CHAPTER XI.

MANY BLESSINGS.

 

THERE could scarcely be a greater contrast in two characters among Miss Howard's associates than Mr. Lambert and Esther Sims, or Esther Cole, as she asked Hepsey to call her for the present. Poor to the extent that, when she left the home in the stable loft, she had not a penny in the world and not a garment fit to wear to her new service, unlearned and ignorant in worldly wisdom, she yet seemed to absorb into her heart as governing motives to her life such sweet and restful views of God as her Father and Jesus as her Saviour as caused her young mistress to exclaim, "Thou and hast hid these things from the wise and prudent, and hast revealed them unto babes."

 

With a childlike frankness so peculiar to her, she confided to Miss Howard her increasing trust that God would answer her prayers for her husband's conversion.

 

"In that case you would return to him, I suppose." Marion wished to test her feelings as a wife.

 

A pretty pink flush flew all over Esther's face as she lifted her eyes wistfully to the lady's.

 

"God will take care of me," she said. "I am sure He will. It is of him I'm thinking. Now that he is away from bad people and can't get rum, it is such a nice time for him to become good. When he comes out of prison, if God wants me to go back to him, He will let me know it. Sometimes," she added, in a timid voice, "I think He will, because I promised for better, for worse, you know."

 

"Would you live with him if he were to beat you and abuse you as he did before?"

 

"Yes, ma'am, if I were sure God meant it so. I can never be as miserable again as I was before."

 

"Why can't you?"

 

"Because I have a friend now who would be close by me always."

 

"You mean Jesus Christ."

 

"Yes, ma'am. Even if he did get—get out of his mind with drink, and treat me unkindly, I would tell Jesus, and He would help me to forgive. If I never answered back and always tried to have a smile and the best home I could make for him, perhaps he might try to be better. Oh, I should be too happy!"

 

She clasped her hands to her breast, and looked so like an innocent child in her perfect trust that Marion shed tears of delight.

 

During the first week in September, Marion went to the Home for the Sick, to see Mary Falkner, who, with the aid of a cane, was able to walk the length of the ward.

 

"Isn't it wonderful?" she exclaimed. "The doctors say, with the exception of a limp in my gait, I shall be as well able to walk as any one. They are all so kind to me. Who knows but I shall be able to do some church work in your parish?"

 

"If you are able we will give you enough to do," answered Marion, blushing.

 

On her way out the superintendent met her and asked her to step to the parlor for a moment. He took from his pocket a letter recently received, and handed it to her with an arch smile. Though he did not know, he suspected the truth of a rumor he had heard concerning her.

 

The letter read as follows:—

 

Dear Sir,—

 

In memory of God's goodness to my deceased sister and

to myself, while we were within the walls of the Home for the Sick,

and in gratitude for the faithful care to our bodies and our souls,

by pastor, chaplain, and nurses, I send you the enclosed check,

which I think you once told me was the sum necessary to found

a permanent bed in your blessed institution. That your labors may be

as useful in the future as they have been in the past is the sincere

prayer of a fellow-laborer in Christ's vineyard.

 

HAROLD ANGUS.

 

"The check was for five thousand dollars," added the gentleman. "It was an unexpected thank-offering, and we are very grateful for it."

 

Marion expressed her pleasure, adding that Mr. Angus had told her how much he owed to the faithful teachings he received while in the Home.

 

This seemed to our young friend to be a day to mark with a white stone, it was so full of blessings. When she reached home she found a letter from Mr. Lambert which overwhelmed her and sent her to her knees to thank God for answering her humble prayers.

 

It was characteristic of himself in its brevity.

 

"Kind and faithful Friend,—

 

"The prodigal has returned. The Father

met and embraced him. He has put off his tattered garments. He has

a new robe on him. His voice rings with a new song. In the better

words of another, this is the language of his heart,—

 

"'I cannot love thee as I would,

Yet pardon me, O Highest Good!

My life and all I call mine own

I lay before Thy mercy throne.

And if a thousand lives were mine,

O sweetest Lord, they should be Thine!

And scanty would the offering be,

So richly Thou hast loved me.'"

 

A few days later Marion went to Grantbury in answer to a summons from her uncle. The outside walls of the church were finished, with the exception of the spire. The men were at work on the dizzy height, and expected to finish it by the middle of September.

 

The frame to the new house was raised and nearly boarded in. Mrs. Asbury said people were beginning to take quite an interest in it. One lady asked her point-blank if the clergyman intended to bring home a wife from England, to which she returned a decided "No."

