GOOD NEWS.
THE following day, when Matthew Reardon went us usual to the office to
take back his papers, he found Marshall alone.
"I was at your place last night, Reardon," said he.
"Were you? I didn't know it."
"A young woman, whom I met on the stairs, told me that you had just
gone out."
"I was obliged to go. I'm sorry to have missed seeing you."
"No matter," said Marshall; "another time, perhaps, if you will allow
me."
"To confess the truth," replied Matthew, bluntly, "we have not much
time for company."
"But surely you see a friend now and then?"
"We have no friends," was the reply.
"And you won't accept me for a friend?" asked the old man, with a
kindly smile. "We have known one another a good many years now,
Reardon."
Matthew took the hand extended to him somewhat coldly, as was his wont.
"You have not told me yet," said he, "what you came for."
"You must guess," replied Marshall, rubbing his hands.
"Mr. Heighington has discharged me, perhaps, as he threatened."
"On the contrary, he has raised your wages."
Matthew Reardon, who had been standing until then, sat down hastily.
Not only his hands, but his whole frame began to tremble, while the
perspiration stood in drops on his pale brow.
"Forgive me," said the old clerk, gently, "for having kept you in
suspense."
"It is nothing," replied Matthew; "I shall be all right directly, thank
you."
But Matthew forgot to thank God. "After all," added he, after a pause,
"Mr. Heighington must have thought my work not only worth having, but
worth paying for Mr. Marshall?"
The old man made no reply.
"It was very kind of you to come to tell me about it," continued he.
"Don't mention it," said Marshall; "it was scarcely a step out of my
way, although I had some trouble to find the place. I had no idea that
you lived in such a fine large house."
Matthew smiled.
"It is said to have been a noble mansion once," replied he.
"I don't doubt it," said Marshall. "Speaking of mansions reminds one
of the many mansions 'whither our Saviour Christ has gone before to
prepare a place for us, that where He is there may we be also.'"
"It seems to me," said Matthew, "that there might be the same
difficulty of which you complained just now about finding the way."
"It is better than eighteen hundred years ago," answered the old clerk,
"since Thomas, one of our Lord's disciples, thought as you do; and our
blessed Saviour told him in reply,—
"'I am the way, and the truth, and the life: no man cometh unto the
Father but by Me.'
"Jesus is the way. There is no fear of our getting out of the right
path so long as we keep near to Christ. Oh, Mr. Reardon, what a
glorious thing it must be to live in those heavenly mansions:
"'For ever with the Lord.'"
And the old clerk paused as with uplifted eyes and quivering lips, he
thought of the life of Christ and the unspeakable joy of meeting Him in
heaven.
"But it isn't every one who can get admitted there," said Matthew.
"It must be their own fault," was the reply, "if they are even so much
as kept waiting at the door, or because they don't know what name to
ask for, or have forgotten to put on the wedding garment. Nothing can
be plainer than the directions laid down in the Scriptures:
"'Ask, and it shall be given; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it
shall be opened unto you.—'
"Only to risk for Jesus' sake, only to knock in Jesus' name, and
straightway the golden gates are opened for our admission."
The old clerk spoke with that strange eloquence which proceeds out of
a full heart. His companion made no reply, and, after a few minutes'
pause, arose slowly, and began buttoning up his coat preparatory to
returning home.
"I heard your little ones singing last night," said Marshall.
"Did you? Poor things! They have a dull time of it. Their mother sends
them to Sunday school, where they teach them to sing. She thought that
it might serve to amuse them."
"I trust that it will do something more," said Marshall.
"They are good children enough," observed their father, "and so quiet
that you would hardly know they were in the room sometimes."
"I should like to come and see them," said the old man, "if it would
not be intruding."
"You can come if you please," replied Matthew, rather ungraciously.
But his companion took no notice of his manner, and thanked him all the
same.
"By-the-bye," said he, "I suppose you could not tell me who the young
girl was I saw at your place last night?"
"With a quantity of yellow hair, and a gay shawl?" asked Reardon.
"I did not notice her dress," was the reply. "But, now I remember, I
think that she had golden hair and rather a gay shawl."
"Oh, yes. She's no good."
"I'm sorry for that," said the old man. "She appeared to be very young,
poor thing! Has she a mother living?"
"I don't know," replied Matthew. "I never spoke to the girl in my life."
"What's her name?"
"She calls herself Kate Donaldson. But don't you trouble your head
about her. She's no good, I tell you, and will never be any better."
It was a harsh speech, and the time came when Matthew Reardon was very
sorry that he had ever made it. These hard speeches are almost sure to
come home to us at some time or another.
"Poor thing!" repeated the old clerk, compassionately. "What a comfort
it is to know that nothing is impossible to God. Good day, Reardon;
I'll come in and see your children some day soon."
Mrs. Reardon looked up anxiously as her husband entered. She always
felt uneasy now if he remained away longer than was absolutely
necessary, which indeed seldom happened, time being, to use her own
words, as good as money to the poor.
"It was that old Marshall," said he, in answer to her glance. "What a
fellow he is for talking—not but what I think that he means what he
says. He's coming here one of these evenings."
"What is he coming for?" asked Mrs. Reardon. "We don't want visitors."
"So I told him," replied her husband. "But he wished to see the
children. He called last night while we were out and heard them
singing."
"Poor old gentleman!" said the mother. "They do sing very nicely
sometimes. He's very welcome to come when he likes."
"You don't ask what brought him here last night, Mary?"
Mrs. Reardon looked up quickly, and a tear fell upon her delicate work
when Matthew told her the good news.
"It is almost a pity that Mr. Heighington did not think of it before,"
said he, with a sigh.
"Let us be thankful to him for thinking of it now."
But she never remembered to thank God any more than her husband had
done.
"The first thing we do with the money," continued she, "must be to see
some one about that cough of yours, Matthew."
"It will be soon enough to think of spending when I have earned it,"
observed Reardon, with a weary smile, as he sat down and began to write
rapidly, in order to make up, as he said, for lost time.
Mrs. Reardon quietly resumed her work, while the little children, in
their shadowy corner, spoke together in whispers for fear of disturbing
him, and the flying pen went scratch—scratch—scratch far into the night.