CHAPTER XIX.
TEARS OF REPENTANCE.
I HAD only been in Madrid a few weeks before I found that my husband was jealous, unreasonably jealous. He was so exacting that he demanded all my attention. If I conversed with my old acquaintances, young or old, of either sex, he made a scene. My father remonstrated, and they came to open fight, my husband declaring that he would have no interference with his wife. To avoid quarrelling I gave up society, and even at my father's table became constrained in manner, scarcely daring to speak lest I should meet the reproachful eyes of my husband fixed upon me. Finding that even this reticence did not satisfy him, I went to the other extreme, talked and laughed—yes, and flirted too,—with any one. This went on for more than a year. I need not say that we were both wretched; for, strange as it was, I still loved my husband, in memory of the few weeks of unalloyed happiness after our marriage. I think he loved me, too, though he had greatly changed,—grown cold and sarcastic.
"I was driving out one afternoon in company with a servant, when I met a traveller, alone and on foot, who started at my approach, gazed fixedly in my face as we slowly passed, and then ran after the carriage. I was in delicate health, and his sudden reappearance greatly startled me. In his excitement he did not notice my fright; but, speaking a few words in English, he forced me to alight and join him at a distance. It was Henreich, my brother, my long-lost idol, shattered and destroyed. The fiercest passions lighted his magnificent eyes. He asked for father, and cursed both him and his own bad luck that our parents still lived. When I hurriedly told him I was married, he was so angry he would have struck me. He asked for money, saying, repeatedly,—
"'I must have money. I will have my portion of the estate. By fair means or foul, I will have what I want.'"
"I could not get away from him till I had given him my purse and every jewel I had about me, and had promised to meet him at night in a retired part of our grounds,—I thought I could steal away unobserved.
"Perhaps I could have done so but for the servant, who was afterwards discovered to be a spy my husband had set upon me, who told him of the strange meeting as soon as we returned home. He had never heard my brother's name, and must have wondered at my conduct.
"I went instantly to my chamber, where Mr.— soon joined me, coming to the couch where I lay, and gazing in my face with such marks of agony as I could not account for.
"At that moment my love came upon me with all its fervor. I put up my arms and drew him down to me, and wept on his shoulder. I kissed him repeatedly, and did not notice at the time that my caresses were not returned. I was so exhausted by what had passed that I fell asleep. I woke, shouting,—
"Henreich! O Henreich, go away! Why did you come back?'
"'Who is Henreich?' My husband's voice was so stern, so unnatural, that it frightened me. In one instant I realized that if I said, 'He is my brother,' he would not believe in the existence of one of whom he had never heard. Indeed, my father often spoke of me as his only child. If he did believe me, Henreich would be discovered, and my father's name disgraced; for, from what I had seen, I was sure his life had become wholly corrupt. These thoughts flashed through my mind, as my husband stood with blanched face and eyes protruding looking into mine. Would that I had explained all to him! I am sure love for me was struggling in his breast with the contempt he imagined I deserved; but I did not explain. I resolved that I would give all the money I could raise to my brother, and send him away; that when he was out of reach I would tell my husband the whole story, under a promise from him of secrecy.'"
Mrs. Douglass hid her face in her hands, unable to proceed.
Tears were trickling down Marion's cheeks.
"Perhaps I am doing wrong to tell you all this, Miss Howard. You blame me for my want of frankness, but not half so much as I deserve, and you will see that I have been terribly punished. I stole from the house at the hour I had promised to meet my brother, with a large sum of money in my hand, and a letter in which I told him it was the last time I would help him. I begged him to go away, and begin a life of honesty and virtue I signed myself your affectionate sister.
"My husband was watching, and saw me go out. He followed, heard the sound of excited voices, saw Henreich take me in his arms, and, as he thought, strain me to his breast. Alas! it was a ruffian who held me, while he tried to force me to yield to him my betrothal ring, a superb diamond. He succeeded in wrenching it from my finger. How I regained the house I never knew. I found myself in my own room on a couch, with my maid bending over me. I was told afterward that one swoon had succeeded another, physicians had been summoned, and remedies administered. At the sound of my voice mother came forward with our attending physician. Another spasm came on. Two days later I lay hovering between life and death, and my little babe lay beside me, the very image of Henreich as he was when I first remembered him.
