THAT night, Mary Dayál was so overwhelmed by a new trial and anxiety
that for a time the craving in her heart for spiritual blessing was
forgotten.
At the usual time of returning from his work, her husband did not
appear. That was nothing remarkable, for he was often late. But when
hour after hour passed and still he did not come, her heart began to
grow heavy. The eldest boy, Reuben, was sent to inquire at different
houses where he might possibly have gone, but nowhere was any news to
be heard.
One by one the children dropped asleep, but there was no rest for the
anxious wife. It was true that her husband had not been the kindest or
best of men, but now that he was gone, she knew not where, everything
changed; the faults had all been hers, and she had driven him away by
her constant grumblings and complainings. Was it any wonder that he had
not cared to stay in a house with an untidy, cross wife, and children
who were always clamouring for more than he could give them? There
could be no doubt that his patience and courage had been worn-out, and
now he had gone away to seek for peace and comfort elsewhere. Who could
blame him if he had?
Then the darkness around the poor weary woman grew denser, till her
heart ached with the sorrow pressing upon her.
"Oh, dearly, dearly has He loved."
Clearly came back to her the words of the hymn she had heard sung so
lately, though it seemed long, long ago.
Though her husband had left her, yet she was not altogether alone, for
nothing could change this divine love, which had proved itself stronger
than death.
If it was true that that love went out still to the most sinful and
needy, then who could claim it more than she?
Oh for eyes to see the blessed form of Him who had called the weary
and heavy laden to come to Him! Oh for ears to catch His words of
forgiveness and comfort!
Mary Dayál had been brought up to say her prayers when she was a child,
and she had never entirely given up doing so, only very often she was
too tired, and the children made too much noise. But she had never
known what it was really to "pray," to seek God because her heart cried
out after Him, to ask Him for what He alone could give, what she felt
she "must" have.
But now in her sorrow and desolation, there rose in her heart a great
desire to come into contact with One who could do for her what no one
else could.
The voice of the Son of God said "Come," and she heard it and came.
If she had been asked, she could hardly have told what it was which
had so changed her that night of sorrow; she might have said that the
burden of sin had grown light because for the first time she "knew"
what she had before only "heard"—that Christ had put it away by the
sacrifice of Himself; or she might have said that the burden of
loneliness had been lightened by finding the presence of One who had
promised never to leave or forsake her.
She had been like a child lost in a dreary forest, faint with hunger
but having no food to eat, surrounded by dangers from which there was
no one to protect her. Now she was like a child in its father's house,
satisfied with that father's love and sure of his protection and care.
Again and again she had said and heard the words, "Our Father which art
in heaven," but never till that night had she known the joy of having
a Father in heaven. The darkness had passed away before the bright
shining of heavenly light, and in that light, the form of everything
was changed.
She had still to face the grinding poverty which had made her life a
weariness to her; what was worse still, she had to face it alone if her
husband did not return. There were four children to be fed and clothed,
and a debt to be paid, and it might be, no money to do it with. And
yet, in spite of all, Mary Dayál felt more light-hearted than she had
ever done in her life, for she knew that henceforth these burdens would
not have to be borne alone—that the great Burden-Bearer would be with
her.
It was long before she went to sleep that night. But as she was saying
over to herself the words, "Oh, dearly, dearly has He loved," gradually
all things faded into unconsciousness.
She woke the next morning with a sense of loss, and yet of gain, and it
took her some little time to distinguish one from the other. Gradually
it all came clearly back to her: she had found God, but her husband was
missing. She realised then how hard it would have been to begin this
new day with this added burden if it had not been for the rest in her
heart.
The children soon found that in some way, which they could not
understand, their mother was different. Never before had they known her
so patient and gentle; they thought it must be because their father was
not there. They were all sent to school as usual, and then Mary, taking
the baby in her arms, locked up the house, and went to ask advice of
her new friends Rámpál Singh and his daughter.
Both listened to her story with all the interest, and sympathy she
could desire. And when it was finished, Rámpál Singh proposed that he
should go to the office in which Mark Dayál had been employed, and
ascertain whether he had been there the day before. Knowing something
of the man's history, he thought it was very possible that he had been
dismissed, as so often happened, and rather than tell his wife the
news, had gone off and left her; but of this, he "said" nothing.
As soon as her father had left the house, Shushila began more freely to
express her sympathy with the anxious wife.
Great was her surprise and joy when Mary looked at her with a smile,
though there were tears in her eyes, and said, "Shushila, whatever
happens, the darkest part of my life is over. With the love of Christ
in my heart, I can bear anything."
Neither had noticed that Hira was near by, but now she came eagerly
forward and asked, "Do you mean that you have got ready to meet God?"
"Yes," said Mary gladly; "I never wanted to meet God before, but now I
long to, because I know He is my heavenly Father."
"But tell me," said the child, "how did you get ready? What did you do?"
Mary paused a moment, and then she said, "Little one, once a man full
of leprosy came to the Lord Jesus, and He put His hand on him, and
said, 'I will; be thou clean,' and all his leprosy was gone. I was full
of sin, but last night, the Lord Jesus came and put His hand on me, and
said, 'Be clean,' and so I know He has put away my sin, and I am not
afraid to meet God any more."
Hira gave a little sigh as she said, "Perhaps the Lord Jesus comes more
to big people than He does to little girls, because to me, He seems
such a long, long way off. If He would speak only one word, then I
should know that He had come."
"And that is just how I know, little one," said Mary. "I did not hear
His voice in my ear, but I heard it quite plainly in my heart; if you
listen, you will hear it too."
Hira looked perplexed, but she did not speak again. And very soon, she
got up and groped her way to another part of the house, leaving the two
friends alone.
