THE DRIVE HOME.
THEY found that Mrs. Prior had been moved into the back seat of the
chaise, where she sat with Miss Prior and Georgie, leaving the front
for Mona.
"What, is she to be under my charge?" asked Mr. Prior. "Not quite fit
for a turn at the reins to-day, I think, Mona."
"I should be sorry to drive in this fog," said Mona, as she took her
seat. "And I wish Mrs. Prior had not moved on my account."
"Better, Mona?" asked Miss Prior from behind. "Come, you must wrap up
well, or we shall have you taking cold. Here is another shawl."
She looked so much more comfortable, leaning back in the easy front
seat, that Madge went off to the break in a tolerably satisfied frame
of mind,—far better satisfied than Mr. Prior, who had a certain secret
source of disquietude, about which Madge was ignorant. He allowed
nothing of his disquietude to appear, however.
Driving through the dense fog was no easy matter. They were in danger
now and then of running up a bank, or down into a ditch. The break was
at first near ahead, and the children's voices floated back merrily,
but the sounds grew gradually fainter as the distance widened, till
at length they died away. And presently, a white light began to shine
through the fog, and the dense curtain changed again into masses of
curling rolls and waves.
"It will clear off now," said Mr. Prior. "Ha! That was quite a
sunlight-gleam."
"It was curious your saying something about mists to the men," observed
Mona.
"Did I? Yes, I remember. The Dingle valley is famous for them, which
may have suggested the idea to me,—not that I expected to find myself
in the midst of one so soon."
"It seems getting clearer now," said Mona.
"There is sunshine coming before long." And then with a half-smile
he added, "There are other mists also, Mona, which the sun alone can
disperse, and that another and a more radiant Sun than this of ours."
Conversation on different matters followed, and as the afternoon grew
fairer, the drive home proved a more pleasant one than they had looked
for. Mona was the silent individual of the party, but the others
supposed her grave looks to arise from fatigue, and did not disturb
her. They were not far from Alyn, and the occupants of the back seat
were busily talking together, when Mr. Prior, after seeming for a while
as thoughtful as Mona herself, remarked,—
"I am afraid your day has not been a very agreeable one after all."
"O yes, indeed it has," said Mona, starting. "At least, I am very glad
I went, and heard your talk with the men."
"What conclusion have you come to in the matter?"
"I think—I have been—very foolish lately," she said, with some effort.
"'Thou knowest my foolishness,'" was the answer to this.
"Only it is hard not to be troubled by these questions sometimes."
"'Neither do I exercise myself in great matters, or in things too high
for me.' David was a wise man."
"But, Mr. Prior—"
And then a pause.
"Well?" said Mr. Prior, as they passed under a low-bending larch, the
boughs of which swept close over their heads.
"It seems as if one never got to the end of puzzles."
"You never will in this life. As I told you this afternoon,—go where
you will, you still only end in mystery. It cannot be otherwise, with
our present powers."
"But, Mr. Prior—"
"What is the difficulty now?" he asked.
"The heathen—" she said slowly. "What of them?"
"As the Lord wills," he answered gravely.
"But—doesn't it seem strange that there should be all those millions,
who never had the choice given them of believing or not believing?"
"You remind me of a story I once heard. A man was cavilling at the
text,—'Jacob have I loved, but Esau have I hated.' Why was it? What
reason had God for doing so? 'I can tell you,' said his friend. 'Can
you? Why?' '"Because He chose,"' was the answer. That is answer enough
for you and me. Whatever He wills, from first to last, is righteous and
holy and good."
"Yes,—I see—I know—I don't want to cavil," she said hurriedly. "But do
you think—must they all perish?"
"I can tell you no more than the Bible tells me. For your comfort
remember,—'He that knew not and did commit things worthy of stripes,
shall be beaten with few stripes.'"
Mona was silent.
"You had better study the early part of the second of Romans, with
reference to this subject,—not forgetting that the Gentiles were
the heathen of St. Paul's day. You will find there mention of 'the
righteous judgment of God, WHO WILL RENDER TO EVERY MAN ACCORDING TO
HIS DEEDS,'—whether Jew or Gentile—'indignation and wrath, tribulation
and anguish, upon every soul of man that doeth evil,' but 'glory,
honour, and peace to every man that worketh good.' In Revelation, we
find again that the dead are to be 'judged, every man "according to
their works."' Natural justice itself asks no more than this which
God's Word declares."
