_HOPE._
BUT though the first thought had been that the Harry Fulbert she knew
was golden gold, the second came with terrible desolation.
Too late! It was too late now! That letter, so hard to write, had gone
on its way, and ere this Harry would have started for China, with his
hopes crushed and his heart sore.
Miss Loveday tried to recall what she had said as she had sat that
evening, three days ago, doing her uncle's bidding.
"If I were to disobey those whom my father told me to obey, I should
never have a happy moment, nor could I look for God's blessing; and
what would life be without God's blessing, Harry?" she had said.
She could hardly remember the words; it seemed months ago, instead of
days. But at any rate, she was sure that they had not conveyed one word
of hope!
Hope! As she lay on her bed with these thoughts chasing each other
through her mind, it seemed as if there were some soothing balm being
applied to her aching wounds.
"Hope thou in God!"
Yes, she had! She had hoped in God when things had been at their very
darkest, when no ray of light had come, or seemed as if it could come;
and now she would praise Him, who would not allow His child to be
tempted above that she was able to bear.
Pollie had sat very still; she had waited till the closed eyes should
open, and the contracted forehead grow smooth, like her own dear Miss
Loveday.
"Pollie," said her teacher gently, "will you go down now and tell my
uncle what you have found out for me?"
Pollie crimsoned, but rose to her feet instantly. If there were one
person in the world she was afraid of, it was the vicar.
"Am I asking too much?" said Miss Loveday.
"No, no; I will do it," exclaimed Pollie. "But where shall I find him,
and what—"
Her hand was already on the door.
"He will be coming in to tea very soon; go down and wait for him in the
study. Ask one of the maids to take you there. I would rather my uncle
heard it from you, Pollie!"
With one look at the dear face she loved so well, Pollie, with beating
heart, sped on her errand.
She reached the hall and looked around. There were the pretty ferns and
palms, making the hall look like fairyland; the stained glass doors,
the drooping curtains, the carpeted floor, all joined in making Pollie
feel strange and shy.
Where were the servants? She could hear a murmur of voices and the
sound of teacups, but how could she dare to pass through one of those
closed doors?
At length a bell sounded. The fact was, Miss Loveday had guessed her
plight, and had rung for her maid so that she might insure Pollie's
safe conduct to the study.
Suddenly one of the glass doors was pushed open, and the servant who
had fetched her from the mill came forward.
"Why, Pollie," she said, "can't you find your way out?"
Then Pollie, with many blushes, explained that she had a message to the
vicar, and was forthwith shewn into the study to wait his arrival.
The maid fidgeted round the room, looking at Pollie several times
uncertainly, which increased Pollie's discomfort tenfold. She looked up
in her face enquiringly, waiting for her to speak.
At last she said, "Hadn't you better come and sit in the kitchen till
master comes in?"
"I don't mind," answered Pollie, "only Miss Loveday said I was to go to
the study—"
"Master is very particular, and perhaps he won't like to find anyone
here," objected the maid, who, it must be confessed, was somewhat
jealous of Miss Loveday's evident partiality for her pupil at the Mill.
Pollie felt very uncomfortable, and though she had a dim perception of
the state of the case, she was so disconcerted that she would fain have
run home to escape from her difficulties.
But then, what would become of her important errand?
At length she said bravely, "If you don't think he'll like it, I'll go
up and ask Miss Loveday! Shall I?"
"Oh no," said the maid carelessly; "I daresay it doesn't matter. Stay
where you are."
She went back to the kitchen to her tea, and Pollie was left alone.
She waited in the darkening study till her heart was faint within her.
She had had time to grow hot and cold three or four times over before
the vicar came.
But at last, a thought quieted her, and, like Hannah of old, "her
countenance was no more sad."
"If God has this in charge, why am I so worried and fearful?" was the
thought.
And so when the vicar really did come, with his grave, dignified
presence, Pollie told her story as sweetly and clearly as her friend
upstairs could have wished.
"Don't you think he 'may' be the true golden gold?" she asked, looking
up in the vicar's face as he bid her farewell.
"I hope so, my little girl," he said heartily; "and it shall be my
business to find that out at once. But, Pollie—"
"Yes, sir."
"You would not wish your dear Miss Mary to love any one who was not
good?"
"Oh no, sir! Nor would she—"
"No, no; I am sure of that. She and you may trust me to do the very
best for her. Is she not God's child, as well as my brother's?"
He said the last words almost to himself, and Pollie, hearing them,
went away comforted.
She ran homewards breathlessly. What would her mother think of her
absence?
She had left home that afternoon assuring her mother she should only
run down to the Vicarage and back again. She had had no idea of being
detained, and was afraid her mother would be vexed with her.
Just as she reached the corner of the village street, she recognized
her father's cart, making its way round the road to the back of the
mill.
