WARNING.
"MADGE, she is wonderfully better," said the doctor one evening, two or
three days later. He had called Madge into his study, for some purpose
unknown to herself, leaving the housekeeper in charge of Mona, and had
bidden her take a seat. There was a small fire in the grate, and the
doctor's fingers were turning up the lamp-wick.
"She is getting on marvellously,—seems to have no end of capacities for
sleeping and eating. Poor little Mona! I hardly thought at one time
that we should pull her through."
Madge was silent. The doctor brought his attention to bear upon her
somewhat curiously, wondering what thoughts might belying beneath those
intent gray eyes.
"The fact is, your care and splendid nursing have saved her, Madge,
as they have saved many a patient of mine before to-day. But I never
thanked you so heartily as now."
Silence still, and there was a troubled look on Madge Hardwicke's face.
"What are you thinking about?" the doctor asked, with a puzzled air.
"I'm thinking, sir, that I'd sooner you hadn't begun with all them kind
words to me," said Madge quietly, "for I'd a thing I wanted to say to
you, as wouldn't sound so kind back again."
"You!" said the doctor, opening his eyes. "You're mysterious to-night.
I've a thing to say to you too. But you shall have your turn first. By
the bye, you don't mean anything about Miss Mona,—any fresh symptoms?"
"No, sir. I think she is getting on as well as need be."
"All right. I don't mind anything else. What is it, Madge?"
Madge looked thoughtfully into the fire for a minute, during which he
watched her rather comically. There were tears shining in her eyes,
when she turned and faced him.
"Sir, all through the last fortnight you and I've been many a time
together by Miss Mona's side, and heard the poor lamb's mutterings and
ravings. And though I've said no word to you, nor you to me, we both
know well what 'twas all about."
Mr. Chetwynd nodded. He had not expected this, and did not quite know
how to meet what he guessed was coming.
"And you know, sir,—maybe a deal better than I do, for all she's
said,—what it was that brought her so much misery."
"Poor little lassie!" he said, with would-be lightness. "Come, I
acknowledge that I have been rather reckless in my remarks before her.
Will that content you, Madge?"
She passed over the last question as if it had not been spoken.
"Sir, it's a deal more than that. It's Satan's own work you've been
after,—going and putting your doubts and unbelief into the hearts of
those whom the Lord would fain have to be peaceful and happy. It's the
work of Satan that you've taken up,—and oh, sir, you'll find him one
day a hard and bitter taskmaster, letting alone the judgments of the
Lord Himself upon those who dare to meddle in His work."
She spoke solemnly, yet with a strange sort of compassionate longing,
as if it were rather for his sake than for Mona's that the words were
uttered. The doctor positively could not find it in his heart to be
angry, though he told himself that he ought.
"You are hard upon me, Madge," he said. "Are rational men never to
admit a doubt, where doubts exist?"
"There's two sorts of doubtings, sir. I've nought of blame for them of
the Master's weaker disciples, who are tempest-tossed, and buffeted
about by Satan's temptations. I tell 'em only to fight and trust on,
and in the end He'll bring them through. But there's another sort of
doubting, that's just a cool pulling to pieces of God's Word, and
upsetting this, and denying that,—and a deal of it only from a man's
love of showing his own cleverness. The Lord has one word for all
such,—'He that believeth not God hath made Him a liar.' It's a plain
word, sir,—and it's a plain and fearful answer He'll have for all such
in time to come."
"Come, come, don't be unmerciful, Madge," said the doctor, speaking
lightly still, though somewhat annoyed. "I'm not one of those folks who
would throw over the Bible by any means. Don't I go to Church every
Sunday of my life, and hear it read,—most devoutly I assure you? I look
upon it as a highly valuable and useful volume in every sense, and
couldn't do without it at all. Why, Madge, don't you know I have family
prayers?"
"Yes, sir. But the Bible you couldn't do without, sir, is a piecemeal
Bible of your own, and not God's Word as He has given it to us. Like as
if I was ill, and you were to give me a prescription to make me well,
and I was to say,—'No, I'll leave out this and that, lest they're a
mistake, and have the rest made up, and take it,'—and then was to blame
you for not curing me, if I found myself dying for want of the right
treatment! It wouldn't be 'your' prescription at all that I'd followed,
if I didn't take the whole."
"You're too clever a woman by half, Madge!" said the doctor.
Madge always held to a straightforward course in conversation, and was
not to be turned aside. "Sir, you know well enough I'm a poor ignorant
woman, and haven't half your learning. But maybe there are things in
the hidden life, which I have learnt afore you."
"Well, well, perhaps I shall learn them too some day," said the doctor,
hoping to silence her. "Come, I know what you are driving at. I'll
promise you to guard my words most carefully for the future, in Miss
Mona's presence. I see the thing won't do. Why, you might have the
common-sense to know I should do it, for the sake of her health alone.
She will be unequal to any agitation for a long while to come. Are you
satisfied now?"
"No, sir."
Mr. Chetwynd looked at her in surprise. "Not! What next?"