 

During her stay Marion made a hasty call at the thread and needle store to see the Widow Falkner. Mary had kept her mother informed of her condition, and also of the great kindness all the patients received, but she was delighted to see Miss Howard and learn particulars about her daughter.

 

Then Marion drove half a mile in another direction for a call on Farmer Rand's wife, who was still an invalid.

 

Seldom had her appearance created such an excitement. It was evident something pleasant had happened.

 

"Talk of an angel, etc.," said the farmer, with a grand flourish of his hand. "Sit down, miss. You're as welcome as roses in June. How are ye?"

 

"We've been thinking a sight about ye," added the gudewife. "We've had a letter. Maybe ye know it."

 

"S-sh-sh, wife," making a sound like what he would make to quiet his oxen; "wait a bit, I’ve something to say. Now, miss, did ye ever hear about our church meetin'?"

 

"Yes, indeed, I heard all the items in detail."

 

"Wall, then, 't won't be breaking no Scripter rule if I do tell that I was moved to draw a few hundreds out of the bank and gin 'em to the Lord. 'T isn't that I'm a speakin' of. That 'ere's only the text to my sarmon, you see. The good book says, The Lord loveth a cheerful giver,' and I will say for myself and my good woman that the Lord He helped us to give that 'ere money with as good a will as though we were spendin' on 't to build a new bedroom out on our south side, as we've been a plannin' to do for a score o' years. Speak for yourself, Lucy. Am I stating your opinions correct?"

 

"Yes, I was very glad you did it."

 

"Well, then," said the farmer, laughing as he flourished his hands again, "the first part o' my sermon is 'stablished, and I'll go on. Wife, give me that 'ere Bible, will ye? Now I stan' to it that God holds to His promises even when men aren't looking for Him to do it. Here it is, He that watereth shall be watered himself'; and here's another, 'The liberal soul shall be made fat.' Now look here. Out there on the very edge of my farm there's a piece o' ground o' no airthly value to me. There's nothin' but sorrel'll grow on 't. I'd ha' given it to any friend for the askin'.  Wall, one day in come that prince of a man, 'Squire Asbury. I knew by the look o' his eye he meant business.  'Mr. Rand,' says he, 'I ain't no hand to circumvent' round matters; I go straight to the p'int.'"

 

"'Go ahead,' says I. 'I ain't no hand for circumventing, neither.'"

 

"'Mr. Rand,' says he, 'what will you take for that 'ere corner lot o' yourn that runs out towards the railroad track?'"

 

""''Squire Asbury,' says I, 'if you're in want o' that 'ere lot you're as welcome to it as the flowers in May. 'T ain't no vally to me at all.'"

 

"'No, no,' says he, laughin'. 'I'm a bargaining for the railroad, and they want to put up a freight depot there. The lot almost touches the rails. Set your price.'"

 

"'Oho!' says I, 'if that's the talk I calkerlate they're able to pay a little suthing. I'll agree to any price you'll name. Don't you say so, wife?'"

 

"'Yes, I will,' Lucy answered up, loud and prompt."

 

"'Squire Asbury kind o' laughed and repeated it over again. 'You both agree,' says he, 'to stick to the price I name, be it more or less?'"

 

"'Yes, we do.'"

 

"'Well, then, I want the lot just as it lies, sand and all, coming down to a p'int near the railroad, and a runnin' back one hundred feet to the rail fence put across where the land lies even, and I'll give you five hundred dollars for it.'"

 

"'Good land, 'Squire' says I, ''t ain't wuth it.'"

 

"'It's wuth every dollar of five hundred to the road,' says he; 'if they have to go a mile farther either way, they'll have to give six or eight. I'll have the deed drawn up ready for you and your wife to sign.'"

 

"'Squire Asbury,' says I as soon as I could catch my breath, 'I believe the Lord sent you here. When I give that five hundred to the Lord I never thought o' getting it back again, but you see here 't is, dollar for dollar, and more, too, for the pleasure o' giving my mite towards the Lord's new meeting-house was wuth the whole sum. Sure as you live, Lucy and I, we give thanks to God for lettin' of us have the privilege.'"

 

"'Yes, yes, I know that,' says he, and so he does.  If ever a man was blessed in his basket and store it's that same 'Squire Asbury. His hand, as the Scripter says, 'is open to the wants o' the poor.'" He ended with one grand flourish.