"I was too sick at first to notice the absence of my husband. I learned later that he saw me fall in trying to reach the house, caught me in his arms, and laid me on the couch. He summoned my own maid, who saw him seize a few papers from the drawer and go out into the darkness. From that day to this I have never seen him. All these years, if he has lived through them, he has believed me to be a guilty thing, not worthy even of his contempt. All these years his child has never heard her father's name, and he whose heart was always touched with the sorrows of a child has never heard the sacred name of father from his child's lips. Too late I learned to love him with an intense affection, which, if it had been cherished earlier, would have led me to overlook faults of manner and roughness of speech which, perhaps, after all, were put on to disguise deep feeling.
"Only once in all these long, weary years have I heard from him. Our beautiful babe was two months old when my father received a letter, stating that a sum of money had been placed in the hands of trustees, who were named, for the benefit of my child, if living. He said that he considered the marriage tie broken, and that he should never trouble me again.
"He was right: believing of me what he did, he could not do otherwise. I honor him for it,—but I must hurry to a close.
"Henreich did not succeed in escaping the vigilance of persons who were in search of him. He had hoped to secure enough from me to reach a foreign land and chide justice. When his arrest was made public, the servant who had been with me on my first meeting Henreich confessed, with bitter tears, that she had told my husband that which caused him to watch me on that dreadful night. She said his agony of grief at what he called the certainty of my unfaithfulness frightened her, and she ran away, repenting that she had told him.
"Henreich's arrest and death, though under an assumed name, threw my mother into a fever, from which she never recovered. Two years later, father married a Spanish widow, with several sons and daughters. The eldest son was ten years older than Juliette, and was being educated in France and Germany. He returned to his home when she was only a few months over fourteen, became enamoured of her beauty, and a secret engagement took place. When I learned of it I refused my consent; but the infatuated child followed the example of her mother, and would not yield her own wishes. His mother agreed with me; but my father said there was no blood relation between them, and if they would wait till she was of proper age there was no objection.
"This half-consent was enough for Arthur Cheriton. He took Juliette out for a drive one day. When they returned they were man and wife. After living together a year, he found her unformed in mind and wilful in temper. He went to England on the plea that after obtaining a situation he would send for her.
"Eugene was just one month old when his father left home. We have never seen him since. A small fortune from my father at his death, together with the income from the sum my husband settled on us, has sufficed for our maintenance. It will support Juliette and her boy in comfort; but it is for her I fear. She has many of poor Henreich's traits, and her beauty attracts many admirers. My prayer is that the heavy afflictions which have separated us from those we love may wean her from earth as they have the mother; that she may find in the exercise of the duties of a Christian life the solace nothing else can give.
"One word more and I have done. Once a year we have heard from Arthur, whom I have always kept advised of our place of residence. I have reason to suppose he is in America, perhaps in New York. This was what led me to say that we might be compelled to leave the city. Juliette has lost all her love for him, and insists that she will never recognize the tie which binds them together. As long as I live, I shall go with her where she goes; but I know death may claim me at any time,—and then what will become of my child?"
"Was your husband's name Douglass, too?"
"I took my father's name when he cast me off."
CHAPTER XX.
LETTERS FROM THE PASTOR.
"HOW true it is," said Marion, as, after she had taken Mrs. Douglass to her home, she was seated in her own parlor,—"how true that the sins of the parents are visited on the children! God's threatenings are as faithful as his promises. I cannot be thankful enough that I have had a pious ancestry, and that their prayers may be answered in blessings on their descendants. How little that father realized that, in allowing his son and daughter the indulgence of every caprice, they were sowing seed which would spring up to their own sorrow and shame! How little even Mrs. Cheriton realizes that she is pursuing the same evil course with her boy, and that from being her idol he will become her tyrant! I promised Mrs. Douglass that I would be a friend to the youthful mother; indeed she urged that Mr. Angus had advised her to confide her story to me, and had been confident that I would not forsake her. I will try to keep my promise."
