a
happy one."
They jogged along in silence for a few minutes. The hill was stiff, and
her father got out to walk.
When he drew up at the door, and came to lift her down, he said
soberly, "There is such a text as 'Honour thy father and thy "mother,"'
Pollie; we must not forget that!"
"Why, my dear!" exclaimed her mother when she got in. "I've sent Jim
down the field-path to meet you!"
"I've come up with father; he's putting up the horse. Mother, I waited
to speak to the vicar, and I'll tell you all about it! Only—mother, I
do believe I never was so hungry in all my life!"
"Well, here's tea," smiled her mother comfortably, "and while you eat
it, you can tell me!"
* * * * *
Through a mistake at the Post Office, Harry Fulbert only got that
letter at his London hotel the very day he was to sail for China.
To go? Impossible!
To stay? Equally impossible!
Those were his first and second thoughts. Then slowly he turned and
looked round the room.
Almost everything was packed; his cases had gone on board the P. and O.
boat three days ago; his portmanteau lay open at his feet; nothing but
a few last purchases had to be made.
His passage in that special boat had long been taken, his friends would
turn up at the appointed time at Tilbury to wave him good-bye. He had
parted from his mother—how could he alter now?
He stood with his elbow on the mantelshelf, looking at Mary's picture,
and then suddenly, he walked over to the door, and turned the key in
the lock; and then, with another sudden movement, he threw himself on
his knees, and buried his head on his arms.
Was he the true golden gold after all?
Was he only giving way to his overwhelming disappointment? Or was he
asking his best Counsellor what he was to do in this sore crisis?
When he arose from his knees, he looked round once more. He put away
the photograph, locked his portmanteau, took up his hat and went out.
In another half-hour he was standing at the counter of the office of
the P. and O., anxiously asking, if there were any way of getting out
of going.
"I refused a gentleman, a Mr. Strong, this very morning," said the
agent. "Every berth is filled up, and now it will probably be too late
for him."
Harry Fulbert asked eagerly if the agent knew the gentleman's address,
and upon its being produced, the cab was once more set going, and Harry
found himself stopping at a mansion at the West End.
A few words of explanation introduced him to the would-be traveller,
whom he found in the midst of his luggage, having just returned from
his fruitless errand to the City.
Mr. Strong acknowledged he was anxious to exchange his berth, taken in
the next boat, for one in Harry's, but the agent had assured him it was
too late now to arrange anything.
"But your luggage?" said Mr. Strong, when in a few hurried words they
had canvassed the whole subject, and arranged for an exchange of
tickets.
Harry laughed.
"That I can do without till I follow it! I cannot tell you what a load
is taken from my heart!"
And the gentleman shook his hand warmly with a genial smile.
"I expect you are as glad to stay as I to go!"
Harry was so overjoyed at the release, that it carried him over his
surprise and grief at Mary's letter. Now he would have the opportunity
to go back to her, and find out what she could mean by those few
hurried sentences, in which she had told him that she must give him up.
Just now he was only anxious to enable his new friend to catch the
boat. There was little enough time, but he kept his cab while the last
few things were collected, and before long they were rolling together
to Fenchurch Street, "en route" for Tilbury, the gentleman to start
on his long journey, and Harry to meet his friends and tell them that
unexpected and pressing business detained him in England.
As to Mary's letter he would not think of that! There must be some
mistake!
So while Pollie was waiting with beating heart in the vicar's study to
tell her tale, Harry was paying his bill at the hotel, and taking his
ticket at the Great Western station to a country village sixty miles
from London.
Little did she think that the threads which seemed in such a hopeless
tangle were held in Hands which knew the end of every one of them; nor
how surely out of the confusion was coming His perfect will for those
who trusted Him so fully.
Little did Pollie think as she sat telling her mother all about it,
receiving her sympathy and finding it more comforting than she had
expected, that the subject of their thoughts was even now drawing
nearer and nearer to that moonlit village, as fast as the train could
bring him.
"Mother, you are 'very' kind," said Pollie gratefully, as she wished
her good-night. How glad she felt now that she had "honoured" her
mother from her heart, and not only obeyed "in the letter."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XII.
_OFF TO LONDON._
"WHERE is uncle going?" exclaimed Mary Loveday the next morning, as she
and her aunt sat in the vicarage dining-room after breakfast.
"Up to the mill, Mary."
"Oh, auntie, how kind of him, so early!"
"We were young ourselves once, Mary," she said; "and besides—"
Mary had been very brave, but at the kind tone she broke down. She had
no mother into whose arms she might throw herself, and sob out her
grief. Perhaps her aunt felt that, for she came over to her, and put
her arm round her shoulders.
"It will surely come right in the end, if we trust it to God, Mary,"
she said gently, "but this suspense is a sore trial for you."
"It is not exactly suspense," said Mary brokenly "because—except for
God having it in hand—it is too late. My letter must have reached him
before he sailed yesterday, and he has sent me no answer."
