CHAPTER XV.
VISITORS AT SHANKLIN.
THE parting was over. Mary, very pale but more thoughtful of the frail mother than of herself, kept up bravely, and no one would have guessed the desolate feeling which came over her as the beautiful steamer became every moment more and more a speck on the waters.
"It will not be long before he is with us again, God willing," whispered Mrs. Fulbert.
"No," answered Mary. But her heart went straight as an arrow to her abiding-place, and found its best rest in the unchangeable love of Jesus.
"Hope had laid her anchor,
Found her rest,
In the sure calm haven
Of His breast."
They both had dreaded to go back to the hotel, and decided to pack up as quickly as possible and to travel home. But when they entered the familiar rooms, there sat the vicar and his wife, looking as natural as if they had been there for days.
It did not take long to explain that they had come to town to try to persuade Mrs. Fulbert and Mary to go with them to a southern watering-place for a little change of scene, while they also bore a letter from Pollie's mother containing a permission for her to accompany them.
"I am afraid I shall be in the way, dear Miss Loveday," said Pollie, blushing; "and if so, please do not think of it. I can be put into the train, and go home by myself, I know."
But nobody would hear of this, and then Mr. Loveday acknowledged that he had already arranged for rooms, which were only waiting for them to travel to when they felt inclined.
So the next day, they found themselves sitting at tea within sight of the sea at Shanklin, a happy party of five.
"Pollie," said Mary that evening, as they stood on the Esplanade and felt the salt spray blow in their faces, "you are my little friend, you know, who understands more about me than anybody in the world—more than Harry even—and you must learn to call me Mary. I think of you as a dear little sister."
Pollie did not answer; she only squeezed her arm very tightly.
"Say you will, dear."
"I'll try," whispered Pollie, "but whatever I call you, it will not alter my love."
The next morning, to Pollie's intense surprise, she found a letter from her father on her plate at breakfast.
On opening it, she gave such a start that Mary asked what was the matter.
"My cousins—the Browns—from Chichester are staying here in a house on the cliff!"
"Well, are you glad?" asked Mary.
"I suppose I am. I hardly know," said Pollie, a little soberly. Then, after a few moments' silence, she added, "If they get to know you I shall be, because you will do them good."
So Mary and she had some talk about them, and Pollie told her a little of their life at Chichester, and of the gay, unsatisfactory circle they were in. Of her cousin's acquaintance with H. F. she said nothing, as she felt it was not her secret.
"You must go up to call on them presently. Perhaps they do not know you are here," concluded Mary, as they got up from their seat in the Chine and made their way back to their lodgings.
"Perhaps not," said Pollie; "if they do not know, they will think I have dropped from the skies."
"So you have," smiled Mary.
So Pollie set forth, and soon found herself knocking at the door of a handsome house where her cousins were lodging.
Fortunately, for her comfort, her father had written to them also, telling them of Pollie's presence in Shanklin.
Clara received her with open arms, and led her straight into the garden, where her Aunt Elizabeth was sitting. They were both loud in their praises of how Pollie had grown, and how she had improved.
Presently her aunt went indoors, saying she would send Laura out, and before Clara had time to say something she was evidently longing to do, there was a slow soft step on the gravel behind them, and Laura stood leaning on the end of the garden seat.
Clara got up and gave her sister her seat, and threw herself on the grass beside them, looking down across the lawn to the view of the sea over the trees.
Pollie's eyes wandered several times to Laura's face, but they came back again unsatisfied.
Laura looked as pretty as ever, but there was a transparency about her that reminded Pollie of a young girl who had died of consumption in their village. She was so taken up with this thought that she made quite a muddle of explaining how she came to be at Shanklin, and who Miss Loveday was.
"Isn't that the name of that old lady you and my father used to be so devoted to?" asked Clara, puzzled.
"That was my Miss Loveday's aunt," said Pollie. "You will like to know her, I mean my Miss Mary, she is so awfully nice."