 

Marion laughed heartily as she said, "I wish you'd preach that sermon to some of our rich men on Fifth Avenue who don't know the pleasure of giving. It is as practical a sermon as I ever heard."

 

"Now, wife, speak up, if you've anything to say."

 

"Husband and I have had a letter," Mrs. Rand said, opening the large family Bible and taking an envelope from between the leaves. "It has made us real cheery coming so far, and it has good news in it, too. The pastor is real friendly to think of us."

 

"The pastor," exclaimed Marion, in surprise. "Have you had a letter from Mr. Angus?"

 

The farmer evidently understood that he had had his turn, and that his wife now had the floor.

 

He did not speak, but he nodded his head and performed other pantomime in such a remarkable manner that Marion was made aware what news the letter contained before the wife gave it to her to read.

 

Yes, there it was in plain black and white. He told this aged pair that he was going to be married and settle down among them for life, he hoped. He quoted the words of Solomon, "A prudent wife is from the Lord," and he said, "I'm sure mine is a prudent one, a priceless treasure. That she is from the hands of my Father in heaven I am equally sure. You will agree with me when I tell you Miss Marion Howard, your particular friend, has agreed to cast in her lot with me."

 

Marion kept her eyes fastened on the letter long after she had finished it. She did not like her good friends to see how much these manly words had affected her. She folded the sheet carefully and passed it back, saying, "I am glad he has told you."

 

"I guess we shall be able to hold on to him now," rejoined Mr. Rand, trying to laugh. But as Marion rose to go his voice changed to the tenderness of a father. He raised his hand over her head and pronounced a blessing on her and on her chosen friend; then sat down suddenly, and blew his nose like a trumpet to conceal how much he was affected.

 

 

 

CHAPTER XII.

A WONDERFUL DISCOVERY.

 

THESE were busy days with our young friend. In company with Hepsey she went to her old home and spent a week in looking over bedding and furniture preparatory to having it removed to Ingleside. Her father's place was let on a long lease, and she was well satisfied with the care taken of it.

 

Mr. Angus had written to beg her to consent that the wedding should take place immediately on his return, but she replied that the house would not be finished till some time later, and that it was necessary for her to complete her arrangements for her mission and her protégés among the poor before leaving New York.

 

Since the change in Mr. Lambert, the idea of giving the care of certain families to him had floated through her mind, but she feared he was too impulsive or would be too easily imposed upon if he undertook mission work. Annie Leman had promised to do all in her power, and had already proved both willingness and tact in the work.

 

On her return from the country, Marion found a note from Mr. Lambert requesting to see her on business. She suspected at once it was in relation to his will, about which he had already spoken to her. She sent James with an answer saying she would call on him at nine the next morning.

 

Later in the day she was pleasantly surprised by a call from Mrs. Cheriton and Eugene. They had advertised for and obtained a boarding-place in the country a few weeks before, but not being altogether pleased with the class of boarders they met there, had suddenly returned to the city the day before.

 

Mrs. Cheriton smilingly remarked that her mother seemed as pleased as a child to be back in her old rooms in New York; that she had taken her favorite seat near the window early in the morning, and had spent an hour or more watching the passers-by; that it was with difficulty they could persuade her to leave the window even for her meals.

 

Geenie gained great praise for his conduct during the visit. He amused himself with a book of pictures Hepsey brought him, and did not once touch any article in the room without liberty from his mother or Marion.

 

At a quarter to nine the next morning Mr. Lambert sent a carriage for Miss Howard, and on her reaching his house waited upon her to his library, a room adjoining his chamber. She had never seen this room before, and went around examining the pictures hanging over the well-filled bookcases.

 

He had evidently been writing. Papers covered his table, and his pen was still wet. As he took a seat near her, the visitor was startled at the marks of the agitation of mind through which he had recently passed.  His cheeks seemed sunken and a circle round his eyes betokened want of sleep.

 

"I fear you are not strong enough for business yet," she remarked, anxiously.

 

"I'm all right," he answered. "I've had letters which have disappointed me—personal matters. By the way, I may tell you about them some time. To-day I want to talk about other things.

 

"Miss Howard, I want to confess Christ. I want to do just the very thing I once thought a humbug,—to join myself to God's people. I want the help of a faithful pastor to keep my heart right, and I want the counsel of fellow-Christians as to the best methods of working for the Master."

 

Marion's eyes filled with happy tears. "I'm so glad, so glad!" she murmured. "Will you allow me to bring Dr. M—, my pastor, to see you?"