Her aunt was silent. It was a great perplexity, and gave her more
heartache than she liked to acknowledge.
But Mary raised her head.
"Aunt, I'm not going to think how hopeless it is. Pollie said, 'It
couldn't happen without God's will,' and that is true. I am not going
to grieve any more."
She was walking by faith, and not by sight. She had hold of her
Father's hand, and knew that, come rain or shine, she was being led "by
the right way."
Would she be able to thank Him by-and-by for even this dark bit?
In an hour the vicar returned, and he came at once to where his wife
and Mary were sitting working.
"I'm going to London," he said, "by the two o'clock train. And if you
are well enough, Mary, I am going to take you for the little jaunt with
me, to give you a change."
"I? Oh, uncle!"
"Yes, you! And I thought there was another little body that would be
pleased to go to London, so I've done a bold thing, my dear," turning
to his wife. "I've asked Mary at the mill to bear our Mary company for
two days. I like that girl! She's as true as steel—or what is it, Mary?
Something better than steel, eh?"
"Asked Mary at the mill?" echoed Mrs. Loveday, astonished. "Did her
father like her to go?"
"Yes, to be sure, he did! Why not? It was her mother who hesitated, but
I think that was about a hat or something."
"'Just let her put on what she comes to church in on Sundays,' I said,
'and she will be all right. She is always neat, and what do you want
more?'"
"Where will she meet us, uncle?" asked Mary. "Will she come here, or go
to the station?"
"Yes, come here at half-past one. I said I would drive you both in the
trap."
So Mary ran up to make her few preparations, and then, till lunch
should be ready, she went out into the garden, glad to be quiet for a
few minutes. What did her uncle mean by this sudden journey to London?
And how could it be of any use if Harry had already sailed?
While Pollie was turning over her drawers at the mill, trembling with
excitement, and wondering whether her things would be good enough to
do honour to her dear Miss Mary, Mary herself, ready for her journey,
stood looking into the stream at the bottom of her uncle's garden, and
wondering what her journey to London would bring forth.
She had longed to be alone that she might recollect once more that she
had given all up into her Lord's hands, and was going patiently to wait
till He should do His will.
How still the water was. How silently it flowed on and on; how clear
its depths; how bright its reflections when it caught the sunlight.
Mary was fond of turning to-day's sights and sounds into little lessons
of love set by her heavenly master, so she thought now that she would
wish to be as the stream, deep and still in the shade, and bright and
praise-giving in the sunshine.
"I want to 'please' Jesus," she said, with a happy smile, turning away
now she had had a glimpse, by faith, of her Saviour, "and He knows
that!"
People often wondered why Miss Loveday had such an influence among her
class of girls.
But some one had once said to her, "Never be satisfied in the day till
you have seen Jesus!" and this was her secret.
So if a cloud arose, she tried to have a moment's quiet to get a
sight of her Saviour, and having had that sight, she went on her way
rejoicing.
So she turned from the stream and left its singing waters behind, with
their shadows and sunshine, and made her way back to the house, ready
to enliven her aunt, or meet Pollie, or do anything happily that came
to hand.
Meanwhile Pollie was wishing her mother good-bye at the mill, and
feeling as if, even for two days' absence, the parting was harder
than she could bear. She tried to say everything, and ended in saying
nothing. She wanted to tell her mother that she was sorry she had been
so tiresome lately, but the words stuck in her throat and made a sort
of ball there. She wanted to beg Jim to do everything for her mother,
even better than she had, but instead she only got out the words,
"Don't forget to water my plants!"
And then she found herself running down the field-path as if she were
pursued, with her eyes so blinded that she nearly went headlong in her
best clothes.
At last she paused at the stile at the bottom, and just as she was
going to spring over it, she met the vicarage maid hurrying up.
"Pollie," she exclaimed, "Miss Mary wants to see you!"
"Why, I was coming!" said Pollie, surprised. "It isn't late, is it?"
"No—not late, only—"
Pollie had swallowed her tears. The maid did not explain, but seemed in
a great hurry to get back, so Pollie followed her in silence, inwardly
wondering why Miss Loveday had sent to meet her, but concluding it
might be because she feared that she might be late for the train.
At the vicarage gate the trap was already standing waiting. Was she
late after all?
As they entered the hall door, Mary ran out from the drawing-room
and took Pollie by both hands, drawing her into the dining-room and
shutting the door.
"Pollie!" she said. "Shall you be dreadfully disappointed if we do not
go to London after all?"
"Why, no, dear Miss Loveday, if you would rather not!"
"Uncle says you and I shall go another time, if possible," she said
hurriedly, "but such a strange thing has happened, Pollie! He's come—"
Pollie was just going to ask who, but something in Miss Loveday's face
made it unnecessary.
"Harry?" she asked, and then crimsoned at her familiarity. "Mr.
Fulbert—I mean?"
"Yes."
