Sunday came, and with it a fine dry day, causing Mrs. Duncan to
congratulate herself upon her good fortune. She was a martyr to
rheumatism in damp weather, and obliged consequently to be very
careful. To-day, however, she would be able to go to church, and at
the thought her heart bounded with pleasure. For, unlike a great
many—indeed, I fear I might almost say the majority of people—Margaret
Duncan really loved to go to God’s house. To her the services were
never long, nor the familiar prayers and collects wearisome. On the
contrary, she realised, as few do, the beauty of the concise language
in which they are written, and frequently caught herself wondering how
much could be expressed in so few words. This morning, although alone,
both husband and son having been called away to see sick people, the
service seemed especially sweet, and the sermon to bring more comfort
than usual to her heart.
It was perhaps by design that Mr. Mellis preached from the text “That
which thou sowest is not quickened, except it die,” dwelling upon the
necessity for the death of the body, that the soul might rise again,
and particularly on the hope—nay, certainty—of a blessed reunion above
with those who had “gone before.”
Listening to the comforting words, and looking on the face of the dear
old Rector, which fairly shone, as he spoke, with intense conviction,
it was little wonder that Mrs. Duncan felt happier than she had done
for a long time. Her child was not lost, only safe in Christ’s keeping,
till she, too, should go to join her.
How the strong faith of one individual helps the feeble faith of
others! In such a manner did Mr. Mellis help his friend and parishioner
to-day.
Not that Mrs. Duncan really doubted God’s wisdom in taking away from
her her child, but just as we crave a fresh protestation of love from
one dear to us, drawing pleasure from it, so did she find comfort and
consolation in the renewed assurances of divine love, spoken by the
Rector this morning. To her husband, Margaret Duncan never mentioned
such topics. Years before she had made the discovery that, although
the doctor was careful to keep all the ordinary religious observances,
being a regular attendant at church, yet he was not imbued with that
_living_ faith which delights in dwelling upon a future life when this
one shall be ended. A loving husband and tender father, Dr. Duncan had
felt the death of his little daughter keenly at the time, but though
his wife had hoped for some permanent spiritual awakening and an
expression of it, nothing was said which could lead her to suppose it
had taken place. Belief does not come to all with equal facility, and
knowing this, Mrs. Duncan never even in thought blamed her husband, but
was content to wait.
It was at this juncture that good old Mr. Mellis had proved himself so
true a friend to the almost broken-hearted mother, and the faith which
had always been so precious to Margaret Duncan became even more so
under the fostering guidance and help of the good Rector of St. Jude’s.
By a fortunate turn of events it so happened that both Dr. Duncan and
his son Magnus were able to accompany “little mother” to St. Jude’s on
the evening of this last Sunday in Lent.
It was a fine church, and there was, as usual, a full congregation, for
people will rally round a consistent Christian man, such as Mr. Mellis.
Were there more like him, we should less frequently hear the familiar
remark, “such a poor congregation.”
The service proceeded as usual until after the Third Collect, when the
curate announced that “The words of the anthem would be found in the
three hundred and thirty-second hymn.” There was a slight pause, and
then the opening bars of Gounod’s “There is a green hill” rang through
the church.
Magnus Duncan drew a long breath of delighted anticipation.
Presently the tones of a rich mellow contralto voice floated down the
aisles and up to the vaulted roof of the building. It was a voice of
rarest quality, powerful but sweet, and the singer sang as though her
whole soul was wrapped up in the words and music.
The tender pathetic verses seemed to have gained a new meaning when
sung as Marielle Heritage sang them that night. Magnus craned his neck
to get a glimpse of the singer, but she was almost hidden from view
by the reading-desk, for she had taken a seat in the choir-stalls on
entering the church that evening, and a mass of fair hair under a black
hat was all that could be seen.
On and on sang that glorious voice till the last verse was reached, and
then with what tender insistence came the repetition of the words, “we
must love Him too,” as if in pleading with a most precious child.
Mrs. Duncan glanced up at her husband’s face, to see there an
expression which it had never worn before, and one which made a glad
hope spring up in her heart.
