GATHERING MISTS.
"WHAT are you going to do with yourself to-day, my dear?" inquired
the doctor one morning, as he sipped his coffee, and glanced down the
columns of the "Times," with an abstracted air.
"I don't know, uncle. Anything."
"Because I am called away to a distance, and—a—don't know exactly—when—"
Mr. Chetwynd's voice died into a murmur as he became more engrossed
with his subject. Presently, however, he folded up the paper, threw it
to a side-table, and looked across at the quiet pale face opposite,
with purple rings round the sad dark eyes.
"I beg your pardon, my dear. It is very unsociable to treat you in this
fashion. What will you do with yourself while I am away?"
"I don't care, uncle."
"I shall hardly be home before evening—to dinner at six, if possible.
But you will be lonely."
Lonely, yes, with the great blank which she had borne about with her
for weeks. But his presence made no great difference either way in that
respect, and she only said passively, "I shall do very well, thank you."
"Don't you think, now, you would be happier, if I could get some young
lady to spend the day with you, Mona?" he asked kindly.
"No—no, please, uncle Chetwynd."
"It would be better for you, my dear child."
"No, I can't have it indeed," said Mona decidedly.
"Or if you would go somewhere—say to the Rectory. Mrs. Prior is an
invalid, to be sure, but she is a bright one, and she has often pressed
me to bring you to see her."
"Not yet," said Mona.
"You would not see Mr. Prior when he came to call yesterday."
"I—couldn't. I don't know him."
"But suppose he wants to know you?"
Mona put up her hand to still the throbbing in her throat. "I can't see
any one; I can't, indeed, uncle. I only want to be quiet."
"Well, you must take your own way, my dear," said the doctor, with a
half-sigh. He wanted much to understand the young girl, thus thrown
upon him for care and comfort, yet he found it impossible to penetrate
the veil of sorrowful reserve in which she had wrapped herself. "I
don't want to tease you, Mona, only I think a little change would be
good for your spirits."
"I'll go for a walk," said Mona with an effort, feeling secure, if she
went alone, of meeting no one with whom she was acquainted, or, at
least, of being able to escape in time.
"Ah, yes, that will do you good. And you won't have a companion?"
Mona shook her head. "Suppose you find your way up the hill to my old
friend, Madge Hardwicke."
Mona made up her mind to avoid that direction studiously, but only
said, "I'll see."
"I should like you to know her better. She is a good woman—practically
most excellent. Theoretically—well, she has your dear mother's ideas
upon religion. None the worse for that, maybe, eh, Mona?" added Mr.
Chetwynd, with a certain lofty condescension towards the weak, yet
enviable and even beautiful credulity of those who thought thus, which
Mona, girl though she was, appreciated to the full. He thought her
sudden shiver was caused by the allusion to her loss, and continued
hastily, "But I really should like you to see more of Madge. I don't
know a more worthy creature, or one who lives more entirely for others."
"And you don't think that speaks for her religion?" asked Mona, in a
low voice.
"My dear child, I don't think you and I had better enter on that
question," said Mr. Chetwynd pleasantly, handing up his cup for a fresh
supply of coffee. "I do not suppose that, whatever Madge Hardwicke's
religious views might have chanced to be, she could ever have been
otherwise than kind-hearted, and unselfish, and capable." For Mr.
Chetwynd, in common with many others of his way of thinking, seemed
to make it his rule to ascribe all the blemishes of a Christian's
character to his or her religion, and all the beauties of it to
unassisted nature. "But I should be sorry to have any discussion with
you about it, Mona. I would not for worlds unsettle your mind with
regard to those things, in which your poor mother taught you to put
faith. We did not agree in all matters of theory, but you are quite
right to think like her—as long as you can—and I assure you, dear, you
cannot admire more heartily than I do, the loveliness of such a life as
hers. I only wish there were more like her."
Such a Christian life as hers! And such a Christian life as Madge
Hardwicke's! And such a Christian life as Mr. Prior's! And such a
Christian life as that of his own mother in the past! But Mr. Chetwynd
preferred to ignore that fashion of looking upon the question. The
beauty of their lives he could not deny, but the cause, he would have
allowed to be anything rather than heart-religion.
Did he in very truth dread to unsettle the once happy trust of the
young creature before him? Did he really desire in his heart to act
faithfully by the known wishes of his lost sister, and to train up her
child as she would have had her trained? Theoretically no doubt he did,
or imagined he did. Practically, he exercised small self-control in the
matter.
Not that he ever made any direct attacks upon Mona's faith. He would
have said he believed a great many things that she believed. And for
the rest—he set himself, in love to his sister's memory, and almost,
as a point of honour, to avoid discussion on mooted points. But had
he no idea of the awful power over the mind of a young and simple
yet intellectual girl, of those slight innuendos and brief passing
sneers on the subject of heart-religion, in which he was so prone to
indulge himself? They escaped him often, it is true, undesignedly and
by mere force of habit. Not the less dangerous were they for that. And
not the less terrible was the weight of responsibility incurred by
Mr. Chetwynd, in daring thus to tamper with the faith of one of the
Master's "little ones."
For the barbed arrow had taken root—flung by his reckless hand.
Poor gentle Mona Clyde! Hers had been such a happy life up to that
fatal journey. She had literally never known trouble. The loss of
her father lay back in the far distance, too dim and hazy to cause
her grief, unless for her mother's sake. All her love and hope and
abounding joy in life had been centred in that one sweet being—her
mother—a mother, so pure and tender, so saintly and sweet, that Mona
had no wish for aught of earthly pleasure beyond her companionship.
They were all in all to each other, those two!
And Mona had for years believed herself to be a child of God. She could
hardly have told the time when first her mother's gentle teaching had
drawn her to the love of heavenly things. She had known, indeed, no
great depths of lowly repentance, or grand heights of holy joy, and
had experienced few intense spiritual longings. Some in the flock are
near to the Shepherd, and some are farther away; and Mona had not been
one of those who cling ever to His side, looking out each step of the
way for His guiding hand and loving touch. Still, she had felt her
sinfulness, and had sought her Saviour's forgiveness. She had lived a
simple child-like life of simple child-like faith and service, gliding
placidly down the stream of life, playing with each joy as it came to
her hand, and seeming to pass unscathed through all the world's pain
and sorrow.
And now this fearful blow had come, taking away at one stroke all that
she loved on earth, and leaving her mute, crushed, and desolate. And it
was the Hand of God which had done this!
The Hand of God! The Hand of her Heavenly Father! Ay, and Mona might
have trusted that Father's love through all, but for the words of the
man who heartlessly lent himself to the work of unsettling her peace.
Did he ever dream how it was not the mere loss of her mother, precious
though that mother had been to her, but his own ill-advised utterances,
which had shattered Mona's happiness? Did he ever realise that it was
his own hand which had drawn so black a pall over her once clear sky?
Did he ever imagine the stormy grief, and the wild questionings about
God and His dealings, which raged beneath that girlish face?
He did not dream, or realise, or imagine the truth. But none the less,
heavily weighed upon him the unfelt load of responsibility before God.
"Whoso shall offend one of these little ones, which believe in Me, it
were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and
that he were drowned in the depth of the sea."
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