Mr. Angus sailed early in June, and, except a notice in the papers of the safe arrival of the steamship in Liverpool, no news from him had been received. Mrs. Asbury wrote Marion that her long-promised visit would be paid the last week in the month, and that she expected her niece to return with her to Grantbury. At the close was the following hurried postscript:—
"I have opened my letter to add that Mr. Asbury has just received a brief communication from our dear pastor. He is well, preached on Sunday in London, both morning and afternoon, sent affectionate regards to all friends including you and Ethel, of course."
Marion read the message with a heightened color. Her heart rebelled against being remembered in this general way; then, reading again, was pleased to see that this was only her aunt's rendering of his message. She fell into a revery concerning the absent one. "He told me I was the only confidant he ever had. In aunty's last letter she narrated exactly what he told her in regard to the triumphant death of a friend. She has no idea that I knew his sister, nor of the painful events of his early life. I will not betray his confidence; and yet it will be a trial to me to keep anything of interest to myself from my dear, kind aunty. I wonder whether he will write me, and when."
She was interrupted by James, who brought the morning paper.
"Nothing else?" she asked, in a tone of disappointment.
"Nothing at all."
Looking at her watch, she saw there would not be time to read the news before the carriage was due. She folded it in an abstract manner, walked to the rack to put it in, when she saw the end of a letter protruding from a newspaper inside. As this was not the place for letters, she took it out, and found to her surprise it was unsealed, and—"Yes, it is," she said aloud, "it is postmarked London."
Mr. Angus began by asking,—
Am I intruding too much on your kindness by sending you a few lines
at so early a date? If so, forgive me, and remember that though I am
in my native land, standing on the spot where my fathers stood, yet I
am a stranger. I feel lonely to-night, and would gladly transport
myself back to my adopted country. We had a prosperous voyage,—
prosperous so far as it could be to one who was being removed farther
and farther from home and home friends. How much would I give to have
my little Ethel in my arms, and hear her sweet voice whispering in
my ear, "I love you!"
You will turn from my page, I fear, disgusted with my home-sickness,
and I will tell you of other things.
I have been occupied with business in London, but start to-morrow
for Doncaster, and from that place shall proceed to Leyden. There is
a post-office in Leyden. If I should find there a letter directed to
me, it would make me very happy.
I write Mr. Asbury by this same steamer, and shall send my messages
direct to them.
May God bless you, my dear Miss Howard, and reward you for all your
kindness to me and mine, is the sincere prayer of your friend,
HAROLD ANGUS.
There was one person only to whom Marion spoke of the relief which had come to the Grantbury pastor, and this was to Mary Falkner. This young girl, in the midst of her own suffering, never forgot to pray that God would lead him into the light. It was Marion's precious privilege to change these prayers to praise for mercies already bestowed.
It was during a visit made to the Home, and when the conversation had reverted to friends in Grantbury, that Mary inquired who was preaching there. "Mother goes every Sunday to church," she went on, "and says she enjoys it. She told me word had come across the water from the pastor, that he was safe on land the other side."
Marion laughed at the curious phraseology of the widow, and then said, "Your prayers for him have been answered, Mary. He is no longer weighed down by sad memories. I will report to you what he told Aunt Asbury."
The cripple clasped her hands, while a fervent expression of joy stole over her face.
"God be praised!" she ejaculated. "He will be far more useful in his work now. He can 'rejoice with those who do rejoice, as well as weep with those who weep.'"
PART II.
CHAPTER I.
GRANTBURY AND THE FIRST CHURCH.
GRANTBURY is a manufacturing town. It has six churches, of the different denominations. The largest and most flourishing church was the one over which Mr. Angus was settled as pastor. A branch of this church had gone off some years before and had built a chapel near one of the factories, hoping to bring in many of the employés, who were neglectful of public worship. This had not been as successful as had been hoped; the clergyman was so poorly supported that he left, and of late the effort of the Christian workers had been concentrated on the Sunday school. The usual attendance here was about one hundred.