 

"No, child, I'm a poor old prodigal. I want to go among the poor and do what I can there. You told me once about a mission chapel. That is my place. It may be I can have courage to do something there, to help men, who, like myself, have lived for years among the husks."

 

"Oh, how I wish you would go to our parish in the country! There is a great work to do there, and you ought to be where your daughter could look after you."

 

"That would be a great inducement, child. You are nearer to my heart than any other. I have no ties of kin,—at least I can learn of none. Another time I may tell you the nature of the disappointment to which I referred. You will pity the poor, lonely man, I'm sure."

 

His tone was so sad that it deeply moved her, and taking his hand she pressed her lips upon it.

 

"Don't do that, I can't bear it. I shall be unfit for the business if I allow my feelings to have sway. I have been jotting down a few items in connection with the disposal of my property. I have more money than I know what to do with. If that interloper had not stepped in, I would make you my heir, and you could scatter it round as you please. As it is, I have set aside a few thousands to educate our friend Neddy, and I want you to look after him if anything happens to me.

 

"What is the name of that girl-wife you told me about, whose husband is in prison? I want to give you a thousand for her own use. If she goes back to that scoundrel it must be so tied up that he can't get at it. Will you have the goodness to pass me that long paper, ruled with red ink? That's the one."

 

In selecting this paper from the others, Marion had to move several letters lying on top. As she did so her eyes fell on an open page, with the name Madrid in full view. "Madrid! Does he have letters from Madrid? That was Mrs. Douglass's native place."

 

Her heart almost stopped beating, as a sudden possibility flashed like lightning through her mind. She glanced back at Mr. Lambert. "Could he, oh, could he be the cruel, exacting man whose jealousy and distrust had rendered the life of her friend so miserable? No! Oh, no!" And yet the thought, once entertained, would not be banished. "What if he is? How can I find out? How would he bear it? What a happy future he might have! What shall I do? What can I say?"

 

Her habitual frankness came to her aid. She had mechanically given him the paper and sank back in her chair, while he was so occupied in glancing over the items that he had not noticed her wild stare of astonishment.

 

"Mr. Lambert—" She stopped; her heart seemed to rise up in her throat and choke her. "Mr. Lambert, did you ever live in Madrid? I saw the address on an open letter. I do not ask from mere curiosity."

 

"The most blissful and the most wretched days of my life were passed in that city."

 

"Mr. Lambert, something has happened to me.  I—I can't think of business to-day. Will you excuse and trust me as though I were your own daughter? I want to tell you about a dear friend, the grandmother of the beautiful boy you have heard me speak about with such rapture. I promised to bring him to see you some day. That boy is a native of Madrid."

 

"What is the mother's name?"

 

"Cheriton, Mrs. Juliette Cheriton."

 

He shook his head thoughtfully.  "I never heard the name." He laid down the paper with a little vexed and disappointed air, adding, "I haven't been in Madrid for more than eighteen years."

 

"It is Mrs. Cheriton's mother who is my special friend. She is one of the loveliest, most accomplished ladies I know, and such an earnest Christian, too."

 

"Is her name Cheriton?"

 

"Oh, no! Eugene's mother is her daughter. She calls herself Douglass."

 

"Douglass!" Mr. Lambert started forward, then sank back and looked as though he had been struck. Presently, with his hand on his heart, he said in a choking voice,—

 

"Tell me all you know. Don't spare me. This suspense is killing me."

 

"I will tell you all, though I can only suspect the truth. Mrs. Douglass, as my friend chooses to be called, told me this was not her wedded name. Just before her daughter's birth, painful family circumstances arose, which caused a separation between herself and her husband. She has never seen him since."

 

"Did she confide these circumstances to you?" The voice seemed to come from a tomb.

 

"Yes, she did, and it has been her life-long regret that she could not explain them to the one most interested."

 

"You are an innocent child. Mrs. Douglass, as she calls herself, was my wife. She has deceived you. I saw what I saw with my own eyes. She even gave up the ring I presented her on our betrothal."

