Chapter X: A Letter

"I SAY, missus!"

Nat Tyrrell's hearty voice rang through the cottage from the suddenly-opened door. Mona rose to her feet, and Nat pulled off his cap.

"Beg pardon, Miss. I didn't know a lady was here. I've summat to give Madge that 'll please her mightily."

The inner door opened as he spoke, and Madge came out, following Mr. Prior, who nodded pleasantly to the new comer.

"Good afternoon, Tyrrell. I think I have spoken to you before now. How are you all at home?"

As there was scarcely an individual in the parish, of any age or standing, with whom he had not exchanged at least a few kind words during this first month of his residence in Alyn, he was pretty safe in making the assertion. It had grown, however, to be a saying in the place, that Mr. Prior never forgot a face he had once seen, and Nat was highly flattered at the present recognition of himself.

"Thank you, sir; we're all pretty well. Leastways, except that my wife's laid up with the rheumatics. I say, Madge, I've a letter here for you, right away from Australy. It's come in one from young Ned Blayney to his mother, and she's give it to me to bring up to you. I've come off as quick as ever I could, for I knew you'd be main glad to get it, eh, Madge?"

She had received the letter from him mechanically, and now stood like one in a dream, clasping it firmly between two hands, with her eyes gazing into vacancy.

"Why, she don't understand," said Nat, coming a step nearer. "I say, Madge, I'd open and see, if I was you. It's from Neill himself, and 'taint bad news, I can tell you too, for Mrs. Blayney said he was all right."

"Neill?" repeated Madge.

"To be sure, yes. Why, one 'ud think you didn't care about it, instead of being properly thankful for your mercies," said Nat, rather scandalised at such an unedifying fashion of receiving the news.

"Hush, Tyrrell, don't tease her," interposed Mr. Prior, in a low tone, seeing deeper than Nat could do. "Have a little patience."

"Well, I didn't think she'd have took it so cool, I do confess," muttered the disappointed Nat, while Madge lifted a pair of dim eyes to Mona, and said softly,—

"Neill! It's his own hand too. But 'he' wanted me to think I'd never hear from my boy again."

"Then he was very wrong," said Mona impetuously, aware who was meant. "Madge, don't you want to know if Neill is coming home?"

Madge looked down on her own trembling fingers, as they clasped the folded sheet, and then again she glanced up, this time at Mr. Prior.

"Seems to me I'm like Peter's friends, when they wouldn't believe their prayer for him was heard,—oft as I've blamed them! I've been thinking I'd faith in the power of prayer, and thinking I was looking out,—and now it's come, I can't believe 'tis true."

"'Like as a father pitieth his children,'" was the quick and suggestive answer. "Like as you pity and love your boy—"

Madge drew one deep breath, half of oppression, half of relief. "Ay, and God knows all along," she murmured. "Knew my weakness, didn't He, before I found it out myself?—And yet the letter's come. Miss Mona, I don't seem as if I could read. Maybe—"

She held out the sheet beseechingly.

Mona opened it, and read aloud the contents in their large scrawled handwriting:—

"DEAREST MOTHER,

"I've been a bad boy to you, haven't I? But somehow I don't think you'll have forgot your Neill by this, though I don't deserve you should think of me again. It's a shame I've never wrote to you all these years, but when a fellow's going on bad as I have been, he don't feel much like writing home, and I've had nothing good to tell you.

"It is just a few days since I met Ned Blayney. Did not know he was out here at all, and had not seen him since we was both at school together, and I used to plague him for his red hair. 'Tisn't red now, though. He's growed up a fine fellow. And I wish I'd gone to sea, like him, 'stead of trying the bush out here.

"'Twas a mere chance our finding each other out, and my happening to be in Melbourne at all when he was. Ned says 'twas no chance at all; but all I know is we comed flop across each other in the middle of the street, and I'd have passed him by, if he hadn't known me. And if I hadn't have met him just then, I'd have gone off next day to the diggins with Will Davis,—not the sort of fellow you'd like, mother,—and goodness knows where I'd have turned up next.

