NEWS OF PHIL.
LIZZIE AUSTEN had told her story in a quiet, hard tone, resolutely
suppressing emotion, and Sister Kathleen had refrained from
interrupting her with question or remark. But now, beneath Sister
Kathleen's gentle sympathy, the restraint she had put on herself broke
down. She gave one look into the kind eyes, full of tears, which were
bent on her, and then bowed her head on the Sister's lap and burst into
heavy sobs.
"Oh, it is good of you to pity me. You might well despise me, loathe
me, for being what I am—a woman who has cast off her own child, and
doomed it to suffering to screen herself. How can you endure to look
upon such a heartless wretch?"
"Not heartless," said Sister Kathleen, throwing her arm around the
slight, frail form, shaken with sobs, "not heartless, or you would not
have suffered as you have. Oh, I pity you, but the Lord Jesus pities
you far more. He is very sorry that you have brought such misery upon
yourself; for, though you have been cruelly wronged, it was, as you
acknowledge, your own self-will that led you into the snare."
"True, true," said Lizzie mournfully; "it was all my own fault—that is
the misery of it. But how can you say that the Lord is sorry for me? Is
He not angry with the wicked? Surely His anger must be fierce against
me—a woman who has been false to her most sacred trust. Oh, do you know
the words,—
"'Can a woman's tender care
Cease towards the child she bare?'
"That hymn is often sung at our chapel, and whenever I have heard it,
I have felt wild with shame and misery to think what a vile, heartless
wretch I was."
"But think of the comfort of the truth it sets forth," said Sister
Kathleen; "a mother's love may fail, but the Lord's love is unchanging.
More tender, more compassionate than the heart of a mother is the heart
of Jesus Christ, our Saviour. No one has such pity for human sorrows,
no one judges so kindly of human sins.
"'Come unto Me, ye weary,' He says, 'and I will give you rest.'"
"I am weary enough," said Lizzie, in a low, hopeless tone, "but there
is no rest for me.
"'There is no peace, saith my God, to the wicked.'
"You do not know how those words have haunted me."
"There is indeed no peace for the wicked," said Sister Kathleen, "but
there is pardon and peace for those who turn in penitence to the
Saviour.
"'He that covereth his sins shall not prosper; but whoso confesseth and
forsaketh them shall have mercy.'"
"I have covered my sins, I know," said Lizzie, "but what would you have
me do? My father would never forgive me if he knew."
"Nevertheless, you must tell him all," said Sister Kathleen.
"Impossible!" exclaimed Lizzie, starting up. "Do not ask me to do that.
I could not tell him now, after hiding the truth for so long—it would
be impossible!"
"'If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our
sins,—'"
said the Sister. "There is no blessing promised to those who hide their
sin."
"I know, I know!" cried Lizzie, wringing her hands. "That is what the
minister said. He came to see me when I was ill, and he kept telling me
that I must confess my sins. I believed he guessed that I had some dark
secret. But how can I confess? You do not know how bitterly my father
feels towards any one who deceives him. It would make him wretched to
know that his own child had deceived him. And he is an old man—the
shock might kill him."
Sister Kathleen was silent. She felt how hard and painful this first
step towards a better life would be, but it seemed to her the only
right step.
After a few moments, Lizzie said, in tremulous accents, "You think me
very wrong?"
"I am very sorry for you," said Sister Kathleen; "tell me, have you
confessed your sins to God?"
"I have tried to," said Lizzie brokenly, "but my heart seems cold and
dead. I have no hope—I cannot pray."
"When you have told your father all, you will be able to confess your
sins to your Father in heaven," said Sister Kathleen. "And how about
your little Phil? Can you do your duty by him if you continue this
course of concealment?"
"God help me!" cried Lizzie wildly. "My little Phil! I must find him, I
must have him in my care. I should have done so differently by him if I
had not been afraid of my father's learning the truth. Moll knew that I
was most anxious to keep it from him, and she used to threaten that if
I broke our agreement and took Phil from her, she would go down to my
home and tell my father all. And I believed she would do it!"
"What a miserable thing for you to be so much in that woman's power!"
said Sister Kathleen. "But you cannot let this state of things
continue. God will help you, if, trusting in Him, you resolve to do the
right, whatever it may cost you."
Again there was silence. Lizzie had turned away, and her face was
hidden in her hands. Presently she raised it, and asked again, "What
would you have me do?"
Sister Kathleen had no hesitation in replying, "Return without delay to
your father, who must be sadly anxious about you. Tell him all without
reserve. Tell him that you mean to seek little Phil, and when you find
him, to fulfil henceforth the duties of a mother to him."
"I dare not," said Lizzie; "and I want to find little Phil. I cannot go
back till I have seen him."
"You must go back," said the Sister firmly; "you cannot seek him
to-night. I will send some one to make inquiries about him to-morrow,
and will let you know the result. I implore you not to add to your
trouble by further concealment. Do what is right now, and God will be
with you. There is forgiveness and peace and a new life before you, I
trust, if you will but abandon your false position."
Lizzie Austen did not immediately reply. Her face was again hidden in
her hands. The Sister hoped that she was praying for strength to do the
right.
Presently Lizzie looked up, and said in quiet, firm tones, in marked
contrast to her previous excitement of manner, "I will go home, and I
will tell my father all. Whatever the result may be, I cannot suffer
more than I have suffered."
"It will cost you much to do so, I have no doubt," said the Sister,
"but in the end, you will be thankful that you have made the effort."
Lizzie had risen, and was preparing to go out.
Sister Kathleen hastily put on her cloak and bonnet, saying that she
would go with her to the station.
Lizzie tried to dissuade her, in vain. And when they went forth into
the streets, she found herself so weak and tremulous that she was glad
to lean on her companion for support.
"Will you pray for me?" she whispered, as the train was about to start.
"Indeed I will," said Sister Kathleen; "and for Phil too. May the Lord
be with you both!"
Sister Kathleen walked back from the station musing on the sad history
she had heard. As she re-entered the hall of the hospital, her glance
fell on an untidy, ill-dressed girl, with a basket of faded flowers on
her arm, who stood there engaged in rather stormy altercation with the
porter.
As she saw the Sister, the girl darted forward, exclaiming, "Ah, you
are the lady who came to see Phil."
"Yes, and you are the girl who told me he had gone away," said Sister
Kathleen. "Have you brought me news of Phil?"
"I met him in the street yesterday," said Fan; "he'd been here to see
you, but they told him—" here the girl darted an indignant glance at
the porter—"that you'd left the hospital. Poor Phil was sore cut up
about it."
"Oh dear! I am very sorry that he missed me," said the Sister. "Did he
tell you where he was living?"
"Of course," returned Fan; "that's what I've come to tell you. He lives
at 17 St. Bride's Lane, Shoreditch."
"Oh, I am very glad to know this!" said Sister Kathleen, her face
lighting up with pleasure. "Thank you so much for bringing me the news.
You have done a kindness both to me and Phil."
She put some money into Fan's hand as she spoke, but the sweet smile
with which she thanked her was the flower-girl's best reward.