DOWN UNDERGROUND.
MR. PRIOR came upon this group quietly, with his lantern in his hand,
as he had come upon the other. He paused as he had done before, and
made a sixth in the scene. But beyond the show of deep compassion in
his face, what could he do for them?
They were all silent. From the moment of Mr. Chetwynd's first
exclamation, not a word had passed his lips. He stood now with bent
head and folded arms, the swelling veins in his forehead telling
something of the thoughts below. The man who had called him to the spot
remained slightly behind, holding in his hand a roughly improvised
torch, which flickered drearily, sending black curls of smoke upward
and stray sparks downward.
Madge Hardwicke's gray eyes shone full of unshed tears. And Mona Clyde,
just awakened from her death-like faint, had sprung to her mother's
side before they dreamt her purpose, and now hung caressingly over her.
She did not know the truth, and how could they tell it to her? She
thought it was such a swoon as her own had been. It was almost more
than they could bear, to see the slender girl kneeling there, all
unconscious of her loss, tremblingly chafing the mother's cold hands,
and trying in fond tones to coax her back to sense. Madge Hardwicke
turned away and sobbed aloud. Mr. Chetwynd lifted his head, and meeting
Mr. Prior's look, spoke suddenly in an impatient husky tone—
"Look here—see here! I know all the talk about mysterious
dispensations. What have you to say to this?"
Whatever he had expected, he had not looked for the reply—
"'God is love,' Mr. Chetwynd."
"And this—an act of love!" he said bitterly.
"If you know Him, you will be able to trust His loving mercy through
even this," was the gently-uttered answer.
"Mercy!" Mr. Chetwynd laughed hoarsely. "A mercy that she should be cut
off! Ay, she has thought and talked like the rest of you, times without
number. And now—this is the end of it all."
This the end! The end of all her loving trust in a merciful Redeemer?
Ah but neither Mr. Prior in his faith, nor Mr. Chetwynd in his
unbelief, could catch one note of the grand triumphant chorus, with
which the gathering in of another saint to the City of God had even
then been welcomed by those already at home. It was the end indeed of
faith, but the beginning of unclouded joy, and of pleasures at the
right hand of God for ever and for evermore.
Mr. Chetwynd checked himself when about to continue, for Mona had
turned to listen, with a face of stony whiteness, and dilated terrified
eyes.
"Mona, dear child," he faltered.
"Mother is fainting. Why don't you bring her round?" demanded Mona, in
an unnatural voice.
Mr. Chetwynd groaned, and covered his face with his hands.
Madge Hardwicke laid a light grasp on the girl's arm, looking down on
her tearfully.
"You'll help me," Mona went on in a pleading tone. "I don't know who
you are, but I think from your face that you are kind. And they are
leaving mother without doing anything—leaving her to die."
The word uttered by herself seemed to rouse her to a sudden agony of
fear, and with a cry she turned again to the motionless figure,—
"Mother! Mother! Oh, won't you look up? Mother! Mother, darling!"
"Miss Mona, I'm going to take you away from this place," said Madge
Hardwicke, feeling that something must be done, and the truth must be
told. "Dear Miss Mona, you are not fit to stay here any longer."
"Mona, my dear, you 'must' come," said Mr. Chetwynd, as she resisted
Madge Hardwicke resolutely. "We can do no more for—for her."
"No more!" Mona looked up in ghastly bewilderment. "Why you've done
nothing at all yet. Keep off. I am not going to leave mother. What do
you mean?"
Child as she looked for her age, shaken and trembling with all she had
gone through, her gesture made them desist from any attempt to draw her
away.
"What do you mean? I don't understand," she went on hurriedly. "Uncle
Chetwynd, you are a doctor. Don't you know what to do for a person in a
faint? Mother has often fainted before, and I have brought her round,
but there's nothing here to do it with. Why don't you fetch me some
water, and help me to fan her, and rub her hands? What has come over
you all?"
Even as she spoke, the truth was fighting its way slowly into her mind,
though she struggled to keep it out.
"Uncle Chetwynd, she's only fainting. Don't you see she's only
fainting? She will come to herself again directly. Mother—mother!"
Mr. Chetwynd turned away with an uncontrollable sob.
"Mr. Prior, this is part of your rightful work. Tell her the truth if
you can. I can't. Is there none among you that can comfort her?"
He looked up half-fiercely as he spoke, but the appeal had met with
instant response, and Mr. Prior was already by the side of the
white-cheeked shuddering girl.
"Mona, dear child, you must come away with me," he said gently, as if
he had known her all her life.
Mona gave him a startled look.
"It is very dark," he went on. "I am going to take you away, Mona. It
is very dreary here, but there is daylight beyond."
Her gaze had grown piercing in its intensity.
"How do you know? What do you mean?" she muttered. "Did you know mother
had said it?"
"Had said what, my poor child?"
"About the sunshine beyond—the darkness and then the light—and about
its being like—like—the last Home-going! O mother!"
"It is like that for her. God has taken her out of the darkness into
His glorious light. Mona," he said pityingly, "poor child—it 'is' the
last Home-going."
She knew the truth now, and the cry with which she sank over her
mother, though not loud, was terrible in its broken-heartedness.
"And this—this, you say, is mercy," Mr. Chetwynd murmured huskily, as
he helped Mr. Prior to lift the half-unconscious girl.
"Ay, to those who are God's own," Mr. Prior made answer. "What do you
and I understand of His secret purposes? I know only this—how very
precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of His saints!"
"She was a saint, if there ever was one upon earth," said Mr. Chetwynd.
"I don't know that the word means the same to me as to you, though. It
doesn't much matter after all. Thank you, Mr. Prior,—you mean well, but
such doctrines are beyond me. Madge, you will come home with us for a
few hours. Hush—don't try to rouse the poor child. Better get her away
as she is. She understands at last."
"God give her strength to bear it," murmured Madge.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]