Clara laughed, but added more warmly, "Well, I'll come down and make her acquaintance. I'm moped to death here, with Laura coughing all the time. There will be some fun now you're here!"
So Pollie stayed for half an hour and then went back, Clara volunteering to accompany her down the hill.
Pollie looked towards Laura, but Clara said she would be all right till she came back, and took up her hat and ran off down the garden.
"The fact is," she said abruptly, when they turned into the road, "I wanted to have a little talk with you about Laura. We've never heard another word from H. F. since you left, nearly a year ago. Of course the friends he was staying with hear from him, I suppose, but he has never sent even a message to Laura—"
"I am so sorry," said Pollie, "I wish—"
"What's the use of wishing," said Clara bitterly. "It has broken her heart. I see it all now, and if we had not been so secret over it, I daresay it would not have happened. At any rate, she would not have taken it to heart like this. As to me, I'm utterly miserable."
"Cannot you tell Aunt Elizabeth or Uncle?" urged Pollie gently. "You would be so much happier."
Clara shook her head, and then added, "Sometimes, I think I must, but Laura will not hear of it."
"Does she think he will come back?" asked Pollie.
"Oh, no! There is a report that he is going to be married. Laura has never raised her head since that."
"Poor Laura!" said Pollie.
"Sometimes I have wished more than I can say to see you. I even asked Ma to write and invite you. But she said she did not see that it could do Laura any good."
"I wish I could," murmured Pollie.
"I fancy you might. Every day I see her getting weaker, and my heart is really broken."
"But I could not help her," exclaimed Pollie, "except—"
"Yes, that's it!" said Clara eagerly. "You have learned a secret that we haven't. I thought that you might give her some of your comfort."
"Can't you?" said Pollie. "It is open to everyone. I mean Jesus Christ is—"
Clara had hold of her arm. She pressed it now with unusual affection. "Pollie, you do sometimes pray?"
"Sometimes!" echoed Pollie.
"Well—would you—could you? I know we do not deserve it, but could you pray for us?"
"Of course I will, and so will Miss Mary."
"Oh, don't tell her!"
"Not anything you do not like. But if you want a blessing, why should you mind our praying for it?"
Clara turned very white, but she suddenly exclaimed:
"Do as you think best. I'm so miserable! What if Laura should die?"
"Oh, do tell my aunt," urged Pollie. "Do, do, Clara. You will find a load gone when you do!"
They had reached Pollie's home. Clara refused to come in, and with a passionate kiss on Pollie's cheek she turned homewards, while Pollie with full heart went upstairs to find Mary and tell her all about it.
CHAPTER XVI.
MISSIONARIES AT HOME.
THAT evening after tea, Mary and Pollie set out for the cliff, Mary to carry a bunch of flowers to the invalid and Pollie to ask her cousin Clara if she would go for a walk.
Mrs. Brown was out at the moment. Thus Mary found herself sitting quietly with Laura, the golden glory of the sunset lighting up the Culver Cliffs and tipping the distant sails as they passed along the horizon.
Laura had been idly scanning the local paper, and her thin fingers rested in it still.
"I was reading the names of the visitors here," she said. "There was no one we know yesterday. Clara and Ma generally go out in the evening and the time seems long."
"Perhaps you will let me come and see you sometimes?" said Mary. "We expect to be here a fortnight."
"If you like," said Laura listlessly. "Ma is going home to-morrow and Clara will be very dull, as she says, with my cough."
She was still glancing at the paper, when suddenly a deep colour spread over her face, and with an exclamation of dismay, she exclaimed hurriedly:
"Where's Clara—oh, Miss Loveday, call Clara!"
"She is out, dear. What is it?" said Mary soothingly. "She will be back directly."
Laura's cough had come on with such violence that she could not answer, but she pointed piteously to the list of visitors staying at one of the hotels.
"Mr. and Mrs. Henry Fulbert," read Mary—and then as by a flash, she realized the whole story!
