PARDON AND PEACE.
SISTER KATHLEEN had soon to return to the hospital, but Phil's mother
remained with him. The Sister sent her such things as Phil most needed,
and she stayed there in Moll Dutton's miserable room till he was well
enough to be removed to a pleasanter dwelling. The feverish attack had
brought the child very low, but under his mother's care, he soon began
to mend. And in less than a week, they moved to some clean, nice rooms
which Sister Kathleen had taken for them at no great distance from the
hospital.
Here Lizzie Austen settled down to a quiet, lonely life of devotion to
her child. The income she derived from the property her mother had left
her could with care be made to suffice for the wants of herself and
Phil.
To the boy, his new life gave unmixed satisfaction. It was delightful
to have Aunt Lizzie always with him, ready to nurse him, pet him, amuse
him to his heart's content. Not that he made great demands on her
attention. It was joy enough for him at first to know that he need not
go forth to beg, and he was quite content to sit and watch his mother
as she sat sewing, sewing always on some garment for him. He wondered
sometimes why she was not so happy as he. For, though she tried hard
for his sake to be cheerful, Lizzie often sighed as she sat sewing, and
at times he saw tears drop upon her work.
Many a painful thought disturbed his mother's heart as she bent over
her sewing. The memory of the past still stung her. She could not look
upon her little crippled Phil without remembering that if she had been
true to her maternal responsibilities, her boy might now be whole and
strong. She could not think without pain of the feeble old man upon
whose declining days the knowledge of her wrongdoing had cast so dark a
shadow. She could fancy him passing long, lonely hours with no one to
render him the little services it was a daughter's right to perform. He
would sit alone, brooding over his wrongs and hardening his heart more
and more against her, even whilst he yearned for her presence.
Oh, how Lizzie longed for some tidings of her father as the weeks went
on! Once she ventured to write to him, but no answer came, though she
looked for it from day to day, and from week to week, till her heart
grew sick with hopeless longing whenever she saw the postman coming
down the street.
Time passed on. Summer and autumn had fled, and Christmas was close at
hand. But still Lizzie was living her sad, quiet life, finding comfort
only in her boy, who clung to her with a warm love and trust which
consoled her, whilst sharpening the sting of self-reproach.
Phil was looking forward to the joys of Christmas. Sister Kathleen had
invited him to the merrymaking at the hospital, and Phil was full of
delight at the thought of the Christmas tree and the good time he would
have. He caught up the tunes of the Christmas carols and sang them
lustily, till his mother's heart ached to hear him, for these old songs
had sad associations for her.
Fan too was to have a happy Christmas. Phil had not forgotten his old
friend. He had spoken of her to his mother, and Lizzie was ready to do
all in her power to befriend the girl who had been kind to her little
Phil when he so sorely needed a friend.
She had taken pleasure in preparing Christmas cheer for Fan and her
mother, and presents of warm clothing that would be serviceable to them
long after Christmas Day had gone by.
But Lizzie's sorrow grew heavier as Christmas approached. When the
memory of the Saviour's birth was kindling in Christian hearts more and
more of good-will towards others, it seemed especially sad that her
father's heart should be alienated from her. She could only pray that
God would soften his feelings towards her.
It was the 24th of December. Lizzie, standing at her window, was
watching the postman as he passed down the street. Though she watched
him, she had no hope that he would bring her a letter. Even when she
saw him cross the road and heard his knock on the door below, she did
not think that the letter could be for her, though her heart began to
beat more quickly at the mere supposition.
A few moments later, however, there was a tap at her door, and her
landlady looked in to say, "Here's a letter for you, Mrs. Austen."
Lizzie took the letter with eager haste. Yes, it bore the Chelmsford
postmark; here was news of her father at last.
The letter was from Mr. Fennell, the minister at Danesbury. He said
that he wrote at her father's request, to beg that she would come home
without delay. Mr. Austen had been very ill, but was now, it was hoped,
on the way to recovery.
"You will find your father changed in more ways than one," Mr. Fennell
wrote. "He is very anxious to see you. Let me beg that you will come as
soon as possible."
Lizzie was not long in making arrangements for her departure.
Consigning Phil to the care of Sister Kathleen, she set out.
It was early in the afternoon when she reached Chelmsford, but already
daylight was on the wane. The dull grey sky seemed to threaten snow,
and the wind was very keen as Lizzie started on her five miles' walk
along the hard bleak roads. But she was scarcely conscious of the
weather as she hastened along, eager only to reach the bend in the road
from which the meadow path led down to the old ivy-clad house. Nor did
she pay much heed to the sound of wheels on the road behind her, till
a voice called her by name, and she turned, to see Mr. Fennell looking
down on her from the little one-horse gig in which he was wont to drive
about the country.
"How are you, Miss Austen? I am so glad to see you. I did not think you
could have got here so soon. Pray get up beside me, and I'll drive you
to your gate."
Lizzie could not refuse. Mr. Fennell's warm grasp of her hand, as he
helped her up to the seat beside him, told her that, whatever he might
know or suspect, he was as willing to be her friend as ever.
"Your father will be very thankful that you have come," he said.
"How is he?" was all Lizzie could say.