Mary sat down, still holding her little friend's hands; and then she
disengaged one, and stroked the glowing cheeks softly, while she said,
as if she could say nothing else, "How nice you look, dear! And how
kind of your mother to spare you! I cannot bear that you should not
go—and yet—"
"I do not mind a bit—not a bit, if you are glad, Miss Loveday!"
Mary paused for a moment, and then she said, looking down and speaking
softly, "It has been so wonderful, Pollie, that I can hardly believe
it. But you have been such a dear little friend to me that I should
like to tell you all about it."
She took off Pollie's hat and gloves, she folded her necktie, but still
she did not seem as if she could begin.
At length she said, in a low tone, "I went down to the stream this
morning to have a little quiet time alone. I wanted to tell God all
about it, Pollie—to ask Him to take every bit of anxiety away about all
this, and to take charge of everything for us, so that we might know
that He had it in hand.
"While I was there, and while my uncle was finishing up a few things
before he started, a stranger came to the door and asked for him, and
sent in his card—Mr. Filbert.
"Yes, Pollie, it was Harry! He did not get my letter till he was just
starting for China, and then he could not bear to go. And I do not
know yet how he managed it all, but he found somebody to exchange his
passage, and the gentleman went to China instead of him, and he came
here!"
"Oh, Miss Loveday!" exclaimed Pollie, with her face glowing. "And is
he—is he the true golden gold?"
"How could you think anything else, Pollie? I 'knew' he was!"
"And will Mr. Loveday allow it now?" asked Pollie longingly.
"Harry does not wish it to be settled till he has sent for his mother,
but my uncle is perfectly satisfied. He said, Pollie, that he knew 'the
true ring' when he heard it."
Pollie did not know what "the true ring" meant; and before she could
ask, Miss Loveday had risen.
"Harry is talking to my aunt, and I must go and put on my hat. He is
going back by our train, Pollie, to meet his mother in London. He will
telegraph for her at the station; and he says he knows she will come.
She is staying near London, and they may be back here to-night. I am
going to drive him to the station, only I wanted to see you first."
Mary stooped and kissed her little friend.
"I shall never forget what a comfort you have been to me, nor all that
you have done for me," she added gratefully. "It was you who won my
uncle to think it was possible there might be a mistake!"
"I had better go back home, dear Miss Loveday," said Pollie. "I am so
glad that we had not started."
"So am I. But we will go to town another day, Pollie."
Pollie set off homewards, and just as she got to the stile, she heard
wheels, and in a moment, before she could disengage her dress from a
nail which had caught it, Mary and Mr. Fulbert were close upon her, as
the vicar's fleet pony took them quickly past. Not too fast, however,
for Pollie not to recognise, in her dear Miss Loveday's friend, some
one whom she had seen before, and knew long ago to be the true golden
gold!
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XIII.
_POLLIE RECOGNISES A FRIEND._
"MOTHER!" exclaimed Pollie, running over the green in front of the mill
and throwing herself into her mother's arms, "I haven't gone! But it's
all right. There is no need to go now."
"You don't say so?" asked her mother. "I am glad, but I expect you are
rather disappointed, my dear!"
"No, I'm not; I'm too glad to care on my own account. And, besides, I
could not bear to leave you, mother."
"Foolish little girl!" said her mother fondly, but there were tears in
her eyes as she said it. Perhaps she felt at that moment rewarded for
all the love and care she had expended on her wayward child.
"And, mother," Pollie went on unconsciously, "such a wonderful thing
has happened. Come in, and I will tell you."
They entered the mill together, and Pollie went to put away her best
hat, wondering if it could be true that it was only an hour since she
had put it on with such care for her visit to London.
When she came back into the kitchen, her mother was getting out some
teacups.
"Come along, my dear," she said in her cosy way; "you had but a
mouthful of dinner before you started, and I daresay you will not be
sorry to see a cup of tea. I shall not, myself, I am sure; and then you
can tell me your tale."
Pollie thought that there was nobody in the world so comfortable as her
mother, and sat down by the fire with a very contented face.
"Well, my dear?" asked her mother, smiling at her.
"Oh, such a wonderful thing!" exclaimed Pollie again. "Do you remember,
two years ago, when I was at Aunt Elizabeth's?"
"I remember that very well—and so do you," answered her mother.
"Yes—; and do you remember I told you about the gentleman that was
preaching there, and how good he was, and how interesting?"
"Yes, I remember that."
"Well, mother, 'he' is Mr. Harry Fulbert! No need for anybody to send
up to London to ask about him now, for the moment I saw him driving by
the side of her I knew him again. He's the one that—that brought me to
Christ, mother; and now, if you will let me, I want to go back and tell
the vicar. May I, mother?"
"I'll think about it. But you are sure, Pollie?"
"'Sure?'" asked Pollie. "I should know him anywhere. I could never
forget him, never."
Then Pollie explained all about Mr. Fulbert's coming, and about the
postponed visit, and the afternoon slipped away so fast that it was
nearly her father's tea-time before she had finished.