"I ain't going to the diggins now, though. Ned's been at me about you, till he's brought me round. His ship's a-starting for home again next week, and I've promised to come aboard and work my passage. And the jolly part of the matter is that it's one of the Messrs. Dundrearys', and it'll come straight to Alyn. So mind you keep a look-out, mother, for the 'Flying Albatross'—'tis a wonderful slow and dirty-looking sort of albatross, too—for your boy 'll be aboard. And if you don't want to have me, you've only to say so in a word, and I'll be off to Australia again a deal quicker than I come home. So no more now, mother,—

"From your affectionate son,

"NEILL HARDWICKE."

"Thank you, Miss Mona," were Madge's first words, and then she added softly,—"He's coming."

"Ay, he's coming home to you again, Madge," said Nat Tyrrell. "You'd ought to feel a deal of thankfulness."

"He's coming," repeated Madge. "And I'll see him again. He's coming home to me."

She put down the letter, and began arranging the few things which lay scattered on the table, as if making tidy for her boy's arrival. The quick restless movements were unlike Madge's usual composure, and the shaking hands and trembling lips showed that the very intensity of joy had thrown her off her balance.

Nat Tyrrell looked at her in perplexity, and opened his lips to speak again, but he thought better of it, in consideration of Mr. Prior's presence, and wisely went into the garden.

"Neill coming! Don't it seem strange now?" said Madge, approaching the table.

Mr. Prior sat there waiting in silence for the right moment. He leant a little forward now, and simply said:—

"Mrs. Hardwicke, shall we thank God together?"

Madge knelt down instantly. The words following were few in number, but Madge was weeping unrestrainedly before three sentences had passed his lips, sobbing an inarticulate response to the fervent thanks he offered in her name. And when, after a brief pause, they rose, she had her own calm face again.

"Thank you, sir, it's just what I wanted," she whispered.

He said good-bye, and shook hands with her kindly. Then offering his arm to Mona, he went out of the cottage.

"She will be better alone now," was his remark in the garden. "Ah, Tyrrell has gone, I see."

"I am so glad you were there," said Mona. "That man did not understand her in the least. Poor Madge! How happy she is!"

"She is a woman of faith," said Mr. Prior, holding open the little gate for Mona to pass. "I am glad to have made her acquaintance more thoroughly."

"Then you have been to see her before," said Mona.

"Yes,—and heard her history at least half-a-dozen times. The good folks of Alyn are extremely communicative. What a pretty view this is, Miss Clyde! The outline of that headland is particularly striking."

"You think, then, that Neill is coming home in answer to her prayer," said Mona, as he paused at the edge of the cliff, with evident enjoyment of the scene.

"'If ye have faith as a grain of mustard-seed—'" he answered. "But Neill has not come home yet. Don't hang your faith on one particular answer to one particular prayer, or it may perchance come to shipwreck. God does 'not' always see it right to grant His children's desires. You must look upon the matter as a whole."

Mona's sigh was so low that he must have had a quick ear to hear it. "People sometimes do that," he said, after a pause. "They stake all their hope and trust on one single prayer, setting their whole heart upon the answer. And if God wills to deny that especial wish, away goes all their faith, and nothing remains but a tangle of gloomy doubt—doubts of His love, and doubts of His power, and doubts as to the use of prayer. What if a child tested his earthly father's affection and resources in that fashion?"

What in the world had made him stumble on the very subject, of all others, most suited to her present frame of mind? Mona wondered not a little how it had come about, forgetting that he must have been well acquainted with the views and character of the man with whom the course of her life was now thrown. And she did not know how compassionately he had often thought of the poor young girl, whose acquaintance he had first made in such a singular manner, nor how he dreaded for her the meshes into which he too well knew she might be drawn, nor how he desired to rescue her. Neither was she aware of the keen intuition, by means of which he had already, perhaps almost unconsciously divined certain facts concerning the bias of her mind.

