Chapter X: A Ray of Hope

THE family were all seated at the tea-table when Mr. Angus came in from the street. He apologized for being behind time by saying that a parishioner had sent for him, and it was a longer walk than he expected. His countenance bore marks of excitement, but he entered into conversation with the others, and seemed desirous of averting attention from himself.

After family prayer, which directly followed supper, he rose as though he was going to retire when Ethel caught his hand, saying,—

"My Marion is going to sing a hymn before I go to bed. Please stay and hear it."

Marion had already commenced, and, without noticing who was near her, went through the hymn.

"We give thee but thine own, Whate'er the gift may be, All that we have is Thine alone, A trust, O Lord, from Thee.

"May we Thy bounties thus As stewards true receive. And gladly as Thou blessest us, To Thee our first-fruits give.

"Oh hearts are bruised and dead, And homes are bare and cold, And lambs for whom the Shepherd bled Are straying from the fold!

"To comfort and to bless, To find a balm for woe, To tend the lone and fatherless, Is angels' work below.

"The captive to release, To God the lost to bring, To teach the way of life and peace, It is a Christ-like thing.

"And we believe Thy word, Though dim our faith may be, Whate'er for Thine we do, O Lord, We do it unto Thee."

"I propose an amendment, as the congressmen say," she urged, pleasantly, as she saw Mr. Angus. "Please stay and sing with us, and then I have some pleasant news for you."

He joined her instantly at the piano, though she saw that he did so reluctantly. She turned to the all-inspiring words,—

"All hail the power of Jesus' name! Let angels prostrate fall."

From the tones of his voice, as one verse followed another, she could detect the change in his feelings. In the last stanza it was evident his religious fervor had triumphed over his sadness. The tones, rich and clear, thrilled Marion's heart strangely. Happening to meet his eye as she was closing the book, she saw there evidence of an elevation of soul, as though the sentiments of the hymn had roused him from his gloom.

"Thank you," was his low response.

"I expect to leave early in the morning," she said. "I shall go immediately to see Dr. B———. Dr. Moore is very hopeful in regard to Mary's cure, though she may always walk lame. She was very grateful that you had thought of sending her to the Home for the Sick."

"I am delighted, Miss Howard. You have indeed been an angel of mercy to the poor girl. She speaks of your thoughtful kindness as one of the chief blessings of her life."

"Isn't it fortunate that Dr. Moore was once house physician there? and he will convey her to the city himself. No, Mr. Angus," as he held out his purse, "we cannot permit you to have all the pleasure, though we gladly share with you. You have done your part in suggesting the possibility of her restoration, and she has a friend who will defray all expenses. By the way, if you can spare the time, she would be glad of a call from you before she leaves home."

"Duties never conflict, Miss Howard. If you were not so busy among your pupils, etc., I would express a wish that you would visit a distressed family I saw to-day. They are in deep waters, and need a kind friend of their own sex."

"Who are they?"

"Mother, daughter, and grandson,—one of the most beautiful boys I ever saw. The mother is ill, I fear on the verge of consumption. The daughter, whom I conclude is a widow, is too young and beautiful to be left to make her own way in the world. The boy, Eugene, won my heart at once, and under a sudden impulse I asked the mother to give him to me: I am fond of children."

"I can easily believe that," she said, with one of her smiles, which always made his heart so warm. "If I were not very good-natured I should reproach you with winning away Ethel's love from me. Isn't she a darling?"

For answer he bent down and pressed a kiss on the warm, red lips held up so temptingly to his. The child at this minute had come into the room to bid him and Marion good night; having done so, she danced away again, hugging Frances, her favorite dolly, in her arms.

"'Of such is the kingdom of heaven,'" murmured the pastor, his eye following her fairy-like figure; "and we are told that unless we are like them, we cannot be admitted to that glorious home."

After a pause he added, "Eugene interested me deeply, but not at all in the way Ethel does. He is as full of mischief as he can hold; nothing ethereal about him. He is earthly even in his beauty, while Ethel seems just fresh from heaven. Dear child! I have learned many a lesson from her."

"You have interested me deeply in your friends, Mr. Angus. I wish now I could stay another day at least, but I cannot."

Recalling the business which sent her home so soon, there was an earnestness in her voice, as she repeated, "Oh, no, I cannot stay!" that rather surprised her hearer. Meeting the questioning glance, it was as much as the impulsive girl could do to check herself from saying,—

"I go for your sake, to give you that which will restore peace to your heart."

"But I hope to be so successful in my business that I can come again soon. I will ask Aunt Asbury to visit them, if you wish."

"It is not a case of poverty,—at least I think not. The mother— she seems very young—needs sympathy and counsel; she would only take it from one she loved."

He seemed to be urging a duty upon her, though he did not so intend it; and Marion grew excited, wondering whether she ought to write Dr. B— about Mary, and postpone her other business for another day.

"I wish I knew which was my duty: I have set my heart on something. I ought not to have delayed it so long. I have been forgetful of a sacred charge, and I wish to atone for it as soon as possible."

