DISAPPOINTMENT.
A FEW days had passed since Lizzie's last visit to the hospital, when
about six o'clock one evening, she was in the garden attending to her
plants. She was watering some young cuttings that needed special care;
but every now and then she paused in her occupation and looked across
the meadow at the high road, with the expectation of seeing her father
on his return from Chelmsford market. Several vehicles went by, and
Lizzie recognised one and another of the neighbouring farmers, but
her father did not yet come in sight. Lizzie was rather eager for his
coming, because she felt sure that he would call at the post office,
and she hoped that he might bring her a letter from Sister Kathleen.
When next she glanced towards the road, she saw a man walking down the
meadow path to the house. It was Mr. Fennell, the new minister, who had
lately come to officiate at the little village chapel. Lizzie sighed
as she set down the watering-pot. She had not exchanged more than the
merest greeting with Mr. Fennell since he came to Danesbury, and she
had no wish for further intercourse with him. She was sorry he had come
now, when her father was not at home to receive him.
"Good evening, Miss Austen," said the minister in hearty tones. His
round, somewhat florid face had a very kindly expression, and he shook
hands in a way that seemed to show that he would be a good friend.
"I am sorry that my father is not at home, Mr. Fennell," said Lizzie,
"but I expect him every minute."
"I am quite content to await his arrival," said Mr. Fennell, with a
smile, "for in truth I have come to see you, Miss Austen. I have hardly
spoken to you as yet, and I wish to become acquainted with all my
flock, that I may if possible win their confidence and friendship."
Lizzie coloured slightly as she murmured, more politely than sincerely,
that she was pleased to see him. Then she invited him to enter the
house.
"Thank you; if you will allow me, I would rather remain here," said Mr.
Fennell; "I am fond of a garden. Pray don't let me disturb you in your
work."
But Lizzie let her watering-pot stand empty, and, taking him round the
garden, showed him all that it could boast of present beauty or of
promise for the future.
The minister was himself an amateur gardener, and he was interested in
all he saw. But he took a deeper interest in human nature. The sadness
of Miss Austen's face, the contrast between its youthful form and
hopeless expression had struck him when first he saw her. He had heard
her peculiarities discussed, and knew that she was no favourite with
her neighbours, but what he had heard had but excited his sympathy and
made him anxious to be her friend.
Now, as he marked her despondent air and heard the low, sad tones in
which she replied to his remarks, he said to himself, "Here is one
whose heart is crushed beneath a weight of hopeless sorrow. I wish I
knew her history that I might, if possible, help her."
But his efforts to win her confidence were not attended with success.
Lizzie's reserve did not relax as he talked to her. She would not speak
about herself, nor talk freely on any topic save the weather and the
garden.
They were in the greenhouse, and she was showing him a remarkable
species of cactus, when he said, "Ah, yes; I have seen one of the kind
before—in the Jardin des Plantes at Paris. Have you ever been abroad,
Miss Austen?"
He was surprised to see the deep crimson flush which his words brought
to her face.
"Yes, yes," she almost stammered in her confusion,—"once, a long time
ago."
"Ah, indeed! Where did you go?"
"To Paris," she answered, with evident unwillingness.
"A beautiful city, is it not?" he remarked, hardly knowing what he
said, so startled was he at the effect of his words.
"Yes," she said hurriedly, "but I saw very little of it. I went there
on business."
And, with the manifest purpose of changing the subject, she drew his
attention to the state of the vine which was trained across the top of
the greenhouse.
Mr. Fennell made a final and bolder attempt to break through her
reserve.
"I must be going," he said presently, "but will you first let me say
a word to you, Miss Austen? As a pastor it is my duty to inquire into
the spiritual welfare of all my flock. I was sorry to see last Sunday
that your father came alone to the Lord's Table. You have, I know, been
trained in the faith of the Gospel. What is it keeps you from doing
this in remembrance of your Saviour?"
The question took Lizzie by surprise. There was a glow of anger in her
pale cheek as she half turned from Mr. Fennell in her annoyance.
"Pardon me, if I seem over-bold," he said gently. "Believe me, I speak
as your friend."
"I cannot tell you why it is," she said tremulously. "My father is
good, my mother was good, but you must not suppose that I am good."