If he had not known it before, her startled look up, as he spoke of doubts, would have shown him that he was on the right tack.

"I heard of a good piece of advice once given on that subject, by the bye," he said, disentangling one spray of bramble from another with busy fingers. "A man complained to his friend of troublesome questionings on the subject of religion, and asked what he should do with them. The answer was, 'Put them aside for awhile. If they are worth anything, they will keep, and you can give them fuller consideration at some future time. If not, they will die a natural death. Put them aside for the present, and take your Bible, and go and read to dying men in the hospital about their Saviour.'"

"Was that the best plan?" asked Mona.

"That was one plan," he said, smiling. "Another is to meet and conquer them boldly—only, don't attempt it in your own strength. You will not get through the battle without some such temptations. Don't be afraid of them when they come, but meet the tempter bravely, and cling fast to your Lord through all."

"But clinging is faith," said Mona wonderingly. "How can there be faith and doubting together?"

"Did you never read a certain prayer, 'Lord, I believe, help Thou mine unbelief.' You may doubt with the head, and yet believe with the heart. Look here, Miss Clyde." He went a step nearer to the cliff as he spoke, putting aside the bramble-bushes. "Suppose you were to slip over this cliff, and fall down to that ledge below. Do you see it?" He held her hand firmly, while she leant forward to peep over, half shuddering as she did so. "How should I save you?"

"I should think you would let down a rope."

"True—or I might prefer to come down with it myself, if there were any one else to hold it above. But the simple rope let down by myself for you to grasp, is enough for my illustration. Now how much of faith would be needful on your part to ensure your safety?"

"Of faith?" said Mona.

"Yes, faith in the strength of the rope, and in my power and good-will to draw you up."

"Why, I don't see that faith would have much to do with it, so long as I held tight to the rope, Mr. Prior."

"Would you hold tight, if you were convinced that you could not be saved in that manner?"

She understood, and shook her head.

"There are three lines of conduct between which you might choose. In the first place, you might feel absolute faith in the strength of the rope and in me, and hold to it with cheerful unquestioning firmness. Then you would be safe. In the second place, you might be troubled with a great many doubts and speculations, as to my possible carelessness or indifference, and as to any possible weakness in the rope itself; and while tying it round you, and letting yourself be drawn up, you might suffer from much giddiness and fear and trembling. But then again, you would be safe—not one iota less safe than in the first instance, though far less happy. In the third place, you might place no confidence whatever in the offered means of escape, and insist obstinately on trying to climb up the cliff without its aid. And in that case, you would soon be dashed to pieces on the rocks below."

"I think I see what you mean," she said.

"You must 'lay hold on eternal life,' and that 'laying hold,' as you truly said, is or implies faith. But there may be faith with assurance, or faith without assurance. And there may be doubts with faith, or doubts without faith. Your head-doubts will make no difference as to your safety, so long as your heart clings by faith to the Saviour, though they may and will make much difference as to your peace."

Mona wondered a little whether the pronoun were used in a general or personal sense. It was impossible to tell from his manner.

"That is to say, they don't affect your safety, just so long as they do not cause you to loosen your hold on the rope," Mr. Prior added. And his next move was to hold out a spray of fine blackberries, with a pleasant,—"You don't despise country wild-fruit, do you?"

"O no, I like it very much, thank you."

"When are you coming to make Mrs. Prior's acquaintance? She is a prisoner to her sofa, or you would have seen her before now."

"I should like to call some day," said Mona shyly.

"Come, and make friends with my little boy too—that is, if you are fond of children."

And they chatted so cheerfully while going down the hill, that Mona, when she looked back to their conversation afterwards, almost reproached herself for unseemly brightness so soon after her mother's death. But she was glad she had seen Mr. Prior, and glad he had talked to her thus. Her troubles were not indeed cleared away, yet on one point she had gained a ray of daylight through the mist. She was no longer tormented by the dread that because doubts assailed her, all faith on her part must needs have perished; or that because questionings rose thickly, she must not dare to pray.