Two years before the commencement of our story, an unusual excitement prevailed in the town, caused by the proposition of a few speculators to build a new railroad direct to the principal cities east and west of them, thus connecting them with the great thoroughfares. The capitalists who owned most of the stock in the branch railroad which connected them three times in a day with the next town at first opposed the new project; but Mr. Asbury, with a wider and more far-reaching view of the results, advocated it both by public speeches and offers of money.
As he was a large land-owner, and the railroad would have to pass through one of his most valuable farms, it was argued by those wishing the new road, that he must be advocating it for the good of the public against his private interests. So, indeed, he was. The new road was chartered, and in time in working order. A compromise to purchase from the owners of the branch road twelve miles which came in their direct route satisfied all parties; so that, when, the new, tasteful depot with the long baggage-room replaced the forlorn little station with shed attached, there was a general burst of enthusiasm.
The two years following this made a marvelous change in the old, quiet village. Mr. Asbury had given a beautiful site for the new depot, on conditions which had been complied with. The grass land belonging to his largest farm had been laid out in squares, with a park in the centre, and sold for house lots. The buildings put up there according to the terms of sale, must not be less than a stipulated cost; and thus a pretty village was growing up in this part of the town.
Mr. Angus's church was half a mile from the station, and quite near Mr. Asbury's dwelling house. The stimulus in all branches of business had been so great since the new railroad had been built that the main street had been widened, and set out with shade trees at the border of the flagged sidewalks.
Nor was the prosperity confined to the vicinity of the depot. The increased demand for vegetables, milk, etc., from the new-comers made the land too valuable for the farmers to cultivate grass and corn for their own use. Large fields with southern exposures were planted with early and late vegetables and small fruits, which found a ready sale at their own new market.
This was the condition of the town when Mr. Angus became the pastor of the First Church. During the nine months following his ordination, the church building had become so crowded that a suggestion of enlarging by transepts had been made. It was an old-fashioned edifice, with unnecessarily roomy slips, white walls, high pulpit, and poor ventilation. Mr. Asbury was opposed to enlarging, but did not consider it time to give his reasons.
At a meeting of the trustees directly after Mr. Angus went abroad, it was proposed that the work of enlarging be entered upon immediately, and finished by the time of the pastor's return. Some money was subscribed; but when the paper was passed to Mr. Asbury, he refused to sign any thing. As a large subscription had been hoped for, this refusal threw a damper on the undertaking; but a committee was appointed to report in one week, and the meeting adjourned.
During this very week a fire broke out in carpenter's shop filled with combustible matter. The flames carried sparks and half-burned sticks to several houses in the vicinity, and among them to the building belonging to the First Church. The committee met, and all the male members with them, not to report on the cost of the proposed alterations, but to consult what was to be done in this sudden and terrible emergency.
The old sturdy farmers were near despair, but supposed they must do something to repair the temple of the Lord, and were thankful that the walls, being of brick, were still standing.
Others had a plan that a new town hall, just finished, should be hired, and public worship held there till such time as they were able to recover from the effects of the terrible calamity which had overtaken them.
Mr. Asbury and a few friends belonging to the wealthy portion of the church remained silent listeners to the views of the older brethren. At length, after an hour spent in lamentations over the calamity, and propositions which were considered impracticable, the moderator of the meeting remarked,—
"We have talked an hour to no purpose. Will some one make a proposition as to a place of worship for us next Sunday?"
After a momentary pause, Mr. Asbury quietly rose from his seat with an open paper in his hand. There was not the least trace of excitement in his manner, as he said, "I have here a letter, which I will read. It is from the trustees of the Methodist Episcopal Church in our town, and is addressed to me.
"MR. EDWARD ASBURY:
"Dear Sir,
"At a meeting of our board of trustees the day following
the burning of your church edifice, a resolve was unanimously voted
that we deeply sympathize in your loss of your house of worship, and
that we tender to you the free use of our church building till such
time as you may repair your edifice or otherwise provide for
yourselves.
