AN APPEAL FOR SYMPATHY.
THE family to whom Mr. Angus wished to introduce Miss Howard lived in
a small cottage in the outskirts of the town of N-.
On their way thither he repeated the impression they had made upon
him,—that they had seen better days.
"I have been enough among the poor in New York," he said, warming,
with the subject, "to be sure that these are not of the kind who
would ask for assistance, even though they were suffering. I am eager
to know how they will impress you."
He turned to look in her face, which seemed to be unusually
thoughtful, but with a bright smile, she explained,—
"I was trying to reconcile irreconcilable facts. For instance, I know
a gentleman in New York who has more leisure and money than he knows
what to do with, and I was wondering why I should be so very busy and
have so little time for work that I like best."
"I have solved worse puzzles than that, Miss Howard. Can you not
imbue your friend with love for your favorite work? Gentlemen with
too much leisure are not to be classed with the most favored beings."
"He is one of the most wretched men I know, sarcastic and cynical to
such a degree that his society is shunned by every one; and yet I
can't help pitying him. I believe that he has a passion for making
himself appear worse than he is. I have taken a fancy," she added,
with a hearty laugh, "to try some experiments on him."
"Of what nature?"
"Why, I have been told again and again that he has no heart. I am
applying tests to find out the fact for myself; so far, that
important organ seems to be in a state of ossification; but I am not
discouraged."
"If I were your uncle, I should warn you that ossified hearts, when
wakened from their torpor, sometimes become dangerously active,—
I mean dangerous for their own happiness."
Marion's eyes twinkled with mirth. "I do not fear too much activity,
I fear too little. But is not that the house?"
Mr. Angus had told her the child was beautiful; but this had by no
means prepared her for the lovely, enchanting face which burst upon
her as, advancing into the room, a boy of three or four years sprang
out from an inner apartment.
"Oh, you darling little fellow!" she cried, catching him in her arms,
and bestowing kiss after kiss upon him. So absorbed was Marion in
delight and wonder that she did not notice the entrance of a young
lady from a door in the opposite direction, until the voice of
Mr. Angus saying, "Miss Howard, Mrs. Cheriton," roused her to present
realities.
"Excuse me," she began, cheeks and chin dimpling with amusement.
"I forgot that I was a stranger,—everything in my admiration
for—." She interrupted herself to place the child on the floor;
but he had no idea of being abandoned so suddenly. He clung tightly
around her neck, his face sparkling with mischief.
"Genie, don't tease the lady." The mother's voice was soft, and she
spoke with a pretty accent; but the boy paid not the slightest
attention to his mother's mild suggestion. He clung to his new
friend, occasionally holding himself off far enough to look in
her face.
Catching a glimpse of Mr. Angus's tall form standing over near the
door, his hat in his hand, keen appreciation of the scene stamped on
every feature, Marion's color surged to her very brow. She whispered,
"Go to the gentleman now, Genie," and put the boy to the floor.
"Will you take a drive with me, Eugene?"
This being soon arranged, Mr. Angus carried the child to the buggy,
merely saying to Marion,—
"I will be back in half an hour."
Mrs. Cheriton looked so very youthful that it was hard for Marion to
believe she could be the mother of Eugene. She was very beautiful,
of the Southern type of beauty,—large, liquid eyes, regular
features, abundant tresses of blue-black hair, which on the present
occasion were wound gracefully around her head, arched eyebrows,
and a pleasant smile when she addressed you. This tout ensemble the
visitor took in at a glance, and all the time she was asking herself,
"Shall I like her?"
After speaking for a moment of Eugene, Marion said,—
"Mr. Angus tells me your mother is very ill."
"Yes; and she has heard your voice. Will you go to her?"
"Gladly."
On the bed, but raised almost to a sitting posture, lay a lady.
One glance proved her to be such. There was an air of refinement and
culture about her which proved her to belong to the best-educated
class of society.
She met Marion's sympathetic glance with an earnest gaze, as though
she would read what manner of spirit she was of; then a beaming smile
lighted her whole face, as she said softly,—
"You are very welcome, my dear."
"I felt then," said Marion afterwards to her aunt, "as though I could
take her right into my heart of hearts." What she did at the moment
to show what she felt was to bend over and press her lips to the pale
cheek of the sufferer.