 

"Mr. Lambert, you must be calm. She does not deserve such bitter scorn. You were deceived in one particular. You thought her an only child. She had a brother, a wild, reckless man, who afterward paid the penalty for his crimes. Mr. Douglass forbade all mention of his name, and frequently alluded to his daughter as his only child. It was this wicked, daring fellow who suddenly appeared to my friend, and almost drove her wild by demanding money or jewels from her. She agreed to see him once, and give him all she could raise, on condition he would never cross her path again. She did see him. He seized her and held her forcibly while he wrested from her finger the valuable ring you had given her. His cruelty nearly cost her her life. She was carried to her bed, fell into convulsions, during which her child was born. The resolve she had made to tell you the truth at whatever cost, even her father's displeasure, it was impossible for her to carry out. Before she was well enough to understand what had passed, her husband, deceived and betrayed by a servant, who with tears and groans confessed her guilt, was a witness to the meeting between herself and her brother. He believed her lost to him and to virtue. He himself carried her in his arms to her couch, when, overcome by her brother's cruelty, she fainted, but he never gave her an opportunity to explain the painful meeting. If he had—"

 

She was interrupted by a terrible groan from Mr. Lambert. He threw his arms up, then, with a gurgling sound in his throat, he sank back, insensible.

 

Marion flew to the door and screamed for the valet. She loosened the necktie, and began vigorously to chafe the cold hands, but it was some minutes before he revived.

 

"The doctor cautioned him to avoid all excitement," said the servant, with a reproachful glance at the visitor. "Ever since those foreign letters came he's been terribly took down."

 

Marion was bending over him, with her hand on his forehead, when he opened his eyes.

 

"Don't—leave—me," he gasped. Presently he spoke again. "Do you think God will forgive me?" The tone was so piteous she found it impossible to control her voice to answer.  She bowed her head.

 

"Will you take a little hartshorn, sir?" asked the valet.

 

"Yes."

 

When it had been administered, he said, "Stay in the anteroom, Miss Howard may need you.—Pray for me," he added the moment they were alone.

 

"Yes, I will; but first I want to tell you that your wife, if Mrs. Douglass is indeed your wife, has loved you all these years. She blames herself that she did not insist that her father should tell you of her brother Henreich. I do not think there has been a day these last ten years that she has not prayed for your conversion."

 

His lip quivered like a grieved child, while great tears rolled down his pale cheeks. In a voice scarcely more than a whisper, he said,—

 

"Do you think it possible that she will forgive me?"

 

"She has forgiven you already."

 

There was a long silence after this. Mr. Lambert's countenance showed that a terrible struggle was going on in his breast. Marion could not look upon it, and covered her face, her cry going up to God for help and comfort to this poor man. At last, recalling his request, she fell on her knees, and in a low tone offered up her petitions in his behalf.

 

When she rose to her feet, she was startled at the awful pallor which had settled on his features. She put her fingers on his pulse, and to her terror found there was scarcely any beat.

 

"Go for the doctor as quickly as possible," she cried to the servant. "No, send some one. Don't leave me! He is very low."

 

Fortunately the physician was near at hand and was soon at the bedside. In a few words Marion related the wonderful story, that she had just made the discovery that Mrs. Douglass was Mr. Lambert's wife, which accounted for his alarming state of exhaustion.

 

For several hours it was doubtful whether Mr. Lambert would ever speak again. The physician told Marion that his case was a very  critical one, but at length they were able to force down a tonic, and soon after he sank into slumber.

 

The room was darkened, every sound hushed, and the faithful valet sat alone to watch and wait by his master's bedside.

 

It was night when he awoke; the physician had been in and out several times, and ordered a few spoonsful of nourishment as soon as he awoke. This was given him and he tried to speak.

 

"Miss Howard."

 

"She is not here. She said she would be back early in the morning."

 

"I may not live till then. Take—a—pen—and—write. With my dying breath I ask her to forgive me.—I leave to her—all—that I have—in the—world,—with my dying—love and blessing.  She, Miss—Howard, will—know who—I mean. Tell her not to let our daughter think too hard of her father. Fold—it and direct to Miss Howard."

 

Meanwhile Marion had returned home in such a state of excitement and fatigue that the physician, who took her there, sent her at once to bed, and ordered Hepsey to give her a powerful anodyne. When she woke, Mr. Lambert's servant had been to say that he wanted to see her as soon as she was able. Hepsey insisted that she should not go until she had eaten a hearty breakfast.

 

"I think you ought to consider what Mr. Angus would say," she urged, "and for his sake take a little care of your health."

 

"Hepsey, I feared last night that Mr. Lambert was dead, and, oh, Hepsey, it was what I had been telling him that made him fall into the swoon! You will not wonder that I was sick with fear when I tell you about it."

 

"I shall tell Mr. Angus that you've had enough of excitement for one life, and he'd better get you to the country as soon as he can."