When he came in, he did not see any objection to Pollie's paying
the vicar another visit, and himself accompanied her down the hill,
promising to wait for her at her Uncle Brown's till she should have
made her call.
The vicar was standing at his door with his hat on. He greeted Pollie
very kindly, and asked her if she would walk up the road with him, as
he had just been called to a village two miles up the valley to see a
dying man, and he could not venture to wait.
"Life and death are awful things, Pollie," he said solemnly. "Life
without Christ is hopeless enough, but death—"
They walked along in silence for some time, till the vicar said
suddenly:
"You wanted to speak to me."
Then Pollie told him about it, and was quite surprised at the vicar's
gratitude.
"I call you a very kind little friend," he said, when she had finished.
"It is not that I doubted him in the very least after the talk I had
with him, but to find that my Master has honoured and blessed him by
giving him 'souls for his hire' makes me more glad than I can say. Mary
was quite right, you see, in saying that there could be no mistake in
such an one as he. She 'knew' it was all right."
So Pollie retraced her steps a happy girl, and found her father deep in
a political discussion with his brother, and not having found the time
at all long.
"So you've never been to London after all!" he said, as she took his
arm affectionately, and they turned homewards.
"No," said Pollie, shaking her head, "but that can wait. I never was so
happy and grateful, I do believe, father! At least, never since that
day at Aunt Elizabeth's. Of course that was the happiest day."
Her father nodded emphatically.
"It's a wondrous thing to be allowed to carry the King's messages,"
he said thoughtfully, referring to Harry Fulbert. "Perhaps some of us
would be trusted with more of them if we were more willing!"
Meanwhile the lamp was lighted, and Mary and her aunt sat working in
the pretty vicarage drawing-room.
The train could not come in till after nine that night. And unless
Harry had sped wonderfully well, he and his mother could not arrive
even by that.
But he had sped wonderfully well. His mother had been at home when the
telegram reached her, and had prepared to start back with him as soon
as he desired.
"I shall telegraph to you, anyway," he had said to Mary, as they were
driving to the station, "then you will know when to expect us."
They sat very silent.
Mary's aunt was thinking of the change it would be to them all if Mary
should go to China. And as to Mary, she was praying that the happiness
which had come into her life might never make a cloud between her and
her Lord.
She had said something of that sort to Harry that afternoon, and he had
answered, "You cannot desire that more than I do, Mary. I want Him to
be first to both of us."
Mrs. Loveday was called away to attend to the needs of some villager,
and was detained some time. When she came back, Mary was sitting where
she had left her, but her work had dropped on the floor, and instead,
she was studying a pink piece of paper which had arrived during her
aunt's absence.
"Here it is, auntie," said Mary, springing up. "Just read it yourself."
"All well; my mother and I just starting from Paddington."
How cheerful it all looked when at half-past nine o'clock the wheels
were heard on the drive, and the travellers walked into the room!
Mrs. Loveday went forward to greet her guest, and one look into the
sweet placid face, beaming with love and hopefulness, was enough to
satisfy her.
"Where is Mary?" Mrs. Fulbert asked, and held out her arms. "I have
wanted a daughter all my life, and now I shall have one!"
"You will indeed," said the vicar heartily. "Harry must forgive all
the trouble we have given him, in the blessing of having our Mary for
his own. I was convinced this morning that I might happily give her to
him, but since then I have had most unexpected confirmation, and I have
nothing to say but to thank God that my brother's child has found such
a helpmeet."
Such a supper table as that was! Mrs. Fulbert sat with "her two
children" by her, and when she looked at the face of one, she turned
and looked into the face of the other with a mute appeal that touched
them both very much.
"I was coming to see you directly Harry had sailed," she said once,
"but I was not very well. Little did I think that you could have had
all this to go through."
"It has been all for the best," said Mary, gently. "I would not have it
different."
"Nor I," said Harry, smiling. "But for this, I should have been on my
way to China!"
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XIV.
_"I NEVER THOUGHT OF IT!"_
"HARRY! I shall never be able to spare you both," said his mother,
looking at him earnestly, when, after supper, the vicar and his wife
had left the three together to have a quiet talk. "Can you not come
home again and settle down with me in my old age? I have enough for you
both."
Harry took her hand in his, that dear thin hand that had guided him all
those thirty years. After a pause, he said gravely—
"It shall be as you wish, mother. How can I refuse you anything
to-night? Somebody else will be glad of my post in China, I suppose."
His mother smiled peacefully, with a little naïve nod at Mary.
"It never suited his health, and he will not be sorry in a few months.
There is plenty to do at Exeter, and we shall be very happy and very
busy, eh, my Harry?"
And when she wished Mary good-night, she said softly, "The Lord has
given me this day my heart's desire."
Mary kissed her affectionately, but she made no reply. For herself she
was glad enough for Harry to give up his post in China, but she feared
that he would be very disappointed.
Mrs. Fulbert looked into her face questioningly.