"With fraternal love and good-will,
"Very respectfully
"MOSES HUNT.
"By order of trustees of Methodist Episcopal Church, Grantbury."
A motion to accept this friendly offer was at once passed, and then Mr. Asbury rose again and said,—
"I have a proposition to make; but, first, I ask you to listen to a few facts. I have made a careful investigation into the state of our church building, the walls of which are still standing. It is fifty-eight years old; the beams are rotten. It ought to be a source of gratitude that we have escaped a greater calamity by reason of the falling in of the walls, from the cellar being unventilated. It cannot be repaired. This is the opinion of the best experts I have been able to obtain. I propose, then, that we sell it as it stands, to some gentlemen who offer five thousand dollars for the site. They intend, if they obtain it, to put up a large hotel."
"It's a good offer."
"Take it."
"I object."
"We must have the land to build again."
"We need a hotel for summer residents."
"We can worship in the town hall."
"Or disband altogether," grumbled a man who never contributed a penny.
Altogether the clamor following this proposition prevented any further remarks from Mr. Asbury, if he had wished to make any, and he sat down with a smile on his face.
Several groups were at once formed, and loud, excited voices were heard discussing this unexpected proposal; some were for accepting, others positively refused to quit the old spot dedicated by their fathers to the worship of God. At length the moderator, with a loud rap on the table, called the meeting to order, and inquired whether any gentleman had anything further to say before the proposal was put to vote.
Mr. Asbury rose again, this time with a little flush on his face, as he remarked, "I am not in the habit, as you, my friends, are aware, of speaking of myself; but I would like to say that I have the welfare of this parish greatly at heart. We are blessed with a good pastor,—a live, working man. I believe he will be more useful in the future than he has been in the past; that he is a growing man. I believe that he will return to us with greatly improved health and spirits, and enter on his work again with new hope and confidence of success. I want to show him that we appreciate him by building him a new church large enough to accommodate all the new families who wish to join us. When a proposition was made at our last meeting to enlarge our old building, I did not subscribe, because I knew the work would cost more in the end than to begin a new one. I have had some sad experience, as many of you know" (smiling), "as to the cost of repairing old buildings. Now that the fire has rendered that undertaking impracticable, I propose to your board of trustees to accept a lot of land on the rising ground, half-way between this and the new depot, which I freely tender to them."
Shouts of "Yes," "We will," etc., were checked by a wave of Mr. Asbury's hand, as he added,—
"Wait a little: I have not done yet; there are conditions. I wish to say that a subscription paper has already been started for a new edifice costing not less than twenty thousand dollars, and the sum of fourteen thousand eight hundred dollars, including five thousand for our old church building, already subscribed, on condition that the whole amount be raised, and no mortgage ever be allowed upon it."
Profound silence followed this speech, which was like a bombshell thrown into an unprotected house; then a few whispers were heard,—
"Five thousand and more to raise. Where will it come from?"
"'T would have cost ten to repair, and 't would have been an old building after all."
At last, Mr. Rand, an aged, white-haired farmer, stood up.
"I'm an old man," he said, "and not long for this world; but I hope to live to see the new church built on that 'ere spot yonder, which, in my opinion, is the pootiest place for a church in the hull town,—yes, and to worship God in it, too. I'm not rich, and I'm not poor. I've got nigh upon two thousand dollars in the savings bank, laid up for a wet day. My children are all married and settled on farms of their own; so I sha'n't do any of 'em wrong if I add my name to Mr. Asbury's paper," holding out his hand for it. "There," he said, deliberately taking off the glasses he had put on to write,—"there's fifteen thousand three hundred subscribed on the above-named conditions. If necessary, I'll add another five hundred; and I'm sure my old woman will say so, too."
"After this noble example," rejoined the moderator, more moved by the old man's words than he liked to show, "I'll put down my name for the same sum as he did."
Smaller sums were at once added, so that when the meeting adjourned, after the appointment of a building committee, only one thousand more was necessary to make up the entire amount. This was to be obtained by personal solicitation from the families of those not represented at the meeting, and a committee of ladies was requested to take this work in hand.
