Chapter IX: Madge Hardwicke's Faith

"GOOD morning, Amos," said Madge Hardwicke affably, coming out of her cottage about half-past twelve on the following day, and finding him for the first time seated on his bench.

"Mornin'," responded Amos, with a scowl which did not improve his countenance.

"Don't you want to know how Nannie is, poor little lass?"

"Idle little hussy—all a humbuggin' she be," growled Amos.

"There's never a taste of humbug in aught that Nan does," said Madge. "She's true to the backbone. Amos Ackman, you'd ought to be kneeling down yonder in your cottage, giving thanks to God that He's kept you from being a downright murderer, 'stead of doing nothing but sit there and abuse folks."

Madge did not often speak so strongly, but her feelings were much stirred for Nannie's sake. She checked herself, however, and only added—"I've been up with the child 'most all night."

"More fool you!" said Amos.

"'Tis a good thing, seems to me, that I'm not doing it for thanks," said Madge, half-smiling, as she turned away. "Nan's been in a deal of pain, but she's just dropped off to sleep the last half-hour."

Asleep, and so soundly asleep, after hours of suffering, that nothing served to waken her until nearly four o'clock in the afternoon. And when she opened her eyes, it was to see Mona Clyde standing with Madge Hardwicke by her side.

Nannie gave one exclamation of pleasure, and then found herself forbidden by the careful Madge to enter into conversation, till she had had some refreshment. A small basket in their visitor's hand was found to contain a supply of calf's-foot jelly, and Mona herself sat down on the bed, spoon in hand, to minister to the wants of the little sick child.

"It's ever so nice," said Nannie softly. "Was it the doctor sent it?"

"Yes," Mona said, without adding that it was by her own request. "Have you had enough now, Nannie? How is the pain to-day?"

"It don't hurt me so to breathe," said Nannie. "But I don't seem as if I could hardly move. My back hurts dreadful, if I try."

"I dare say that will be better soon," said Mona. "You must try to be patient, Nannie, and not mind lying quiet."

Madge said nothing, and Nannie looked up at her somewhat anxiously.

"I'll try to be patient, and I'm so tired I don't mind keeping quiet. But—oh, Madge, you don't think I'm going to die?"

Madge arranged the bedclothes, and stroked Nannie's face with a soothing touch. "What's put that into your head now, Nan?"

"I'd a deal rather get well," murmured Nannie, in a sorrowful voice. "It ain't wrong, is it, Madge? 'Cause you told us the people in the Bible wanted to live to be old, didn't you?"

"Many of 'em," said Madge.

"And I do so want to see father learn to love God," said Nannie. "I don't want to go to heaven till I know he's going too. And I'd rather wait to see the Resurrection-mornin', than die first. Wouldn't you, Madge?"

Not Nannie alone, but Mona also, looked wistfully for the answer.

"I'd like it to be as my Lord wills, Nannie," Madge said. "But if you've a wish either way, you've only to tell Him, you know, and He'll do the best that can be for you."

Nannie's hands went together in a quick clasp, and her eyes closed, as if in prompt following of the advice given. "I've done it," she said, looking up presently. "Will I not die now, Madge?"

"I don't think you're like to die just now, no more particularly than the rest of us," said Madge quietly. "But if 'twas the Master's will, you wouldn't sure grieve to go home with Him, 'stead of waiting on for Him here! What sort of a love would that be, Nannie?"

"Maybe I wouldn't," said Nannie thoughtfully. "Only I'd a deal sooner not die, Madge, 'cause I want to see the Resurrection-day."

"You'll see it, sure enough, Nannie. Only those that have died 'll rise first, and those that's living 'll be caught up second."

"Then maybe that 'ud be best of the two," said Nannie.

"I think either way 'll be best that God chooses for you," said Madge.

"Maybe," repeated Nannie. And she shut her eyes again, and seemingly went to sleep.

Madge, after waiting for a minute, made a movement as if to go into the other room. It was not observed, however.

Mona was looking at the child's face, and suddenly raising her eyes, she said—"I think you and Nannie are very happy, Madge."

"We'd ought to be," said Madge.

"Yes—no. O I don't know," said Mona, with a deep sigh, resting her cheek on her hand. "I suppose nothing in the world makes one so happy as faith. And yet—if—"

"If what, Miss Mona?" asked Madge, marvelling at the girl's quivering lips.

"If there should 'not' be truth in it all?" said Mona passionately. "How do we know? How can anything be proved? Madge, don't tell anybody what I am saying to you. But do you ever have doubts?—Or is your faith always the same?"

"Doubts of my Lord's love?" asked Madge, with some wonder in her tone.

"Not that in particular. Of everything—of God—heaven—religion—everything, Madge?"

"I know what they are," said Madge serenely.

"And what do you do when they come?"

"Take 'em straight to my Lord, and ask Him to settle 'em for me."

Mona looked up earnestly without speaking.

"You see it's Satan's work—all that," said Madge. "And when he's too strong for me, I just call on my Captain to deal with him, Miss Mona, and to keep me safe behind His shield."