"Mr. Prior, the heathen don't know God's will. They can't."
"Then, disobeying unknowingly, they will have the punishment of 'few
stripes.' Remember too,—'These, having not the law, are a law unto
themselves; which shew the work of the law written in their hearts,
their conscience also bearing witness, and their thoughts the mean
while accusing or else excusing one another.' Has a heathen no sense of
doing right or doing wrong? Whatever perplexes you in this matter, you
may always come back restfully to the plain and simple justice of the
promise, that God 'will render to every man according to his deeds.'"
For some minutes, Mona thought over his words.
"But there is no other way to heaven," she said, as if carrying on a
train of ideas. "I mean—except Christ."
"No other. Whether Jew or Gentile—whether babe or man—whether under law
or under Gospel—none find acceptance with God save through the Son."
"Then how—then why—But I cannot understand," she said.
"There is no need that you should. 'The secret things belong unto the
Lord our God,' and we cannot meddle in them without suffering hurt.
This is a question about which very little has been told us. A man once
went to Archbishop Whately, with his head full of some such perplexity,
anxious to get the opinion of so learned a man. Whately sent him to
find his answer in our Saviour's words,—'What is that to thee? Follow
thou Me!'"
"Is it wrong to wish to know more?" asked Mona.
"Don't give the reins to your wish. A child cannot understand all his
father's actions or motives for action, and strong curiosity may become
an impertinence on his part."
Then, after a break,—
"There is a more practical light in which to view this matter. The
command has been given,—'Go ye into all the world, and preach the
Gospel to every creature.' The real question is not, as men put it, Why
doesn't God Christianise the heathen? But,—Why don't 'we' do all in our
power to call lost souls into the flock of God?"
Through the last wreaths of fading mist, he pointed to a field by the
road-side.
"Look there, Mona. God has given into our hands the task of seed-sowing
in the material world, and He has given it into our hands in the
spiritual world also. Every blade of wheat springs up just as He has
fore-ordained that it should. But none the less certainly, in a field
amply sown, you may fairly reckon upon a more or less ample harvest;
while in a field scantily sown, a miracle alone could bring forth more
than a scanty harvest."
"No,—I understand that," she said.
"Paul planted, Apollos watered, God gave the increase. If Paul had not
planted, nor Apollos watered, God would not have given the increase.
Take a lesson from that field. You have precisely the same right to
cavil at the dealings of God, in not converting the heathen nations as
a body, as every farmer in the land has to cavil at the dealings of God
in not bringing up a miraculous harvest of wheat, without requiring him
first to sow the seed."
He let her have a minute to think it over, and then said gently, "Are
you doing your utmost to save poor lost souls for whom the Saviour
died?"
She shook her head. "What, Mona! When He has given His precious life
for you, and suffered untold agony, to save men from eternal death,
you will not even give your time to telling others of the price He
paid! You are content to sit with folded hands, calmly criticising your
Maker's will, in not saving you further trouble by a miracle, which in
His wisdom He does not see fit to work."
He had said enough now, and he knew it, though her downcast face was
turned away.
She answered presently in a stifled voice, "Thank you, Mr. Prior."
"And as for these questionings," he said quietly—"'What I do thou
knowest not now, but thou shalt know hereafter,' 'Ye shall know that
I have not done without cause all that I have done in it, saith
the Lord God.' Put your trust in such promises, and rest upon the
loving-kindness of the Lord. It is only for a little while,—only a
little longer of child-like faith without sight,—and then all mist and
darkness shall pass away for ever."
A few minutes later, they were passing up the hill, and stopped short
at the garden-gate of the doctor's house.
"Better now?" Mr. Prior asked, as he handed her out. "You would not
like my sister to go in, and see after you?"
"O no, thank you. There is the housekeeper, if I need anything, and
uncle Chetwynd will be back directly," said Mona. "I shall try to get a
good night's rest. That is what I want."
"So I hope,"—though he did not like the look of her flushed cheeks.
"You are going to be a good child, and not lie awake, troubling your
head with these matters any more."