"I've no right to say more," Madge answered sorrowfully. "Save that
you're always so kind to me, I wouldn't dare to venture. But 'tis that
very kindness makes it harder to bear, to see you hanging over a great
gulf, and maybe any moment to go down—down—for ever."
He positively gave a half-shiver, and then laughed. "Madge, you really
are preposterous. But don't think I'm angry. This isn't the first
attempt you have made, at converting me to your own views."
"'Tis the Bible views, not mine, that I'd see you converted to, sir."
"Why, Madge, haven't I just been telling you that I do read the Bible,
and value it too?"
"Maybe you do, sir. I've nought to say against that. But you might go
a deal farther in the way of reading and valuing, and yet be no nearer
heaven."
"Come, Madge, come,—what right have you to say I'm not so near as you
are yourself?" asked the doctor, somewhat nettled.
"There's but one road to eternal life, sir," Madge answered. "It is not
reading the Bible, but believing what's written, which takes a man to
heaven."
"'I' don't disbelieve the Bible, Madge," said the doctor.
"You don't believe it, sir, if you please."
Mr. Chetwynd shrugged his shoulders slightly. "Go on, Madge; I see you
are determined to have your say, and I owe you too much to grumble."
"Sir, I've no thought to take advantage of that, and I would grieve to
be of a meddlesome or judging spirit," said Madge gently. "But maybe
you'll let me put a question to you."
Mr. Chetwynd nodded permission, and waited.
Madge did not speak in a hurry; it was not her way.
"Sir, you say you believe the Bible—or leastways, you say you don't
disbelieve it, which isn't at all the same thing. But will you please
tell me, or tell yourself—it don't matter which—what 'do' you believe
in the Bible, sir?"
The question came very calmly and softly. It sounded so simple that he
smiled at first and said, "To be sure I will; let me think a moment."
But when he came to consider, he found the matter not quite so easy.
Those gray eyes opposite, watching and waiting, disturbed the current
of his thoughts. It was more easy to generalise than to descend to
particulars. He ran over a few ideas in his mind, but could at such
short notice discover no satisfactory answer. He had set up a very
comfortable little religion of his own, founded upon certain doctrinal
theories, most of which he vaguely believed were to be found in the
Bible. Only there were undoubtedly a good many other things to be found
there as well, which certainly would not square with the said private
theological system of his own, and which, therefore, in plain terms, he
did not believe.
"It is getting late, Madge," he said, with some impatience in his tone.
"Hardly time to enter upon a discussion on that point to-night, I
think. At all events, I believe a good many things which you believe,
and possibly some which you don't. Is your conscience satisfied now?"
The last words were pleasantly uttered. Madge rose obediently, but
lingered still for a moment.
"It isn't to satisfy my conscience, sir, that I've spoken, but because
I couldn't hold in any longer; and I've said little now that I'd like
to say. Maybe you'll think it over, when you've spare time, and see how
the Bible is the Word of God Himself, and how, if you do believe it,
you can't go right against its plain teaching. Maybe you'll remember,
sir, that there's no middle way for any man, and a half-and-half belief
is as bad as no belief at all."
"And what if I do not believe the Bible, Madge?"
The question came involuntarily. He had not meant to ask it.
The answer was in a tone of deep compassion.
"Then, sir, there's nothing left to you—no hope, no pardon, no Saviour,
no heaven! You're just a lone and helpless soul, standing apart from
God for ever."
"Madge, that same Bible tells us, 'God is love'—a God of mercy."
"Ay, sir," Madge answered, "and 'our God is a consuming fire'—a God of
justice. You've got to put the two together, as Mr. Prior would tell
you. God is love, sure enough, but if His love don't come down to you
through Jesus Christ His Son, it's little you have to hope for from it.
And if you don't believe the Word of God, how are you to believe in Him
of whom the Word all through teaches us?"
She had done now, and moved quietly towards the door.
"Good-bye, Madge," he said, with a little nod, much in his usual
fashion. "Many thanks for your kind intentions, you know. Tell Miss
Mona I am coming in directly, to say good night."
"I will, sir; and thank you for letting me speak."
She disappeared with her noiseless step, and the doctor sat for a
minute with bent brows, thinking over the past half-hour. "Pshaw! What
is it to me? We all have our own opinions, and Madge has hers with a
vengeance. Common-sense enough in every-day matters, but quite a 'tête
exaltée' about religion. Couldn't refuse, of course, to let her speak,
after her devotion to Mona; but the thing is done now, and having
relieved her conscience, I suppose she will be content to leave me in
peace for awhile."
Rather hastily he started up, leaving his lamp burning still upon the
table, and went to Mona's room.
Madge let him in, without look or sign of consciousness respecting
the conversation just ended, and he gave her in passing a careless
little nod, which conveyed condescending forgiveness for anything of
presumption on her part. Madge received it meekly, and followed him
towards the bed.
"Well, my dear—getting on all right?"
She put out her hand in welcome. "Madge, I wish you would get me a
glass of fresh water while uncle is here, and bring it back when he
goes."
Madge moved off obediently, aware from the manner rather than the words
that Mona wanted a few minutes alone with her uncle.
Mr. Chetwynd noticed nothing of the kind. He had his finger on Mona's
wrist.
