PARTNERS!
One December evening, after the opening of Sunshine Hall, Janie was
telling little Jack wonderful stories about what people did at
Christmas.
"Nearly always when people go away for a long time, they come back at
Christmas, and bring such lots of nice things with them."
"My daddy's gone away," said the child, "mummy said so."
"Yes, I know he has," said the slow-witted Janie.
"Will he come back at Kiss-mus?"
"Perhaps he will."
"And will he bring Jacky nice things?"
"Of course he will, when he comes."
That expectation quite took root in the little brain, and when
"Kiss-mus" morning came, his first words were "Has my daddy come? I want
my daddy!"
The mother was quite startled, and wondered what had given the child
this idea. Janie explained it afterwards, when a considerable amount of
brain-searching had been done. It took a wooden horse on wheels, a box
of chocolate and a box of bricks to get the little fellow to dry his
tears.
The next Christmas, strange to say, there was the same expectation and
the same disappointment, but with added sorrow. The child was older, and
if it could appreciate good things more, also felt sorrow more. He had
mingled with other children, whose fathers made much of them. "Perhaps
daddy will come at Christmas," he would say to himself.
Christmas morning came, but again no daddy.
"Why doesn't daddy come?" he sobbed out on his mother's breast.
"I don't know, darling."
"Has he forgotten me?" he asked, turning up his tear-stained face to
hers.
"I do not know." The words had to be uttered. There was no way in which
she could truthfully cover up the silence of years. To the sensitive
child the words were like a cruel blow; after building upon the father's
return to be told that father might have forgotten him was more than he
could bear, and in his grief, to his little mind, the doubt became a
certainty--his father had forgotten him! It was the child-soul's first
knowledge of Gethsemane.
The mother strained him passionately to her, showering both tears and
kisses upon the little tear-stained face. "But mummy has not forgotten!
Mummy never will forget!" she wailed over him.
From that hour a new feeling took possession of little Jack. If his
father had forgotten him, it was very likely the mother was also
forgotten. Mummy must feel lonely too, but he would not forget her, and
when he was a man he would work for her. He would be her champion and
defender--not that he used these words to himself, they were rather too
long for him, but the idea they expressed was in his brave, loyal little
heart. Nanna often wondered at the quaint little ways in which he showed
himself his mother's protector, but never knew the heart-sorrow which
had given birth to them.
The child's grief was an added weight to the mother's heart. She saw
that her burden was no longer one which she had to bear alone, but that
her child, her innocent, sunny-haired child, with the face of an angel,
and brother to an angel, had to feel some of its weight also.
* * * * *
Away in Holland a gardener will patiently labour for even twenty years
to bring one hyacinth to perfection. Its soil is often changed, and the
hand, though moved by a heart which dearly loves the flower, does not
hesitate to even use the knife to the sensitive root.
With still greater patience bends the Great Gardener over the flowers of
the Kingdom.
And still there was no letter from Ralph. She had left off writing now,
not knowing into whose hands her letters might fall. At last she
ventured to write to Stephen Collins, asking if he thought there was
anything more she could do. He at once replied that he was scanning
several Australian papers every week, but had not come across any
mention of Ralph, and that he could think of nothing further she could
do. It did not seem to him to be at all necessary to seek police aid,
though he did not say so in his note. Later on, he sent word that he had
written to the proprietor of the hotel to which her letters had been
addressed, and he had replied that for a long time six letters had been
waiting for Mr. Waring, but a little while ago Mr. Waring had sent a
messenger for them. Should that same messenger call again he would do
his best to obtain Mr. Waring's address.
This gave Phebe courage to write again, but after some months the hotel
proprietor returned the letter, saying that nothing had been heard of
Mr. Waring, but that if at any time he did receive news of him it should
be forwarded instantly.
After that all was a dark blank. Years passed, but not the faintest
report of his doings was ever received. "Do you think he is dead,
Nanna?" Phebe would often ask, but the old friend could only shake her
head and say, "Dear heart, I do not know, but he's somewhere where the
Lord knows all about him. We must rest on that."