"And He does?" said Mona mechanically.

"Try Him, Miss Mona,—that's all."

"But, Madge—you don't understand," said Mona, sitting up with a little start, as if waking from a momentary feeling of repose. "You don't understand me. That would do for some doubts, but not for all. That is prayer, and what if—if—oh, Madge, I'll tell you the truth—what if I can't understand or believe in the power of prayer?"

"Understanding's one thing, and believing's another," said Madge. "If you don't know the power of prayer, you'd best just try it, Miss Mona, if you'll let me tell you so."

"I've tried it—often—and I used to believe in it. But, Madge, now look here," Mona went on, clasping her hands feverishly,—"I want to know how prayer can be answered. For don't you suppose that God knows beforehand all my future life, and everything that will happen to me?"

Madge nodded in undoubting assent.

"And if my life is all lying mapped out before me, how can my prayers make any difference? How can they, Madge?"

"Does the Bible say it's all mapped out, Miss Mona?"

"I don't know—no, not, exactly. But then it must be."

"I'd never set up a 'must be' apart from the Bible, if I was you, Miss Mona," said Madge. "It says one thing, and that is, that the Lord 'directeth man's steps.' Well for us that He do, too. But I can't remember reading ever a word about our life being all mapped out by God, and nothing ever to change it. I do read, how over and over again the Lord was going to send awful judgments on them poor sinning Israelites, till Moses His chosen stood between, and turned away his anger. Where 'd have been the good of Moses praying as he did, if it wasn't to gain anything?"

"That is just it," said Mona. "That is it, Madge. I do pray, and I do try to believe I shall have an answer. But all the while, I can't help feeling that God has arranged everything from all eternity, and that my prayers can make no difference."

"They're Satan's whisperings, Miss Mona," said Madge Hardwicke, with deeper earnestness than she had yet displayed. "Arranged everything! I don't say it isn't so. The Bible don't say whether He has or hasn't, and I durstn't be so bold as to set up myself to say it neither. But the Bible does say, 'Ask and it shall be given you,' and 'The effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man availeth much.' How could it avail much, if it could do nothing? There's where it is! There isn't a mightier power in the world than prayer. We don't see much of the working of it now, but if we could, we'd be not a little surprised to find how the greatest matters on earth come about sometimes, in answer to one good man's prayer. I'd look in the Bible and see all the answers to prayer if I was you, Miss Mona—Abraham, and Gideon, and Elijah, and Moses, and Hezekiah, and all the rest of them."

"But God does know everything beforehand," murmured Mona, half to herself.

"Sure enough He does, and it's little chance our prayers would have of being answered if He didn't. Haven't I often asked a thing, and it's come quick after?—But matters must have been working up for it weeks afore, and I didn't know that, only the Master knew, and was keeping His promise, 'Before you call, I will answer.'"

Madge was silent a minute, looking pityingly at the troubled face before her.

"Knows all beforehand! Of course He do, Miss Mona. He knew beforehand you were going to pray, and He arranged beforehand to answer you; or He knew beforehand you wasn't going to pray, and He 'didn't' arrange beforehand to answer you. Knew it from all Eternity,—and maybe arranged it from all Eternity too, only the Bible don't say that, so we can't be sure. It wouldn't make no difference as to the truth of the power of prayer,—not one bit. But 'tis a grand and awful light to look at it in, and I've a fear lest my weak eyes should be dazzled, and the Tempter should maybe seize on the moment to snare me somehow. I love a deal better to look up straight to God as my Father, giving me day by day just what I want, and tending my steps, and looking out for my prayers. I'd leave thinking altogether of how the answer comes about, Miss Mona, and just pray instead, and wait the answer. No fear but it'll come."

And then there was a tapping at the outer door, and Madge moved away. Mona hardly noticed that she was gone, till roused by the courteously-uttered words—

"Miss Clyde, I believe."

Mona turned hastily, startled out of her abstraction, to meet the thoughtful face and earnest eyes with which she had grown distantly familiarised in Church the last few Sundays.

"Mr. Prior is so kind as to come and see Nannie and read to her," Madge said quietly, yet with a ring of pleasure in her voice.

And then Mona saw what Madge had been aware of for two or three minutes past, that Nannie was wide awake, and ready to bestow attention on anybody.

But Mona had never exchanged a word with Mr. Prior since that terrible moment in the dark tunnel underground, when his voice had helped to awaken her to a sense of her loss; and the association of ideas was almost more than she could bear. She strangled back the threatening rush of tears, but Mr. Prior seemed to understand all at a glance. He had taken her hand in greeting, and pressing it kindly, he said—

"Never mind, don't stay in here just now. I am going to have a chat with this poor little maiden. Will you wait in the next room, Miss Clyde? I have been wishing to make your acquaintance, and perhaps you will let me escort you down the hill."

And Mona did not dream of resistance. She was glad to escape at the moment, but waited patiently in the front room so long as he chose to stay with Nannie.