"Better—getting well, I believe; it is the mind rather than the body
that suffers now, but your coming will do him good. Miss Austen, I must
tell you that your father has taken me into his confidence, and told me
the story of your troubles. I hope you will not mind my knowing?"
"Why should I mind?" asked Lizzie tremulously. "Mr. Fennell, I have
been brought too low in shame and penitence before God, to care for
what others may think of my history."
"No one could know it without feeling much sympathy for you," he said;
"you have been cruelly wronged."
Lizzie shivered at his words. She had loved the man who had so wronged
her. She could not think of him without pain. "I did very wrong; I
deserved to suffer," she said.
It seemed to Mr. Fennell that some one else deserved to suffer. But he
said nothing, and the rest of the way was passed in silence. At the
stile, he checked his horse.
Lizzie thanked him and sprang down. The next minute she was hastening
down the well-known path to her home. The house door was on the latch,
as it always was. She opened it and entered. All was quiet in the
sitting-room, but she could hear some one moving in the kitchen. She
did not go there.
She went at once to her father's room above, in the window of which
she had seen the gleam of fire-light as she came down the meadow. She
hesitated when she reached the door, and stood there trembling. In this
room her mother had died; it would be terrible if her father met her
there with bitter, reproachful words. But only for a moment did this
thought stay her. With a prayer for help, she opened the door and went
in.
[Illustration]
Her father was sitting alone in his high-backed cushioned chair by the
fire. The room was in gloom, save for the ruddy gleam from the fire,
which shone on the old man's bowed and wasted form and on his silvery
hair, as he leaned forward looking into the fire with sad and patient
gaze. He did not turn at the sound of Lizzie's step. He imagined it was
the servant who had entered.
"Never mind about the candles, Martha," he said; "I like the fire-light
better."
Lizzie went forward and stood beside him. "Father," she said, "I have
come. Can you receive me? Can you forgive me now?"
"Lizzie!"
No need to ask if he forgave her, when she heard how he uttered her
name. The next moment Lizzie was kneeling by his side and her tears
were falling fast upon his coat-sleeve.
"Thank God you are come, my child!" said the old man brokenly. "Don't
talk of forgiveness."
"But I must," said Lizzie.
"Nay, nay, I was to blame. I was hard and cruel to you. I forgot that
I too was a sinner, and God had shown mercy to me. I was like the
Pharisee, Lizzie; I thought myself so good and respectable. But my God
has humbled me; He has brought me to see that I have treated Him far
worse than ever you treated me. Oh, child, can you forget my harsh
words?"
"Of course I can forget them," replied Lizzie, "but I deserved them
every one. I behaved very, very badly to you, father."
"Ay, but you had suffered enough; I need not have been so hard on you.
You had been deceived and forsaken. I thought of that when I was ill,
Lizzie. And when the minister came to see me, I told him all, and he
said I had been very wrong.
"'What would become of you,' he said, 'if your Father in heaven dealt
with you as you have dealt with your child?'
"That set me thinking, and I saw how sinful my conduct was."
"Never mind, father," she murmured; "I deserved it all, but oh, it is
such comfort to know that you forgive me!"
"Fully and freely, as I hope to be forgiven," he said.
Then a silence fell between them—one of those silences that are more
eloquent than words. Lizzie still knelt by her father's side. She held
his hand in both hers, and every now and then she pressed her lips upon
it.
Presently the stillness was broken by Martha's voice singing below. She
was singing the refrain of a Christmas hymn,—
"'All glory be to God on high,
And to the earth be peace.'"
"What is she singing about?" asked the old man suddenly.
"Glory to God, on earth peace," said Lizzie. "Father, do you know that
to-morrow will be Christmas Day?"
"Ay," said her father; "the day on which our Saviour was born. He came
to save us from our sins and give us peace with God. Lizzie, have you
found peace in believing in Jesus?"
"I have, father," she said; "I thought there could be no peace for one
so wicked as I; but Jesus called me, bowed with sin and misery, to
Himself, and He has given me rest."
"Thank God!" said the old man fervently. "You must never leave me more,
my daughter."
"But, father, you forget," she said, with a sudden look of
trouble,—"you forget that I have my little Phil."
"Ah, to be sure—your child; you must take care of him. Where is he?"
"In London. Father, I cannot give him up."
"Why should you? Bring him home here. Poor child, he is worse off than
if he had no father, but I'll do what I can for him whilst my life is
spared. May God bless you both, and give you His peace—the peace of
God, Lizzie, that 'passeth all understanding.'"
"Amen," she murmured, tears of thankfulness springing to her eyes.
And as she sat in the soft fire-light, her head resting against her
father's knee, and his hand clasped in hers, a sense of peace stole
into her heart such as she had not known since as a little child she
sat thus by her father's knee. There was a wonderful calm in the world
outside as the first snowflakes floated softly, softly to the wintry
earth, but the hush of God's own peace had fallen on these hearts that
had sinned and sorrowed, and "when He giveth quietness, who then can
make trouble?"
THE END.
MORRISON AND GIBB, EDINBURGH
PRINTERS TO HER MAJESTY'S STATIONERY OFFICE.