"I'll try not," she said rather faintly, as she went up the garden-path
beside him. "Only—I have been so wrong—"
"Just the mistake of a little child, trying to pry into matters
beyond his understanding. Don't do it any more. The Master knows your
weakness, and He is 'very pitiful, and of tender mercy.' Put yourself
back at His feet, dear child, and don't let these things stand again in
the way of your peace."
"Thank you; good-bye."
She could not have said more without bursting into tears, and hastened
away as she spoke.
Mr. Prior only lingered to inquire, "Is Mr. Chetwynd at home?"
"No, sir."
"Do you know when he will return?"
"He didn't say particular, sir, as to the hour. He said he'd maybe look
in upon the Rectory, and see if you was all back, and that might make
him later."
Mr. Prior went thoughtfully down the garden-path. "If I can catch
Chetwynd, I shall give him a warning," he said, as he resumed the
reins. "Mona is very far from well."
"Just a headache from the sun," said Miss Prior. "And I should not
wonder if lying on the grass in that fashion were to give her a chill."
"I shall be glad if things are no worse. I find she has been visiting
in Wall's Alley, where there have been six cases of fever lately,—has
seen a child sickening for it."
"You don't say so! Did she not know of the fever there?"
"I believe Mr. Chetwynd has a theory that girls are apt to catch fever
through sheer nervousness, and therefore it is best to keep them in
ignorance of particular cases. I hope this may prove to be nothing—but—"
They all felt that it was indeed a "but."
Mona, meanwhile, had gone up to her own room, merely telling the
servant, as she passed, that she was tired and meant to go to bed, and
would ring if she wanted anything. But the first thing she did when
there was to take off hat and jacket, and throw herself down on her
knees beside the bed. Too sick and weary for the exertion of steady
thought, she did not so much pray in words, as feel herself only so
utterly self-abased and worthless, that no other attitude seemed
endurable. And though no connected petitions were on her lips or in
her mind, yet the mere act of casting herself there in helpless lowly
dependence upon her Lord, was in itself the very essence of prayer.
But an hour later, when Mr. Chetwynd came home, she had not risen. He
had been made anxious by a word of warning from Mr. Prior, and came to
the door to inquire if she were ill. All his tapping failed to obtain
an answer.
She heard him dimly indeed, as she would have heard some far distant
sound, but the power to reply seemed to have forsaken her.
He came in at length, and lifted her up, and laid her on the bed, with
his hand pressing her burning forehead.
And then she knew he was asking a question—something—what was it?
"I can't talk, my head aches so," she tried to say. But other words
than the ones she wanted came to her lips, and she knew by his face of
concern that she was speaking utter nonsense. "I don't know what I am
talking about! What makes me feel so strange?" she strove to ask.
"Hush, hush, darling; don't say that! Don't you know me, Mona?"
She was aware again that she had not said what she wished. And when she
would fain have answered, "Uncle Chetwynd," the only words she could
speak were, "Mother! I do so want mother's sweet cool hand."
"Hartly shall come and put you to bed," said Mr. Chetwynd, and Mona
acquiesced.
But when the undressing was done, and he stood again by her side, she
murmured confusedly—
"I haven't said my prayers."
"Poor child! Yes; you were kneeling down when I came in."
"I couldn't pray. Will He mind? He knows all. Won't He forgive me?"
What could Mr. Chetwynd say? This was no time for sneer or scorn. She
turned her shining restless eyes full upon him.
"No, you don't believe it; you don't know. Oh, it has been dreadful.
But He is tender and pitiful—tender and pitiful. Mother, say me the
rest?"
What would not Mr. Chetwynd have given at that moment for power to
repeat the whole verse, whatever it might be!
"I want to hear it all. I think I have forgotten it lately. Prying into
matters too hard for me. But Jesus knows my foolishness, doesn't He?—So
foolish and ignorant. He is tender and pitiful. Don't you think He will
forgive me, though I could not ask Him rightly?"
And Mr. Chetwynd started at the sound of his own voice, saying
steadily, "Yes, I am sure of it, Mona."
But what if he had spoken a truer word then than for many a year past?
All through the long hours of the night he watched by the side of the
fever-stricken girl. The look of deep care which came and settled down
upon his face, was the same as that with which he had summoned Madge
Hardwicke on the morning of the fatal railway accident.
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