"None is good save God," he replied. "You do not think that any of us
would dare to come to the Lord's Table trusting in our own goodness?
We come, knowing that we are sinners, to meet with Christ, the Friend
of sinners; and no one, however unworthy, need hold back who can come
in faith, calling Jesus, Lord. Do you not believe in Jesus as your
Saviour?"
Lizzie shrank visibly from his words. She glanced at the house, as if
longing to make her escape into its shelter.
"Do not ask me!" she exclaimed, feeling driven to speak. "Religion is
not for me."
"For whom then is it?" he asked gently. "Forgive me. I cannot help
seeing that you are in trouble, and all sorrowful ones need Jesus. He
calls to Himself the weary and heavy-laden. Will you not obey that
call?"
"I cannot!" she exclaimed, in a tone the desperate misery of which went
to his heart.
"Why not?" he asked. "What is it holds you back? Is it sin? 'This Man
receiveth sinners.'"
Lizzie could bear no more. She felt herself on the verge of tears, and,
resolved not to give way to emotion, she turned from Mr. Fennell with
an abrupt "Good evening."
"Good evening," he said, his voice full of sympathy. "May Christ give
you peace!"
Peace! The word seemed to mock Lizzie as she hastened into the house,
for like a bitter comment came to mind the words: "'There is no peace,
saith my God, to the wicked.'"
She went to her room and sank on her knees beside the bed, weeping as
for long she had not wept. But though she took the attitude of prayer,
she could not pray.
The sound of her father's step below roused her. She rose, and, forcing
herself to be calm, hastily bathed her eyes and went down-stairs.
Her father was calling for her, "Here's a letter for you, Lizzie," he
said.
Lizzie took the letter, and a glance told her that it was the one she
was expecting. But she fetched her father his pipe and tankard of ale,
and stayed to listen to his slow account of what he had heard and done
at Chelmsford, ere she opened her letter, though her fingers trembled
as they closed over it, and her heart was fluttering with impatience to
know its contents.
A fine-looking old man, with snowy hair and keen dark eyes, was John
Austen. Though he was getting bent with age, there was still a certain
stern dignity in his bearing. Indulgent as he had ever been toward
his daughter, he was not generally considered to be a man of mild and
pliable temper.
The men who worked for him knew well that it was a serious thing to
offend the old master, for he was not one who could overlook a breach
of duty or readily pardon a wrong-doer. Above all things, he detested
deceit, and any one whom he convicted of telling a lie, or acting in an
underhand manner, was at once dismissed from his service. The land he
held had been farmed by his father before him, and he was proud of the
respect which in that neighbourhood had ever been accorded to the name
of Austen.
"No one ever doubted the word of an Austen," he was wont to say. "No
one ever knew an Austen have cause to hang his head."
Of late years, there had grown up in Lizzie's heart, intertwined
with her love for her father, a strong element of fear. She shivered
sometimes at the thought of what he would say or do if he knew certain
things which she had hidden from him. She fancied, too, that her
melancholy shrinking from the company of others was an annoyance to his
pride, as being an approach to that hanging of the head to which the
Austens had never been given. Lizzie made an effort to appear cheerful
when with her father. She listened now with an appearance of interest
to all he had to tell her, till at last, the old man ceased to talk and
began to nod as he sat in his arm-chair by the fire.
Lizzie stole noiselessly from the room. She felt sick with hope and
fear as with trembling fingers she opened her letter. It was very
brief. Sister Kathleen had not time to write long letters.
"DEAR MISS AUSTEN," she said.
"You will be sorry to hear that my hope has been disappointed. You were
right with regard to Phil's mother. She has refused to give up her
child, and she took him away with her last night. Poor little Phil! We
must pray the Lord to watch over him.—Yours faithfully—
"SISTER KATHLEEN."
The letter dropped from Lizzie's hand, and she sat gazing before her
with dilated eyes. She had not known how strong had been her hope for
Phil till she felt the force of this disappointment. No sound escaped
her ashen lips, but her spirit was crying out in wild rebellion against
her misery:
"O God! My punishment is greater than I can bear!"
How long she had sat there in tearless despair she knew not, when her
father's voice roused her. She rose and tried to go to him, but her
trembling limbs refused to support her. She sank fainting to the ground.