GOSSIP.
"FATHER, you'll let me take something down for the Harvest Festival!
Something nice from the grounds, you know, and some flowers and fruit.
I should like to help to decorate the church."
"Certainly, my dear," answered Mr. Granville, "I had thought of it
myself when the curate spoke of the Festival. I will give Haydon orders
about it."
"I will go with them myself," said Geraldine importantly, "and I can
arrange where they go."
"Remember, dear, that you will be one of the youngest there," said her
father gently.
Geraldine did not reply, unless a little toss of her head could be
regarded as one.
The following Saturday was the morning appointed for all offerings
to reach the church. And on the Friday evening, Mr. Granville asked
Geraldine if Haydon had provided such flowers and green stuff as she
wanted.
Geraldine reddened; "I don't think I shall trouble about it," she said.
"Miss Whyte is seeing after it all, and I'm not going to be at Miss
Whyte's beck and call."
"Why not?" asked her father, curiously.
"I don't like her."
Geraldine would say no more, but her father went on, "I should wish
the flowers to go just the same, my child, and if you 'do' go to help,
remember that in all church work, we are working for our Lord and
Master, not for men."
"If the flowers go, so shall I," said Geraldine to herself, and she
went.
The vestry presented a very busy scene, and Geraldine and her flowers
were met with a hearty welcome, and Miss Whyte asked her pleasantly
if she had any special wish about them, and though Geraldine answered
properly enough, there was something aggressive in her tone that sent
the colour to Miss Whyte's face. She had guessed for some time that
Geraldine disliked her.
So Geraldine worked in a corner apart, for she could not feel friendly
to anyone. Her father's words rankled.
[Illustration]
Miss Whyte was busily decorating a pillar when her eyes fell on the
proud little face in the corner. It seemed such a pity for two who were
decorating God's house to be at enmity. She jumped lightly from her
chair and went round to Geraldine.
"Geraldine! Have I done anything to vex you?"
"You had no business to say I couldn't draw a bit."
"When did I say so?" gasped out Miss Whyte.
"The girls told me you said so at the Prize-giving at school."
"My dear!" said Miss Whyte. "I said 'I had no idea that Geraldine
drew.' Somebody has made mischief. Let us be friends; it seems so sad
to have a difference and to be working together in God's house."
Geraldine lifted her frank eyes, "I am sorry; it is my fault for
listening to such stories. May I come and help you? It is so dull
alone."
And so there was peace in the church.
Sunday by Sunday, long after the harvest thanksgiving had passed away,
as Geraldine sat in the church, she would glance over to that little
corner where she had sat alone, and the remembrance of it helped her
all her life to try to be one of God's blessed Peacemakers.
[Illustration: "I will go with them myself," said Geraldine.]
"I LOVE HIM STILL."
"AND what has happened, then, Mrs. Lloyd?"
The silver-haired clergyman had just finished his reading, and had
paused, his fingers still in the place that opened of itself at the
story of the cross, to hear some fragments of Mrs. Lloyd's story. The
white face in its clean frilled cap was scarcely less white than the
pillow on which it lay. But the expression was peaceful, though the
wrinkles on the fine brow told of trials long and painful.
A week ago Mrs. Lloyd had been brought, badly burned, to a kindly
neighbour's, and little hope was entertained from the first of her
recovery.
[Illustration]
No one knew how the accident had happened; the baby was safe, that they
all knew. And though Mrs. Lloyd was reticent and scarcely answered any
questions the doctors and nurses put to her as they dressed her burns,
it had oozed out among the neighbours that Jim Lloyd had been seen to
enter the cottage not long before the place had been found in flames,
and that he was drunk at the time.
But now Mrs. Lloyd's tongue was loosened; she was alone with the vicar
she had known and loved from her youth, and she must tell him all, that
he might comfort Jim.
Jim was her one care. Such a brave, strong fellow he had been when
she first met him and loved him years ago. But the demon of drink had
seized on him, and had pushed him far on the downward path.
"Well, sir," continued the dying woman, slightly raising herself on her
elbow in her earnestness, "you must not be hard on Jim, but help him
to live right, for the baby's sake. Tell him, sir, as I'm sure he did
not mean it, and that I forgive him and love him still. Be sure you say
that, sir. I love him still."
She lay back exhausted by the effort she had made, but after a moment
she went on—
"I was out washing in the back yard, sir, for I had not heard his step.
His dinner was all ready for him on the stove, and baby was asleep in
the cradle. I don't know how long he'd been home, when I noticed a
queer smell, but I didn't think much of it, 'cause there's often bits
of rag and such-like burnt by the neighbours. But in a few moments, I
noticed smoke coming out of the back kitchen door, and I knew it was
all wrong.
"The first thing I saw as I got to the door was a great blaze. The
clothes-horse was full of blouses I'd just starched, and they were just
one great flame. I made a rush for the cradle, but I never saw Jim
until I fell over him, and then I suppose my clothes caught fire, but
I didn't notice them. I felt I must save Jim even before the baby, for
she was ready, the little darling, and my Jim wasn't. So I just pulled
him out by his legs, and then I ran back for baby. I thought maybe
she'd be safe, for I just prayed God to spare her if only I could pull
out Jim. And there she was sitting up in her cradle, and laughing at
the 'pitty fire.' I suppose the neighbours saw the smoke, for when I
got outside again, they were holding out their hands for the baby, and
some were looking after Jim, and then I didn't know any more until I
got here. But you'll tell Jim I loved him still, and best of all that
God loves him too?" And the faint voice ceased for ever.
[Illustration]
HIRA'S QUEST.