"What are you fluttering about now, my dear?" he asked, looking keenly
at her.
She stretched the other hand across, and brought out a little Bible
from under the bedclothes. "Uncle, I haven't had my reading this
evening. Won't you read me a few verses?"
"I!" said Mr. Chetwynd. "Isn't that Madge's business?"
"Won't you, for once?" she asked.
"My dear, I really think that is more in her line than mine. I always
do say it is a pity she could not be a clergyman."
"I am not jesting," said Mona gently. "I should like it so much. You
have never read to me all the time I have been ill. Won't you, uncle?"
The doctor began to feel rather irritated. "I say, do you know what
Madge and I have been talking about?" he asked involuntarily.
Mona's surprised look was answer enough. "No,—what?"
"Oh, nothing of consequence; never mind. I was only thinking of a
curious instance of the doctrine of coincidences," said Mr. Chetwynd.
And Mona wondered whether Madge could by any possibility have made a
like request, but decided against the supposition.
"Well," said the doctor, after a moment's watching of her face, "shall
I summon Madge and say good night?"
"I am not sleepy," said Mona. "You don't always go off in such a hurry.
Uncle Chetwynd—"
"Some big thoughts troubling this small brain, eh?" asked Mr. Chetwynd.
"Come, come, you must be a child a little longer, my dear, or you'll
have quite a disfiguring dent on that smooth forehead."
"I am too old to be ever a child again," said Mona. "But I am quite
happy now, and I shall be—if—"
"If what?"
"If you will let me,"—and tears rushed to her eyes.
At it again! The doctor's prominent sensation, which was happily of
care for Mona, barely sufficed to cover his secondary sensation of
personal aggravation. And this time he really had something of hurt
feeling as well.
"I let you! My dear child, don't you know yet that you are dearer to me
than all the rest of the world put together?"
"I know," she said, with trembling lips. "I know you would do anything
for me—almost anything—and you are as kind as kind can be, except—"
"Except when I am cruel."
He wanted to turn it off lightly, but she answered unexpectedly by a
faltering—"Yes."
"Cruel, am I, eh?" said the doctor, rather displeased.
"Only in one thing," she murmured, clasping her hands. "O uncle, you
didn't think,—but if you knew how dreadful it was all those months—"
"Come, come, my dear, you are excited this evening. What was so
dreadful?"
"To lose everything—everything," she said slowly, yet with somewhat of
passionate energy in the low voice. "To lose all faith and hope—all
hold upon my Saviour—to stand outside in the black darkness, feeling
that the light was gone from me, and it might be, was gone for ever."
"Mona, I always most conscientiously avoided arguments with you on
disputed points," he said gravely.
"Yes, you did, and that was the worst of all, I think. If you had
even argued, I could have tried to answer, and I might have gone to
friends to ask what to say. That would have been bad enough, but this
was worse. There was nothing to take hold of, only those terrible
things—little things—which you used to say just in passing. And they
seemed to take hold of me, and shut me in, till I could only feel that
I was helpless, just drifting farther and farther away from God."
"Now, Mona, my dear child, you have been brooding over these ideas,
till you fancy them ten times worse than they ever were," said the
doctor, in a tone of expostulation.
"Worse!" She raised herself to a sitting posture, with a gleam in her
eyes. "You don't know, uncle. I'll tell you what it was like. I used
to feel that I was standing on the very edge of a slippery precipice,
leaning over and looking down, and so giddy that I could scarcely keep
my footing. And I had not only no power to draw back, but I had almost
left off wishing to draw back, though sometimes I had a glimpse of the
danger I was in. I think it was a sort of dreadful fascination. And it
was you who led me there."
"Not intentionally, Mona."
"It was you," she repeated, with unsteady lips. "Thank God, He did not
let you send me over. But I had gone so far—that at one time—it almost
seemed—as if nothing could ever draw me back."
He did not choose that Mona should see how closely her words had
touched him, and only said: "Am I forgiven now?"
"It isn't forgiveness—I don't feel like that about it," she said
hurriedly. "Only—oh, uncle, if you go and do the same to others, it may
be they will not be stopped in time, and then their death will be upon
you."
As with Madge, so here, anxiety for himself came strongly out. She
caught his hand and held it tightly, with tears in her eyes. "You are
always so good and kind to me,—like a father," she half whispered. "I
can't bear to say such things to you. But it frightens me to think that
all might come over again,—with others, if not with me too. I am very
weak, and words like that take such hold, even though I know at the
time they are not true."
"You shall not hear them from me again," he said. "Will that content
you?"
She looked up wistfully without speaking. He did not choose to wait for
anything more.
"There, then, that will do. Go to sleep now, like a good child, and
don't worry your head any more with such matters. I'll send Madge to
you at once."
"And you don't mind what I have said?" she whispered.
"Invalids are privileged people. Good night, my dear. Shut your eyes,
and don't think about anything until morning comes."
He gave her a kiss—kinder than usual, if that were possible—felt her
pulse once more, patted her hand smilingly, and walked away to summon
Madge.
Mona did as she was told, and went quietly off to sleep.
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