PENITENCE AND PEACE.
SOON after Mabel Raye went away, Nicholas Beach set out on a
Continental tour, and now, rid of the only discordant elements, the
house was so quiet, so peacefully, harmoniously happy, that Margie felt
almost as though she could have stayed there always—but for Harry's
ship coming home some day.
Nurse came back a week after the departure of Nicholas, so Margie
returned to her former duties and waited again on Mrs. Beach, more
contented and at rest than she had been for long enough.
And so, quietly and restfully, after all the anxieties, time passed
swiftly on, until Margie had been in Mrs. Beach's employment just
a year. During the last month or two, Howard and Fay Logan, both
supremely happy apparently, had called to see Margie, and Fay in her
pretty clothes, and with the half-shyness of the bride hardly gone,
looked so childlike and irresponsible that Margie could not find it in
her heart to blame her. Fay was too light, too shallow, to have loved
Harry as he deserved to be loved, and somehow Margie could easily
forgive her; but how or why so easily, she did not stop to ask herself.
Meanwhile nothing was heard of Mabel Raye, except that once Clara
found in a newspaper, a brief notice of a young actress in Mr. Charles
Digby's touring company, who called herself Miss Mirabelle Maye, and
who seemed to have become quite popular. The description of the new
actress's appearance left no doubt as to her identity in the minds of
those who knew every feature of her beautiful face, every line of that
haughty and queenly form.
Poor Mrs. Beach wept bitterly when she read the notice. The ingratitude
of this girl whom she had brought up from a baby was sharper pain than
the bite of a serpent's tooth, and it seemed hard indeed that her only
tidings of Mabel should have come thus casually through a newspaper.
Tenderly and regretfully, though with many tears, Mrs. Beach and Clara
thought of and prayed for the wilful girl, though hardly daring to hope
that their prodigal would come home to them at last.
It is a strange fact, even among habitually prayerful and devout
Christians, that they are generally much surprised when their prayers
are answered. So few of us have faith enough to believe that God can
and will grant us anything and everything that is good for us. And
although the aunt and half-sister prayed earnestly for their truant's
return, it could hardly be said that they expected it, and indeed they
often spoke of her as of one really lost to them.
But one day there came a telegram which seemed to break with startling
suddenness the long silence. It ran thus:—
"Am in the greatest trouble. May I come home to you, auntie?—MABEL."
And the answer that went flashing back along the wires was this:—
"Come, and welcome. Only love and sympathy await you from all.—AUNTIE."
But could this thin, white-faced woman, with dim, hollow eyes and a
careworn stoop in her shoulders, be indeed the splendid girl who, in
all the pride of her beauty, had gone from them only so short a time
before?
This was the question that Margie mutely asked herself when Mabel
stepped from the cab and with faltering feet once more crossed the
threshold of the home where she had spent most of her life. But greater
still was Margie's surprise when Mabel pushed open the morning-room
door, and staggering across the floor, threw herself down at her aunt's
feet in a passion of grief and repentance.
"Oh, auntie, auntie dear, can you ever, ever forgive me?" she cried,
sobbing. "God has sent me shame and sorrow, and now—oh, now at last
I know what your pain must have been—the pain you suffered through
me—through my wickedness, my ingratitude! And Margery too;" for, as
Mabel turned, she saw the girl standing near. "Oh, Margery, I did you
a grievous wrong, and God knows I have been sorely punished. I tried
to deceive, and I have been deceived. I treated you with cruelty and
insult, and cruelty and insult have come to me too, but not more than I
deserve."
And then followed a story of wrong done and pain suffered; a sad
story, which we will give only in outline. After about three months
of touring, Mabel had received an offer of marriage from an actor in
the same company. The man was handsome, gentlemanly, a star in his
profession, and seemed devoted to her; so she accepted his offer, and
they were married after a very brief engagement. They continued with
Mr. Digby until he returned to London, where he dismissed them with the
rest of the company; and Mabel and her husband, Victor Cunliffe, took
lodgings in one of the London suburbs, there to wait until they could
obtain another engagement.