"You do not think me selfish, I hope, my dear?"
"No—oh, no!"
"You can hardly look at it with my eyes," she said, smiling, holding
Mary's hands between her own, as if to impress her words. "I always
said that no money compensated in my estimation for such separations
as residence in foreign countries involves. Of course, if you go as a
missionary, that is a different thing; for Christ's sake we may have to
forsake all that we have, but Harry had that situation before he knew
what it was to belong to Christ, and so—"
She paused, for Harry was standing by them, looking intently into her
face while she was speaking.
"'For Christ's sake'?" he echoed slowly. "I never thought of that. I
had my situation, and it never occurred to me to be a missionary!"
"It has 'occurred' to you to do work for Christ out there, Harry," said
Mary earnestly, "for you told me of several people that you had helped.
Is not that being a missionary?"
"I never thought of it," he said again thoughtfully and even solemnly.
Mrs. Fulbert had turned very pale. Surely her heart's desire, which she
thought a moment ago her Lord had given her, was not going to be taken
away by her own suggestion?
Mary stood very still, for she guessed that a crisis was going on in
both the hearts before her. What would be the end of it all? What a
revolution his mother's words might cause in all their lives!
At last Harry turned, and fondly put his arm round his mother.
"I have promised to do as you wish," he said, "and so we will leave it.
If my Lord has any other plan for me, He will show it in His own time."
Mrs. Fulbert looked in his face.
"Harry, I cannot say, 'Thy will, "not mine" be done,' to-night, but He
will enable me, I feel sure."
She kissed them both in silence and left the room.
"Mary!" exclaimed Harry. "My mother's words have turned me upside down!
What shall we do?"
"Our Lord will show us," said Mary, "and I do not think we have to
settle it to-night, have we, Harry? Perhaps the light will be clearer
to-morrow."
And the lonely mother upstairs, who had had her heart's desire so near
her, knelt in beseeching prayer in her chamber, not asking so much that
she might have her will, as that she should be willing from her heart
to have God's will.
The clock struck several hours, and still her wakeful eyes could find
no rest, till at last, a thought came swiftly and sweetly over her with
soothing balm, "'Commit' thy way unto the Lord; trust also in Him," and
yielding to His will, she slept.
Mary was down the first on the following morning, and was busy
preparing the breakfast when Mrs. Fulbert came in.
"Am I too early?" she asked, as she came forward.
"Oh, no," said Mary, kissing her affectionately. "I wonder how you
slept, after all the excitement of yesterday?"
"Pretty well, dear. It was a long while before I could give him up,
Mary, but I did at last. I will take God's will, whichever way it is,
and trust Him."
"I am so glad," said Mary simply. Then, as if she could not help it,
she gave Mrs. Fulbert another kiss, and added: "I know what it means,
but it is such peace afterwards!"
Perhaps Harry understood at his first glance at his mother's face, for
no further mention was made of the subject for the present, and Mr. and
Mrs. Loveday were not yet aware either of the change of Harry's plans,
nor of the fresh thought which his mother's words had put into their
minds.
After breakfast, Mary and he set out to carry some of her aunt's jelly
to a sick man, and as their road lay near the mill, Mary left Harry
sitting on the stile while she ran in to see Pollie.
Pollie was sitting outside the mill, paring apples for a pie, and soon
saw her dear teacher coming. She ran down to meet her, and asked if she
would come in.
"Not to-day, dear, because Harry is waiting. But, Pollie, I wanted to
tell you something, and to ask you to pray—"
Pollie raised her eyes expectantly. It was not the first time by a good
many that she and Miss Loveday had "agreed" to pray.
"When we were talking last night, Harry's mother asked him not to
go back to China—I mean not to stay—of course, he must go back till
there is someone to take his place; and he promised he would do as she
wished—"
"Oh, Miss Loveday!"
"And then she said half a word about it being different if any one
went to China as a missionary. And, Mary, before we any of us knew,
something had happened that could never be undone. Harry had seen that
it might be that he should go to China as a missionary, and his mother
saw that the very thing which she dreaded—the separation from her only
son—might after all be a duty which she could not evade."
Pollie's eyes were gazing intently into her friend's face.
"Did he say?" she asked.
"No, not yet; but—"
"I'll pray," said Pollie earnestly. "I am sure God will make it plain,
dear Miss Loveday."
"Yes, so am I; only, Pollie, I feel as if I wanted to 'see!'"
"Don't you remember that little story you told us last Sunday?" said
Pollie, half-smiling.
"Which?" asked Mary.
"Don't you remember? About the little child going a journey in the
dark? You said he did not know the way in the least, and yet he was
not a bit anxious or worried, he knew he would get home at last,
just as surely as if he were stepping over the doorway. But that was
not because he was strong or wise, but only just for one very simple
reason—his father's lantern lighted, the 'next' step, and he had hold
of his father's hand."
Mary's eyes were full, and so were Pollie's to match. So full that they
did not notice a shadow fall upon them from some one who had come up
close.