CHAPTER II.
VISIT TO INGLESIDE.
THE architect employed by the building committee had submitted a plan for the new church,—Gothic, high spire, and stained-glass windows. It was accepted, the foundation laid, the walls, which were to be of native stone, raised to the height of seven feet, when a letter was received from Mr. Angus, enclosing a slip cut from a London newspaper.
"A very innocent-looking paragraph," exclaimed Mr. Asbury to his wife. "But what a stir it will make in the parish!"
It was the announcement of an urgent call given to the Rev. Harold Angus, of New York City, United States of America, to settle over the —Church, —Street, London, at a salary of one thousand pounds.
In addition to the printed paragraph, Mr. Angus had written,—
DEAR FRIENDS,—
Mail going out. Only time to say that the call alluded to, and the
enclosed slip, in which it was announced, came to hand by
the same mail, and was wholly unexpected. Fearing you might see it
copied into a New York paper, I forward it, and will write more at
length by next steamer.
H. ANGUS.
Before the close of the day in which the letter was received, few belonging to the First Church were ignorant of its contents. Mr. Asbury was right. The news created a great excitement, not only in their own parish, but throughout the town. A meeting of the voters in the First Church was called to express their opinions in regard to the subject of the paragraph.
After the opening exercises, Mr. Asbury stated the object of the meeting. Mr. Rand then started to his feet, and with a quick glance around the room, said, in a loud voice,—
"I'm as deaf as a post, from a cold I got down on my medder, and I can't hear a word you say; but my wife, she's heerd that some folks 't other side of the water are trying to get our pastor away from us, and she told me to come here and vote it right down. It's a shame, anyway, for Christians to be a-pulling and a-tearing of one another. We've got the first right to Mr. Angus, and I vote that we hold on to him, and let them get a minister nearer home. That's all I've got to say. If it's more salary than we pay him, I guess I can help make up the difference between what they'll give and what we do."
A hearty laugh followed this speech, and, as Mr. Rand had expressed in brief the wishes of all present, the meeting soon adjourned, after a unanimous vote "to hold on to their pastor," and make the question of salary satisfactory to him.
One of his neighbors having screamed this result into Mr. Rand's ear, he mounted his farm-wagon with a significant nod of his head.
"All right!" he shouted, at the top of his voice. "I darsn't go home till I knew the parish would hold on to him. My old woman would—you know." His voice was lost in the distance.
Perhaps if the good farmer had known the contents of a letter which at this very hour was being carried by wind and steam across the Atlantic he would have been still more jubilant as he sat eating his supper of cold corned beef and greens, and telling his wife, between the mouthfuls, the news he had learned at the meeting.
Mrs. Asbury made her visit to Marion at the time she had promised, taking Ethel with her. Of course all the Grantbury news was rehearsed, in the course of which the pastor's name was frequently mentioned. Ethel, meanwhile, had succeeded in coaxing Gypsy, a pet spaniel belonging to Mrs. Mitchell, to allow herself to be dressed in one of her dolly's cloaks.
"Now," she said, "we are going to sail on a voyage to Europe, to see Mr. Angus. You must sit very still, doggy, because it's Sunday. I shall teach you a hymn by and by,"—
"'I must not play on Sunday.'"
"When we get to Europe, I shall let you go with me to Ingleside, you know. There is a pretty garden at Ingleside, with an arbor all covered with grape vines. If you are good till we get there,—sit still, Gypsy,—oh, how naughty you are to pull off your nice cloak!"
By this time Gypsy thought she ought to be released, and jumped from the sofa, where Ethel had placed her, at which the little girl burst into a merry laugh.
"What is she talking about?" asked Marion, in a low tone.
"Where is Ingleside, Ethel?" inquired her mother.
"Why, don't you know? It is Mr. Angus's home, where his grandfather used to live. When he was a little boy, his mamma let him go there sometimes; and he had hens and little goats to play with. We talk about it when we are taking a walk, you know."
"What a pretty name Ingleside is," remarked Marion, without raising her eyes from her work. She was making a fine dress for Frances, Ethel's favorite doll, and of course the excitement of this was what made her cheeks look so rosy.