"Oh, father, stop!" she called. "I want to get in!"
"Eh, Pollie! Bless you, child; what do you want out so late?"
Then Pollie told him, glad to pour out all her news into such kind,
sympathising ears.
"I'd not like you to keep anything from your mother," he said; "you had
better tell it all to her when James is not by."
"Yes, father," said Pollie slowly.
"Mothers are good friends," said her father.
How she wished that he had been willing to let the secret be between
her and himself!
But that was not her father's way. Once before Pollie had hoped her
father would not tell her mother something, but she soon found her
mother knew all about it.
"Mother's as safe to trust as I am," he said then, "and I never keep
anything from her, nor she from me. It's a safe rule, Pollie, and a
happy one."
They jogged along in silence for a few minutes. The hill was stiff, and
her father got out to walk.
When he drew up at the door, and came to lift her down, he said
soberly, "There is such a text as 'Honour thy father and thy "mother,"'
Pollie; we must not forget that!"
"Why, my dear!" exclaimed her mother when she got in. "I've sent Jim
down the field-path to meet you!"
"I've come up with father; he's putting up the horse. Mother, I waited
to speak to the vicar, and I'll tell you all about it! Only—mother, I
do believe I never was so hungry in all my life!"
"Well, here's tea," smiled her mother comfortably, "and while you eat
it, you can tell me!"
* * * * *
Through a mistake at the Post Office, Harry Fulbert only got that
letter at his London hotel the very day he was to sail for China.
To go? Impossible!
To stay? Equally impossible!
Those were his first and second thoughts. Then slowly he turned and
looked round the room.
Almost everything was packed; his cases had gone on board the P. and O.
boat three days ago; his portmanteau lay open at his feet; nothing but
a few last purchases had to be made.
His passage in that special boat had long been taken, his friends would
turn up at the appointed time at Tilbury to wave him good-bye. He had
parted from his mother—how could he alter now?
He stood with his elbow on the mantelshelf, looking at Mary's picture,
and then suddenly, he walked over to the door, and turned the key in
the lock; and then, with another sudden movement, he threw himself on
his knees, and buried his head on his arms.
Was he the true golden gold after all?
Was he only giving way to his overwhelming disappointment? Or was he
asking his best Counsellor what he was to do in this sore crisis?
When he arose from his knees, he looked round once more. He put away
the photograph, locked his portmanteau, took up his hat and went out.
In another half-hour he was standing at the counter of the office of
the P. and O., anxiously asking, if there were any way of getting out
of going.
"I refused a gentleman, a Mr. Strong, this very morning," said the
agent. "Every berth is filled up, and now it will probably be too late
for him."
Harry Fulbert asked eagerly if the agent knew the gentleman's address,
and upon its being produced, the cab was once more set going, and Harry
found himself stopping at a mansion at the West End.
A few words of explanation introduced him to the would-be traveller,
whom he found in the midst of his luggage, having just returned from
his fruitless errand to the City.
Mr. Strong acknowledged he was anxious to exchange his berth, taken in
the next boat, for one in Harry's, but the agent had assured him it was
too late now to arrange anything.
"But your luggage?" said Mr. Strong, when in a few hurried words they
had canvassed the whole subject, and arranged for an exchange of
tickets.
Harry laughed.
"That I can do without till I follow it! I cannot tell you what a load
is taken from my heart!"
And the gentleman shook his hand warmly with a genial smile.
"I expect you are as glad to stay as I to go!"
Harry was so overjoyed at the release, that it carried him over his
surprise and grief at Mary's letter. Now he would have the opportunity
to go back to her, and find out what she could mean by those few
hurried sentences, in which she had told him that she must give him up.
Just now he was only anxious to enable his new friend to catch the
boat. There was little enough time, but he kept his cab while the last
few things were collected, and before long they were rolling together
to Fenchurch Street, "en route" for Tilbury, the gentleman to start
on his long journey, and Harry to meet his friends and tell them that
unexpected and pressing business detained him in England.
As to Mary's letter he would not think of that! There must be some
mistake!
So while Pollie was waiting with beating heart in the vicar's study to
tell her tale, Harry was paying his bill at the hotel, and taking his
ticket at the Great Western station to a country village sixty miles
from London.
Little did she think that the threads which seemed in such a hopeless
tangle were held in Hands which knew the end of every one of them; nor
how surely out of the confusion was coming His perfect will for those
who trusted Him so fully.
Little did Pollie think as she sat telling her mother all about it,
receiving her sympathy and finding it more comforting than she had
expected, that the subject of their thoughts was even now drawing
nearer and nearer to that moonlit village, as fast as the train could
bring him.
"Mother, you are 'very' kind," said Pollie gratefully, as she wished
her good-night. How glad she felt now that she had "honoured" her
mother from her heart, and not only obeyed "in the letter."
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