A few words of explanation as to her present visit,—of sorrow that
it must be a hurried one,—and then Marion said,—
"I am sure you will not consider my question prompted by curiosity,
if I ask, why are you here in this out-of-the-way part of the town?"
"Necessity compels it, my dear. I need perfect quiet."
"Would you prefer the city?"
"Greatly, in many respects, if I were well."
"You could have a physician near you there."
"No physician can avail me now,—at least such is my belief."
"Except the great Physician."
An expression of heavenly peace stole over the wan face. She held
Marion's hand in a closer grasp, as she said fervently,—
"God be praised! He has applied healing balm. My sins, which were
many, are forgiven. Oh, if you knew all, you would not wonder that
I look forward with longing to the hour when he will call me home!"
"You would feel like a poor sailor I found just redeemed from the
very depths of woe. He was singing from morning to night,"—
"'Love I much, I'm much forgiven;
I'm a miracle of grace.'"
Marion's clear voice as she sang the lines rang through the room.
"Will you sing a hymn for me, Miss Howard?"
Without a moment's hesitation the young began one which was a
favorite with herself.
"Whate'er my God ordains is right;
His will is ever just;
Howe'er he orders now my cause,
I will be still and trust.
He is my God:
Though dark my road,
He holds me that I shall not fall,
Wherefore to him I leave it all.
"Whate'er my God ordains is right;
He never will deceive.
He leads me by the proper path,
And so to him I cleave,
And take content
What he hath sen
His hand can turn my griefs away,
And patiently I wait his day.
"Whate'er my God ordains is right;
Though I the cup must drink,
That bitter seems to my faint heart,
I will not fear nor shrink.
Tears pass away
With dawn of day;
Sweet comfort yet shall fill my heart,
And pain and sorrow all depart.
"Whate'er my God ordains is right;
My Light, my Life is he,
Who cannot will me aught but good,—
I trust him utterly;
For well I know,
In joy or woe,
We soon shall see, as sunlight clear,
How faithful was our Guardian here.
"Whate'er my God ordains is right;
Here will I take my stand,
Though sorrow, need, or death make earth
For me a desert land.
My Father's care
Is round me there;
He holds me, that I shall not fall,
And so to him I leave it all."
Before she had ended, the door softly opened and was left ajar.
Marion started at the sound of wheels. "There is Mr. Angus!"
she exclaimed; "but I cannot go yet. I feel as though I had known you
all my life. I have to go to New York to-day. I want you to go to the
city. Why will you not come to me? I have room for all of you.
Yes, that will be best. It will be next to having my mother with me.
I can insure you a quiet room. Will you come?"
Mrs. Douglas closed her eyes; tears called forth by such kindness
from a stranger, trickled through the eyelids. Striving for
self-control she said,—
"Mr. Angus told me you were an angel of mercy. Never did any
strangers in a strange land need friends more than we do. I have
prayed night and day that my heavenly Father would raise up for my
poor Juliette and Eugene Christian friends. He has answered my
prayers. I will consider your proposal to go to New York, where board
within our means can perhaps be obtained near you. For Juliette's
sake I would be glad to be there."
"I regret so much that business of importance calls me home to-day,
but I will find a place at once, if you will not accept my
invitation. I am sure I can promise for Mr. Angus that he will be
a good friend to you and attend to your removal."
"Mamma, I'm going home with Mr. Angus," shouted Genie, bursting into
the outer room. "I'm tired of staying here."
"Miss Howard,"—the voice was so full of solemnity that Marion bent
over the bed again to listen, her breath coming quickly,—"you do
not seem like a stranger. Mr. Angus told me I might confide in you.
If I had time and strength I would tell you the sad story of my past
life. I was gay and thoughtless, living for this world alone. I have
been justly punished. Some time, if God gives me strength, I would
like to tell you my sad story. If, after you know all, you are
willing to be a friend to the dear ones I leave behind, the only
burden left me will be removed."
"I will gladly listen."
With moistened eyes she had just answered, when Mrs. Cheriton opened
the bedroom door, saying, "Your husband has returned, madam, and asks
whether you are ready."
Marion bent over the bed and kissed the sick lady, glad to hide her
blushing cheeks caused by Mrs. Cheriton's blunder. Then saying,—
"Please explain that Mr. Angus is only my friend. I shall see you
again before long," hastened to the door.
Eugene was still in the arms of the clergyman and it required much
persuasion on the part of his mother to coax him to remain with her.