She gazed wistfully in his face, longing to give him a ray of the hope she felt almost sure was in store for him,—almost, not quite. "If, after all, I am wrong, and he is not the one, it would be inexcusable in me to excite hopes only to crush them."

"Miss Howard," he began, unable to endure the sight of her distress, which by turns suffused her cheeks and blanched them, "can you not trust me to decide for you?"

"In almost any other case but this, I could. It would be cruel to tell you now." She stood one moment, her hands tightly clasped, her eyes fixed on the carpet; then, with a sudden change, she looked smiling in his face as she said,—

"Give me the exact direction to your protégé's, and I'll go to-morrow morning. I can write this evening to Dr. B—."

"Uncle Asbury," inquired Marion later in the evening, and when no one but her uncle and aunt were present, "have you ever mentioned before Mr. Angus that I have any other income than what I earn from teaching?"

"Not a word. He considers you suffering from extreme poverty, and quite worries himself over the time you lose during your visits to us. If you press me to tell you the whole truth, he is anxious lest your love for dress and jewels should involve you in serious pecuniary embarrassment. He considers that rich silk and point-lace collar, though extremely becoming, quite beyond your means."

"Nonsense! Now do be serious. I don't want anybody to know, and especially strangers like Mr. Angus, that—"

"You can, if you choose buy up half our congregation, to say nothing of the poor minister. No, I won't tell him that."

"Don't tease the child, pa," put in Mrs. Asbury, though laughing herself.

"It is from the clergyman especially you wish this important information kept," questioned the gentleman, his eye twinkling.

Marion looked really annoyed. "I see I must explain," she began. "There are some poor people I am going to help. He offered, from his salary, I suppose, to pay Mary's expenses to the city, etc. I told him a friend would supply the means, and I don't wish him to think I am the one."

"On the principle of the left hand hiding from the right, I suppose. Yes, I see." With a mischievous glance, he turned to his newspaper, and Marion, informing her aunt that she intended to make a call on a sick lady in the morning, and had postponed her return till afternoon, bade them good-night and retired to her chamber.

Passing Ethel's room, she found to her surprise that the child was still awake.

"Please come in a minute, Marion: I must get up again. I can't remember whether I have said my prayers. I feel prayers in here," putting her hand to her breast, "and I can't go to sleep."

"Well, darling, get up, and I'll kneel with you."

Ethel began with—

"Now I lay me down to sleep,"

followed with the Lord's Prayer, then began her own simple petitions.

"Bless me, dear God, and make me as good as Jesus wants me to be. Bless papa and mamma and Mr. Angus, and all those I love, and keep them all from sin and from crying. I thank you for giving me such a kind papa and mamma. I thank you for sparing them to me so long. I hope you will spare them as long as you think it is safe, but if you don't think it safe to-morrow or next day, thy will be done."

The little head was scarcely on the pillow, when Marion, much amused by the child's mode of expressing her submission, ran back to the parlor to repeat it. As she entered she heard Mr. Angus's voice asking permission to use the buggy at an early hour to go to a distant part of the town. Seeing her, he explained that, as she had been kind enough to delay her return to New York in order to visit this distressed family, he wished to make arrangements to take her there.

"It is in a part of the town with which I am least familiar," he added, "and I should find difficult to direct any one."

"I am sorry," said Marion, frankly. "I know your rule about your morning hours for study. I would delay my return longer, but it is impossible."

And it had seemed impossible ever since she had agreed to make the morning visit to his protégés.

"If he only knew," she said to herself again and again, "how much depends on my going home. I am confident that package is somewhere among my papers; and yet it is so strange that I have not seen it for years. I had forgotten entirely that I had it in possession. I did sympathize deeply with that poor, friendless girl, an orphan, as I had so lately become; but, with so many different protégés on hand,— so many orphans and others whom I have taken to that blessed Home,— she had passed entirely out of mind, until that peculiar smile of Mr. Angus and the expressive shrug of his shoulders brought her up before me. Let me think. When I left Uncle Williamson's, my letters, papers, etc., were all packed up and sent to my present home. Strange I haven't seen them. No, some were sent here."

She gave a scream of joy, and, running to the kitchen for a hand-lamp, called a servant to go with her to the attic, where a box marked with her name was stored.

At the breakfast-table, when Mrs. Asbury remonstrated against her niece's plans, while she looked so pale and haggard, no one present, and least of all the pastor, suspected that it was interest in his future which had kept her till midnight searching among her papers for what she could not find, that disappointment and bitter regret that she had not more carefully guarded so sacred a trust had caused her many tears.

To add to her embarrassment, Mr. Asbury, just as he rose from the table, approached her and said, "Marion, I fear it is your pecuniary situation which troubles you. Promise me that you will apply to me in any need."

"Why, pa!" began Annie in surprise; but she never finished her sentence. Marion, noticing that Mr. Angus was within hearing, gave her cousin a warning glance, coolly said to her uncle, "I promise," and then walked away.