This was the H. F. to whom poor Laura had given her heart; this was the one against whom her uncle had warned her! The Harry Fulbert who was not the true golden gold!
She took the invalid into her arms, stranger though she was, and tried to comfort her with the comfort wherewith she herself had been comforted of God.
"Poor Laura!" she whispered. "I see it all, but there is Jesus left. He healeth the broken in heart and bindeth up their wounds."
"My heart is broken," sobbed Laura. "I have been disobedient to what Ma would have liked; I've kept a secret from her all this year. He told me he would come back and ask me, and now he has gone and married someone else! I had heard he was going to, but I would not believe it!"
"Poor Laura!" again said the soft, soothing voice. "Let us tell the Lord Jesus all about it, and come to Him for forgiveness. Indeed, 'indeed' He will comfort you if you will let Him!"
"I do not know anything about Him," said Laura, as she allowed Mary to lay her on the sofa, and then she buried her head in the cushions and cried as if her heart would break.
"It makes me cough to cry," she moaned; "and I am so miserable! So miserable!"
"Can you bear to tell me all about it?" asked Mary, guessing that if she could bring herself to speak it out she would feel better.
But Laura only shook her head and lay sobbing and coughing.
"You will do yourself harm," said Mary at last. "I fear for you if you give way to grief like this—"
"And well you may," said Laura, turning round upon her, and looking at her with pathetic eyes. "Ma doesn't guess it, nor Clara either, but I'm dying—and I've no hope—none!"
Oh, how thankful Mary was that she knew the hope herself, and could tell the shrinking invalid of Him who has borne our griefs and carried our sorrows, and with whose stripes we are healed!
"He loves 'me?'" questioned Laura, as she lay on her pillows utterly exhausted. "Can He love me who has never given Him a thought, except to turn away from Him; who has said in her heart she would do without Him?"
"Indeed He does," said Mary tenderly. "'While we were yet sinners, Christ died for us.' That seems so wonderful, doesn't it, but so nice?"
Laura lay very still. The room grew darker and darker, but the others did not come back, and Mary was thankful for it.
At last, Laura put out her trembling hand. "I can never thank you," she whispered. "Would you mind kissing me?"
Mary bent over her. "You have let Jesus comfort you?" she asked tenderly. "It is not only mine, is it, dear?"
"Oh, no!" she responded earnestly. "But it is only just in time—"
At the moment Mrs. Brown came bustling in.
"Ma, dear," said Laura faintly, "come here."
There was some inexplicable change in the voice, something which even in the half darkness made a cold chill fall on that gay mother's heart.
"Ma, dear," she went on as Mrs. Brown came close, "you will hear all when I am gone, Clara will tell you. I've gone astray like a lost sheep, but Jesus Christ has found me. Will you forgive me?"
Mrs. Brown knelt down by her side, kissing her in an awestruck manner, and for a moment she felt two feeble arms round her neck, and then they relaxed their hold, and slowly fell back. Laura had gone where all tears are wiped from off all faces.
*****
Pollie's little story is done—or perhaps not much more than begun.
The links, which were riveted in all that time of trouble, were a chain which no time or circumstance could break.
Harry—Mary's Harry—came back from China in a few months' time, and very soon he and Mary were married and went to Exeter for the promised year.
Pollie went to her home, to be the sunshine of her father and mother and Jim, waiting and working, ever with the view in her inmost heart of obeying her Lord's command to "go" to tell of his unsearchable riches to those who have never heard.
Clara went back to Chichester an altered girl, leaving that grave behind her as a lasting memorial of their sorrowful deception.
Mrs. Brown was stunned by the sudden blow of her daughter's death, and for years would only refer to the matter by a cold "I never acted like that myself, and I do not understand it."
All that time Clara's patience and love were severely taxed, but she came out of the ordeal as gold purified seven times.
And there came a day at last when her faith and patience were rewarded, and Mrs. Brown acknowledged with humbled spirit that she too needed a Saviour, and if Jesus had made Clara what she was, she might well trust Him.
Finis