As the last notes died away, a tear, noticed by the loving eyes that
watched him, trickled slowly down the doctor’s face, and with a
long-drawn sigh he sank upon his knees as the congregation knelt for
the rest of the prayers. “For the Lamb which is in the midst of the
throne shall feed them, and shall lead them unto living fountains of
waters, and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes,” was the
text of the curate’s sermon that night. He was only a young man, but
very earnest, and Dr. Duncan could not help thinking that he himself,
though so much older, was as a very child in comparison, with regard to
spiritual things. Only God knew how fervently John Duncan prayed to be
led to the “living fountains of waters” that night!
It was about ten o’clock on the Saturday night following. Magnus, tired
with a long day’s work, had just said “Good night” to his parents, and
betaken himself off to bed, leaving them sitting by the drawing-room
fire.
John Duncan was ostensibly reading the paper, but a close observer
might have noticed that the reading progressed in a most eccentric
fashion. He had not got beyond the first six lines of the leader during
the last hour, but was staring absently at the printed matter before
him, evidently without cognisance of the news it contained. Eventually
he dropped the paper and gazed into the fire instead. Mrs. Duncan was
occupied in finishing an interesting article in a favourite magazine,
and when she had concluded it, she said, without looking up:
“What is the news in to-day’s paper, John? Anything fresh taken place?”
Finding that her husband did not reply as usual, she hastily glanced at
him, laying down her magazine as she did so.
“He did not hear my question,” she decided in her own mind; then rose
and knelt beside his chair saying, “What can you be thinking about
so deeply, my dear old man? It must be something very interesting, I
should think, seeing that you did not even hear me speak to you just
now!” And Margaret gave a happy little laugh, and looked teasingly at
him.
“Thinking of, my darling? Why, something that has been on the tip of my
tongue to tell you all the week, but I was almost afraid to; besides, I
was not quite sure of myself.”
“It sounds like an enigma, John! But do tell me. I am all curiosity to
know what you mean.”
Placing one arm round his wife as she knelt beside his chair, the
doctor drew her closer to him and began:
“You remember last Sunday evening, Maggie?”
Mrs. Duncan nodded, and her eyes lit up with pleasure at the
recollection.
“Well, it is a wonderful thing to me, and it may seem strange to you,
my wife; but ever since I heard that girl sing that song, I have felt
quite differently about religious matters.”
A glad cry burst from Margaret Duncan’s lips, but she checked it as her
husband continued:
“I cannot tell how it was, but the _reality_ of Christ’s death for us
was borne in upon me as it had never been before. The story of Jesus
had always seemed more like a beautiful dream, or myth, somehow, to
me; perhaps I had not felt the need of a Saviour. But now, oh! Maggie,
I can only wonder that I have been blind so long. I feel like a child
when it first opens its eyes upon the world, and notices the beauties
it contains. I had so often wished I could feel as you did, and draw
the same comfort from religion, but I never could. And last Sunday
evening it was as if Christ revealed Himself to me all at once, showing
me my need of a Saviour, and asking only my love in return. All the
week I have been thinking of it, Maggie, but the only prayer I could
find to say was, ‘Lord, I believe, help Thou mine unbelief!’”
“Oh, Jack! my Jack! If you only knew how I have prayed for this, and
what it means to me!” cried Maggie, flinging her arms round her husband
as she burst into a very passion of tears—tears of joy, not sorrow.
Drawing her head down to the shelter of his breast, John Duncan held
his wife very tightly to him, as he said, in a voice which shook with
emotion:
“You will help me, won’t you, my darling? I want help so much, and we
can speak of these things together now. I am groping in the dark yet.”
“Nay, John,” said Margaret, smiling through her tears, “I think you are
just dazzled with the light. But all the help I can give is yours, you
know, my dear one.”
Hand in hand, for the first time during their married lives, these two
knelt that night at the feet of their heavenly Father, while Margaret
prayed for strength and guidance for them both; and John Duncan was not
a whit surprised when, in concluding, his wife added a petition for a
blessing upon the dear girl who had been God’s instrument in effecting
the longed-for change in her husband.
“It was just like Maggie,” he reflected, as he helped her to rise from
her knees, and thought, as he kissed her, that she had never looked so
fair in his eyes.
Happiness is a great beautifier, as we all know, and it was a very
happy Margaret Duncan who laid her head on her pillow that Easter Eve.
(_To be continued._)
CHRONICLES OF AN ANGLO-CALIFORNIAN RANCH.
BY MARGARET INNES.