But one night Victor did not come home, and in the course of the next
day or two, poor Mabel heard news of him that convinced her that she
had married a false and heartless man, and that he had deserted her,
leaving her penniless and alone in a strange place. And later on,
through a mutual acquaintance, came the tidings that Mabel had no right
to her married name, for Victor Cunliffe had a wife already in the
United States, and thither he had just returned.
The sudden shock, the heavy blow of shame and grief, brought on a
severe illness which kept her in hospital for weeks, and it was when
she emerged from the sick ward, a mere shadow of her former self, that
she sent, in her sorrow and despair, the pathetic telegram to her aunt,
though she hardly expected such generous forgiveness, such a hearty
welcome. But the pride and the haughtiness were all gone, gone with the
beauty and the passion and the longing for the love of Nicholas Beach.
Emptied of self, humbled in the dust at the remembrance of her sins,
there had come in answer to her cry, "O Lord, I am a great sinner," the
answer of that still, small voice of love, "Then for you Christ is a
great Saviour."
By sorrow her heart had been broken, and breaking, made room for the
Spirit to enter, whose coming means life eternal, for He alone can take
of the things of Christ and show them unto us.
And so Mabel Raye came home, and now her presence did not disturb the
peace of the household; indeed, it added greatly to the happiness, not
only of Mrs. Beach, but also of Clara and Margie, and they blessed God
for bringing back the wandering sheep to the fold again.
So passed another few months, and Margie—but for her great longing to
see Harry, a longing which grew stronger the more its fulfilment was
delayed—would have been utterly content. But the time was at hand when
her reward was to be given to her, greater, fuller, sweeter than she
had ever dreamed of receiving.
Margie was sitting and sewing in Mrs. Beach's room one winter evening
by the light of a shaded lamp, and her mistress, who was resting on the
sofa near the fire, was looking at the girl as she bent over her work.
What a grave, sweet face it was, the old lady was saying to herself,
and how happy, how fortunate, would the man be for whom that face
lighted up with love! For Mrs. Beach had come to care for this girl
almost like a daughter, and depended upon her for everything.
A knock at the door was answered by Margie, who opened it.
"A gentleman to see Miss Grayling," said the servant, with much
surprise in his face and voice, for gentlemen to see Miss Grayling were
not common.
"What name?" inquired Mrs. Beach; but Margie did not hear her. She
was out of the room and downstairs in one moment, her heart beating
wildly. And there, in the morning-room, stood a stalwart man in a rough
overcoat, and with hat in hand.
"Harry, dear Harry!"
He turned, and their eyes met. In Margie's, Harry saw the love-light,
the thing for which he was pining, to brighten his desolate life. But
in his, Margie discovered what she had not expected—such a great joy,
such gladness of tender affection, that it could only mean one thing.
"Margie, Margie, I have wanted you so!" he said, as he gathered her
into his embrace; and she, feeling as if all troubles must be over for
life, could only murmur, "Thank God, my ship has come home, and I am
rich—rich for ever."
How handsomely Mrs. Beach and Clara Raye behaved to Margie when they
heard she was engaged; how their generous kindness made a speedy
wedding possible; how lovely the bride looked in her simple white
satin, the gift of Clara; how Lettie and the two little girls were
bridesmaids; and how Sir Peter Brooks, as the husband-elect of Mattie
Grayling, claimed an elder brother's privilege of giving Margie away;
how Nicholas Beach sent a handsome clock as a wedding gift; and Nat
Grayling was the most delightful of best men—all this we will only
indicate.
Enough that Margie's ship has come home with joy and love, and that we
can trust, as she does, all future voyages in the never-erring hands of
the Master Pilot, knowing that all will—nay, must—be well for her both
in this world and beyond, in that other, where there is no more sea.
THE END.
Printed by MORRISON & GIBB LIMITED, Edinburgh