"I will think of that," said Mary; "thank you, my little Pollie, for
reminding me."
"And I will think of that," said Harry, who was standing behind them.
"He will show the next step, Pollie, will he not?"
So before long "the next step" seemed to be that Harry must go back to
China and wait for the filling of his post.
How quickly that week sped away!
Near the end of it, Mary and Mrs. Fulbert accompanied Harry to London
to see him off on his long journey; and Pollie, to her great delight,
was asked to go too.
So at last Pollie did go to London, and for the two days that elapsed
before Harry sailed, she saw more sights than she had imagined it
possible could be seen in the time. Anyone watching those four going
about would have said that they were perfectly happy. And so indeed
they were, though now and then the parting which was in front of them
seemed to pass like a cloud over the brightness of the landscape.
Not a word more had been said about the missionary project. By
universal consent the subject was dropped. The four were praying about
it, but even Harry and Mary did not mention it to each other.
Mary had often watched Harry's face questioningly, but though he
understood, he did not seem prepared to talk of it. But the last
evening came at length, and still nothing had been settled.
"Mother," said Harry, as they all stood at the window in the hotel at
Gravesend, "have you thought any more about my being a missionary?"
Mrs. Fulbert turned rather pale, but she put her hand very calmly on
her son's arm.
"I should not like to keep you back, my dear, if God called you."
"What do you think, Mary?" he said, turning to look into her face. "I
have not asked you before, because I wanted for us all to do nothing in
a hurry."
"I am willing either way," said Mary, "but—"
"What is the 'but'?" he asked tenderly.
"We are young," she said, leaning her head on Mrs. Fulbert's shoulder,
"and we have each other—but you—"
Mrs. Fulbert stroked her face softly.
"Thank you, my dear, for thinking of me."
Harry was watching them both intently, and as his mother spoke, he bent
towards Mary and whispered, "You are right; and I love you more than
ever for being good to my mother! Mary, I see the next step now. When I
come back, if God spares us, we will stay a year with our dear mother.
She will be 'our' dear mother then, you know; and after that—"
"After that, if God points out the way, I will let you go happily, or
go with you!" said Mrs. Fulbert. "I am not too old yet to travel, if
need be," she added, smiling a little.
"Oh, mother," said Harry, "how sweet you are! To think that we may be
permitted to carry the unsearchable riches of Christ to some of the
millions of China!"
That was a memorable evening to them all, and in one young heart a seed
sank down to spring up and bear fruit in after days.
When Pollie went into her little room that night, she knelt in silence
for a long time by her bedside, but the prayer that went up from her
full heart was this:
"Here am I. Send me, send me!"
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XV.
_VISITORS AT SHANKLIN._
THE parting was over. Mary, very pale but more thoughtful of the frail
mother than of herself, kept up bravely, and no one would have guessed
the desolate feeling which came over her as the beautiful steamer
became every moment more and more a speck on the waters.
"It will not be long before he is with us again, God willing,"
whispered Mrs. Fulbert.
"No," answered Mary. But her heart went straight as an arrow to her
abiding-place, and found its best rest in the unchangeable love of
Jesus.
"Hope had laid her anchor,
Found her rest,
In the sure calm haven
Of His breast."
They both had dreaded to go back to the hotel, and decided to pack up
as quickly as possible and to travel home. But when they entered the
familiar rooms, there sat the vicar and his wife, looking as natural as
if they had been there for days.
It did not take long to explain that they had come to town to try
to persuade Mrs. Fulbert and Mary to go with them to a southern
watering-place for a little change of scene, while they also bore
a letter from Pollie's mother containing a permission for her to
accompany them.
"I am afraid I shall be in the way, dear Miss Loveday," said Pollie,
blushing; "and if so, please do not think of it. I can be put into the
train, and go home by myself, I know."
But nobody would hear of this, and then Mr. Loveday acknowledged that
he had already arranged for rooms, which were only waiting for them to
travel to when they felt inclined.
So the next day, they found themselves sitting at tea within sight of
the sea at Shanklin, a happy party of five.
"Pollie," said Mary that evening, as they stood on the Esplanade and
felt the salt spray blow in their faces, "you are my little friend, you
know, who understands more about me than anybody in the world—more than
Harry even—and you must learn to call me Mary. I think of you as a dear
little sister."
Pollie did not answer; she only squeezed her arm very tightly.
"Say you will, dear."
"I'll try," whispered Pollie, "but whatever I call you, it will not
alter my love."
The next morning, to Pollie's intense surprise, she found a letter from
her father on her plate at breakfast.
On opening it, she gave such a start that Mary asked what was the
matter.
"My cousins—the Browns—from Chichester are staying here in a house on
the cliff!"
"Well, are you glad?" asked Mary.
"I suppose I am. I hardly know," said Pollie, a little soberly. Then,
after a few moments' silence, she added, "If they get to know you I
shall be, because you will do them good."