During Ethel's visits Marion invited Geenie Cheriton to take a drive with them and pass the rest of the day with the little girl. They all gave a sigh of relief, however, when James started with him for his home, and Mrs. Asbury said,—
"I wonder how Mrs. Douglass can endure that child's noise. It is such a pity that he should be ruined by indulgence."
"I wouldn't be that boy's nurse for a fortune," exclaimed Hepsey, who was putting up the toys Geenie had pulled about. "They'll have a time with him if he lives."
Mr. Lambert called during Mrs. Asbury's visit, and was introduced to the guests. He seemed greatly attracted by Ethel, who fixed her large violet eyes seriously upon him. He succeeded at last in coaxing her to his side, when they had quite an animated conversation. Before they parted he gave her a beautiful little charm, whist he unhooked from his watch-chain.
This was the first time Marion had seen him since her discovery that Mr. Regy, of whom she had heard so much, was only the double of her old friend. She longed to ask him about it, but would not before strangers. She contented herself with inquiries about Neddy Carter, who was soon to be admitted to the mission school.
Only two days after Mrs. Asbury's return to Grantbury, Marion received a thick letter with a foreign postmark,—Leyden, Yorkshire. She retired quickly to her own chamber, and sat down with blooming cheeks to its perusal.
I have no intention of copying the letter, but will say that, after giving her an account of his visit to his home,—a visit which almost overwhelmed him with its painful memories,—and visiting the graves of father, mother, and brother as they lay side by side under the old yew-trees, he took the cars for Ingleside, his father's ancestral home in Leyden. He told her he found only an old servant, a retainer of the family, who received him as one from the dead. His grandfather had four children born here,—one son and three daughters. When he died, in Harold's twelfth year, his property was divided equally between them, except Ingleside, which was always to be kept in the family, and after the death of his daughters to revert to his oldest grandson.
Estelle Angus, for whom Stella was named, made a will and left her namesake her heir. Mary and Sarah died without making a will, and the property came to Harold, as the nearest of kin. It was not a great fortune that he found awaiting him, Mr. Angus told Marion, but, with the money left in the bank by his father, it was sufficient to enable him to carry out some cherished plans.
One of these plans was to build a pretty home on a certain knoll in Grantbury (the very one Mr. Asbury had given to the church), to be called Ingleside; but there was one word from her which must come before the new Ingleside could be built.
Then followed certain statements in regard to a diagnosis recently made of his heart, which conveyed to the young lady a pretty accurate idea of what the word must be, in order that the English cottage be erected.
By this time Marion, by certain unwelcome symptoms, which had forced themselves on her notice was aware of the strength of her own attachment for her pastor, and, being naturally frank and outspoken, she wrote the word (a very short one), which, could he have known it, would have set good Farmer Rand's mind at rest in regard "to holding on" to his pastor.
In a note added to his letter, immediately following the receipt of the call from the London church, Mr. Angus added:—
"I have just forwarded to Mr. Asbury an invitation to settle in our
great metropolis. Would you prefer to live in England? Of course I
could not give the parish an idea of what my answer will be till
I hear from you. Am I presumptuous? You first taught me to be
hopeful. Am I too daring to hope now?"
Early one morning soon after this, Mrs. Douglass sent Marion a note, requesting her to call at her earliest convenience.
On entering the house where Mrs. Douglass had rooms, Marion met in the hall a dashing young man, dressed in the height of the fashion, with a lighted cigar in his hand. She would have passed him without notice, but for a bold stare, which sent the indignant blood to her cheeks.
The knock at Mrs. Douglass's door was for a minute unanswered; then Mrs. Cheriton opened it, her eyes still flashing defiance, her head thrown back, but looking more brilliantly beautiful than the visitor had ever seen her.
Mrs. Douglass had evidently been under some strong excitement: her eyes were red with crying, and her hands trembled.
Eugene came forward with a rush to meet the lady. He was dressed for a walk and insisted that Marion should accompany him.