So Mary and she had some talk about them, and Pollie told her a little
of their life at Chichester, and of the gay, unsatisfactory circle they
were in. Of her cousin's acquaintance with H. F. she said nothing, as
she felt it was not her secret.
"You must go up to call on them presently. Perhaps they do not know you
are here," concluded Mary, as they got up from their seat in the Chine
and made their way back to their lodgings.
"Perhaps not," said Pollie; "if they do not know, they will think I
have dropped from the skies."
"So you have," smiled Mary.
So Pollie set forth, and soon found herself knocking at the door of a
handsome house where her cousins were lodging.
Fortunately, for her comfort, her father had written to them also,
telling them of Pollie's presence in Shanklin.
Clara received her with open arms, and led her straight into the
garden, where her Aunt Elizabeth was sitting. They were both loud in
their praises of how Pollie had grown, and how she had improved.
Presently her aunt went indoors, saying she would send Laura out, and
before Clara had time to say something she was evidently longing to do,
there was a slow soft step on the gravel behind them, and Laura stood
leaning on the end of the garden seat.
Clara got up and gave her sister her seat, and threw herself on the
grass beside them, looking down across the lawn to the view of the sea
over the trees.
Pollie's eyes wandered several times to Laura's face, but they came
back again unsatisfied.
Laura looked as pretty as ever, but there was a transparency about
her that reminded Pollie of a young girl who had died of consumption
in their village. She was so taken up with this thought that she made
quite a muddle of explaining how she came to be at Shanklin, and who
Miss Loveday was.
"Isn't that the name of that old lady you and my father used to be so
devoted to?" asked Clara, puzzled.
"That was my Miss Loveday's aunt," said Pollie. "You will like to know
her, I mean my Miss Mary, she is so awfully nice."
Clara laughed, but added more warmly, "Well, I'll come down and make
her acquaintance. I'm moped to death here, with Laura coughing all the
time. There will be some fun now you're here!"
So Pollie stayed for half an hour and then went back, Clara
volunteering to accompany her down the hill.
Pollie looked towards Laura, but Clara said she would be all right till
she came back, and took up her hat and ran off down the garden.
"The fact is," she said abruptly, when they turned into the road, "I
wanted to have a little talk with you about Laura. We've never heard
another word from H. F. since you left, nearly a year ago. Of course
the friends he was staying with hear from him, I suppose, but he has
never sent even a message to Laura—"
"I am so sorry," said Pollie, "I wish—"
"What's the use of wishing," said Clara bitterly. "It has broken her
heart. I see it all now, and if we had not been so secret over it, I
daresay it would not have happened. At any rate, she would not have
taken it to heart like this. As to me, I'm utterly miserable."
"Cannot you tell Aunt Elizabeth or Uncle?" urged Pollie gently. "You
would be so much happier."
Clara shook her head, and then added, "Sometimes, I think I must, but
Laura will not hear of it."
"Does she think he will come back?" asked Pollie.
"Oh, no! There is a report that he is going to be married. Laura has
never raised her head since that."
"Poor Laura!" said Pollie.
"Sometimes I have wished more than I can say to see you. I even asked
Ma to write and invite you. But she said she did not see that it could
do Laura any good."
"I wish I could," murmured Pollie.
"I fancy you might. Every day I see her getting weaker, and my heart is
really broken."
"But I could not help her," exclaimed Pollie, "except—"
"Yes, that's it!" said Clara eagerly. "You have learned a secret that
we haven't. I thought that you might give her some of your comfort."
"Can't you?" said Pollie. "It is open to everyone. I mean Jesus Christ
is—"
Clara had hold of her arm. She pressed it now with unusual affection.
"Pollie, you do sometimes pray?"
"Sometimes!" echoed Pollie.
"Well—would you—could you? I know we do not deserve it, but could you
pray for us?"
"Of course I will, and so will Miss Mary."
"Oh, don't tell her!"
"Not anything you do not like. But if you want a blessing, why should
you mind our praying for it?"
Clara turned very white, but she suddenly exclaimed:
"Do as you think best. I'm so miserable! What if Laura should die?"
"Oh, do tell my aunt," urged Pollie. "Do, do, Clara. You will find a
load gone when you do!"
They had reached Pollie's home. Clara refused to come in, and with a
passionate kiss on Pollie's cheek she turned homewards, while Pollie
with full heart went upstairs to find Mary and tell her all about it.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XVI.
_MISSIONARIES AT HOME._
THAT evening after tea, Mary and Pollie set out for the cliff, Mary to
carry a bunch of flowers to the invalid and Pollie to ask her cousin
Clara if she would go for a walk.
Mrs. Brown was out at the moment. Thus Mary found herself sitting
quietly with Laura, the golden glory of the sunset lighting up the
Culver Cliffs and tipping the distant sails as they passed along the
horizon.
Laura had been idly scanning the local paper, and her thin fingers
rested in it still.
"I was reading the names of the visitors here," she said. "There was no
one we know yesterday. Clara and Ma generally go out in the evening and
the time seems long."
"Perhaps you will let me come and see you sometimes?" said Mary. "We
expect to be here a fortnight."
"If you like," said Laura listlessly. "Ma is going home to-morrow and
Clara will be very dull, as she says, with my cough."
She was still glancing at the paper, when suddenly a deep colour
spread over her face, and with an exclamation of dismay, she exclaimed
hurriedly:
"Where's Clara—oh, Miss Loveday, call Clara!"
"She is out, dear. What is it?" said Mary soothingly. "She will be back
directly."
Laura's cough had come on with such violence that she could not answer,
but she pointed piteously to the list of visitors staying at one of the
hotels.
"Mr. and Mrs. Henry Fulbert," read Mary—and then as by a flash, she
realized the whole story!
This was the H. F. to whom poor Laura had given her heart; this was the
one against whom her uncle had warned her! The Harry Fulbert who was
not the true golden gold!
She took the invalid into her arms, stranger though she was, and
tried to comfort her with the comfort wherewith she herself had been
comforted of God.
"Poor Laura!" she whispered. "I see it all, but there is Jesus left. He
healeth the broken in heart and bindeth up their wounds."
"My heart is broken," sobbed Laura. "I have been disobedient to what Ma
would have liked; I've kept a secret from her all this year. He told me
he would come back and ask me, and now he has gone and married someone
else! I had heard he was going to, but I would not believe it!"
"Poor Laura!" again said the soft, soothing voice. "Let us tell the
Lord Jesus all about it, and come to Him for forgiveness. Indeed,
'indeed' He will comfort you if you will let Him!"
"I do not know anything about Him," said Laura, as she allowed Mary to
lay her on the sofa, and then she buried her head in the cushions and
cried as if her heart would break.
"It makes me cough to cry," she moaned; "and I am so miserable! So
miserable!"
"Can you bear to tell me all about it?" asked Mary, guessing that if
she could bring herself to speak it out she would feel better.
But Laura only shook her head and lay sobbing and coughing.
"You will do yourself harm," said Mary at last. "I fear for you if you
give way to grief like this—"
"And well you may," said Laura, turning round upon her, and looking at
her with pathetic eyes. "Ma doesn't guess it, nor Clara either, but I'm
dying—and I've no hope—none!"
Oh, how thankful Mary was that she knew the hope herself, and could
tell the shrinking invalid of Him who has borne our griefs and carried
our sorrows, and with whose stripes we are healed!
"He loves 'me?'" questioned Laura, as she lay on her pillows utterly
exhausted. "Can He love me who has never given Him a thought, except to
turn away from Him; who has said in her heart she would do without Him?"
"Indeed He does," said Mary tenderly. "'While we were yet sinners,
Christ died for us.' That seems so wonderful, doesn't it, but so nice?"
Laura lay very still. The room grew darker and darker, but the others
did not come back, and Mary was thankful for it.
At last, Laura put out her trembling hand. "I can never thank you," she
whispered. "Would you mind kissing me?"
Mary bent over her. "You have let Jesus comfort you?" she asked
tenderly. "It is not only mine, is it, dear?"
"Oh, no!" she responded earnestly. "But it is only just in time—"
At the moment Mrs. Brown came bustling in.
"Ma, dear," said Laura faintly, "come here."
There was some inexplicable change in the voice, something which even
in the half darkness made a cold chill fall on that gay mother's heart.
"Ma, dear," she went on as Mrs. Brown came close, "you will hear all
when I am gone, Clara will tell you. I've gone astray like a lost
sheep, but Jesus Christ has found me. Will you forgive me?"
Mrs. Brown knelt down by her side, kissing her in an awestruck manner,
and for a moment she felt two feeble arms round her neck, and then they
relaxed their hold, and slowly fell back. Laura had gone where all
tears are wiped from off all faces.
* * * * *
Pollie's little story is done—or perhaps not much more than begun.
The links, which were riveted in all that time of trouble, were a chain
which no time or circumstance could break.
Harry—Mary's Harry—came back from China in a few months' time, and very
soon he and Mary were married and went to Exeter for the promised year.
Pollie went to her home, to be the sunshine of her father and mother
and Jim, waiting and working, ever with the view in her inmost heart of
obeying her Lord's command to "go" to tell of his unsearchable riches
to those who have never heard.
Clara went back to Chichester an altered girl, leaving that grave
behind her as a lasting memorial of their sorrowful deception.
Mrs. Brown was stunned by the sudden blow of her daughter's death, and
for years would only refer to the matter by a cold "I never acted like
that myself, and I do not understand it."
All that time Clara's patience and love were severely taxed, but she
came out of the ordeal as gold purified seven times.
And there came a day at last when her faith and patience were rewarded,
and Mrs. Brown acknowledged with humbled spirit that she too needed a
Saviour, and if Jesus had made Clara what she was, she might well trust
Him.
[Illustration: Finis]
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