"I am on my way to my music scholars," explained the visitor, taking the little fellow in her arms. "Some time you shall go with me."
"I'm going to walk with you," said his mother haughtily.
"How can I aid you, dear friend?" asked Marion, when the outer door had shut upon the others.
"Did you meet a gentleman as you came in?"
"I did. I can guess that he is Mr. Cheriton."
"Oh, no! no! Would that he were here. Juliette is so young: she does not consider; she is—I am pained to say so—she is imprudent. Arthur has no right to leave her unprotected. She wrung her hands in great distress, her eyes full of tears.
"Who is he?"
"His name is Alford. Juliette accompanied one of our fellow-boarders to the theatre, and was introduced to him there. He has been here every day since. She has just promised, in my presence, and contrary to my wishes, to go to the theatre with him to-night. I am powerless to prevent it. What must I, what can I do?"
"Alford," repeated Marion. "Do you know his Christian name?"
"There is his card,—C. W. Alford, New York City."
"A very indefinite address. Will you let me take it? I will make inquiries concerning his character. I am sorry to say I was not favorably impressed with his appearance."
"But Juliette has a husband. Whatever his moral character may be, she must not receive attentions from him. If the poor child has a father living—" A burst of tears interrupted her.
"She has a heavenly Father," urged Marion, deeply moved. "He will never lose sight of her for a moment. His eye sees her when no earthly eye can follow her, and His arm can protect her from harm. Dear Mrs. Douglass, don't weep so. Let us ask His guidance."
Seldom had the young Christian poured forth such earnest petitions for help as now. Realizing, as she did, the impulsive passion of the young wife, the excuses she would make to her conscience,—that her husband had forsaken her,—the impossibility of earthly effort to restrain her, Marion called upon God to appear for them in their trouble, to touch the heart of the young mother, to put barriers in her path to ruin, to fill her soul with purer joys.
Feeling as she did at that moment, perhaps as never before, how sheltered and protected her own life had been, how brightly the future was opening before her own path, her tears gushed forth afresh at the thought of the dangers threatening this beautiful, unprotected child-wife. She prayed too that the absent husband might be brought to a sense of his wrong-doing in forsaking her whom he had sworn to cherish, and return to them with new purposes and new resolves. Nor did she forget the absent father, so long unknown to those connected with him by the closest ties. She prayed that if he were still an inhabitant of earth, God, who knew all things, would lead him back to them, to be their comfort and joy.
"O Miss Howard!" cried the afflicted mother, clasping her hands, "what a blessing that we can go to our heavenly Father and tell him all our sorrows! I have an assurance that He will answer; that He will in some way protect my dear, deluded child. It may be by my death. I would willingly give up my life, could I be assured of her safety. It may be that He will touch Arthur's heart, and bring him home to his family. I would submit to any privation, any inconvenience, to have him, her lawful protector, with her."
"Or," added Marion, "He may restore to you the husband you have so long mourned. A father would be a great blessing to Juliette now."
"A Christian father," murmured the lady, raising her eyes to heaven. "Every day my prayer for him is, Lord, if he is living, lead him to Thyself."
After a short silence, the lady added, "I thank God I can say with truth that, since the hour my husband left me, believing I was lost to virtue, I have always maintained the strictest reserve toward all of the opposite sex. I was young, and often called handsome. I believe my husband had been proud of my beauty. I could play the piano and guitar as an accompaniment to my voice; but I only played for my parents and most intimate friends. I have always tried to impress upon Juliette, both by example and precept, that a wife so unfortunately situated must be doubly guarded in her conduct. Character is a plant which must be kept in good soil, free from blights and mildew. It must be watched and tended with care. It is too sacred to be trifled with."
Mrs. Douglass wept as she talked, and Marion, desirous of soothing her, said,—
"Mrs. Cheriton's love for Eugene is a great preservative."
"Yes, that is true," sighing. "Poor boy! He needs a father's restraining hand."
"We have asked our heavenly Father to preserve them both from all evil, and I believe He will," rejoined the visitor, hopefully.
God did answer the prayers so earnestly offered, but in a way entirely unlooked for.