Ingleside;

by Madeline Leslie

[Illustration: SHE WAS FINISHING A LETTER TO SEND BY THE STEAMER, WHEN DR. ROSS WAS ANNOUNCED. Page 349]

[CHAPTER IX.]

TRUE FRIENDSHIP.

IT was a sultry August day. Most of Miss Howard's acquaintances were out of the city. She had just returned from Grantbury, and was finishing a letter to send by the steamer, when Dr. Ross was announced.

"One minute, Doctor," pleaded Marion, sealing her letter and ringing for James to take it to the post; "now I will have a glass of lemonade for you in a trice."

"I met Hepsey," he said, "or I should not have known you were at home."

"Your call is very opportune, sir," said Marion smiling, as she added, "I want to ask about Annie Leman. Is she as good a teacher as you expected?"

"Next to yourself, Miss Howard," bowing formally, "I do not know her equal."

"Then you will add your influence to mine to secure for her the position I am about to resign in Mrs. La Vergne's school?"

"With great pleasure, if you will promise for Miss Leman that she will still teach my daughters. But why do you resign?"

Marion had more than once asked herself whether she were treating her father's old friend with sufficient frankness in not telling him of her engagement to Mr. Angus; and now his question gave her the opportunity to do so; so with rosy cheeks she said,—

"I'm going to leave the city before long."

"Not permanently, I hope?"

"I am going to be married, Doctor."

"Wh-e-e-w-w!"

Marion laughed till all her dimples came into view.

"To whom, in the name of wonder?"

"To a clergyman, a country parson."

"Just like you. I might have known no other man would have dared aspire. Well, tell me all about it. You'll ask me to the wedding, of course. Is he presentable, in person, I mean?"

"You shall have a chance to judge for yourself, Doctor. I will tell you one thing about him. He has recently declined a call to a large church in London, with a generous salary, preferring to remain with his country flock; and when they offered to make the support received from them equal to the other rather than to lose him, he declined that, too, insisting that there would be so many calls for money in connection with church work that he preferred they would give that way."

The Doctor laughed. "I see he has found out the method to gain your confidence. Where is the parish? I shall expect an invitation to visit you and hear your parson preach."

"When I have a home of my own, Doctor, you will always be welcome."

"Thank you. You are a good girl; and if you can say my old friend, Dexter Howard, would approve this new arrangement, I must give my consent. I wish you weren't going out of the city, though. What will all your poor people do? By the way, I'm forgetting in my astonishment at the news what I came for. Did you know Mr. Lambert was sick, confined to his room?"

"I'm very sorry to hear it."

"That isn't the worst of it. He charges you with being the cause."

"Charges me? What have I done? I have not even seen him for weeks, and supposed him out of the city."

"He has been in bed. He is hollow-eyed and nervous to a degree—that is not particularly agreeable to his household, I imagine. I can't make out whether the man is out of his mind, or what is the matter with him. When he had berated you as much as I thought prudent, I apologized in your name; was sure you had no intention, and so forth; but he only grumbled the worse. He was sure you did mean it; and if you saw him you would do it again. I couldn't make out what you had done, except that he said you had hurt his feelings."

"Oh, I know now!" exclaimed Marion, with a breath of relief. "I'm so glad, so very glad!"

"Glad? He said you would be, but I indignantly denied it."

"May I go and see him, Doctor? Please let me."

"I don't believe he would admit you."

"Yes, he would. I must go, dear Doctor. So you may as well say yes."

The physician looked her keenly in the face, as though considering, when she interrupted him by a burst of feeling, eyes moist, lips tremulous, as she exclaimed,—

"I'm so glad! It's just what I've been praying for."

"Hem! Well, I hope you'll continue to be glad when you see him."

"Oh, Doctor, you've lived in New York a long time. Do you know anything about his early history?"

A shake of the head was the only answer at first, then, after a pause, "He is a native of this city, I think; and, by the way, one of his most fidgety crotchets now is about making a will. Shall he make a will? If he does, who shall he leave his money to? Is there a boy by the name of Carter? Neddy Carter?"

"Yes, his feet were crushed and had to be amputated. Mr. Lambert has been a generous friend to him, but the boy knows him only by the name of Regy."

"Whew! you don't say that the eccentric individual known as Regy is Mr. Lambert in disguise. Why, the manner in which the man abused him this very morning was a caution."

"I feel quite sure they are the same," replied Marion, laughing.

The doctor lay back his head in perfect amazement. At last he said, "Lambert and old Regy the same. It's the richest joke of the season. What can be his motive? Did you ever hear of an adventure in Richmond in which he figures prominently?

"No, sir."

"He was passing a few days there, when one morning early he signalled to an omnibus to stop. Two or three vehicles were in the way, so that when the driver was able to draw up toward the curbstone Regy stood back twenty feet or so. He came on growling and stood outside, berating the driver for not attending more promptly to his signal.

"I'll have you dismissed, you rascal,' he shouted, his arm upraised, when he happened to notice the driver's face. It was drawn with pain. Regy jumped up on the box without another word, learned that the driver's wife lay dying at home, dismissed him at once, and drove the omnibus himself all day. Then he found the house where the driver lived. The wife was dead and the children mourning over her cold body. Regy went to the office, got the driver off for a week, paid the funeral expenses, and then secured a place for the man on a farm, his oldest daughter keeping house.

"Those were exactly the facts, as I was told them by a gentleman from Richmond."

"It was just like him," said Marion, with a merry laugh. "I wonder what his motive is for disguising his real nature. Now, Doctor, warm as it is, I must go to see him."

It was, however, with a quickened beat of the pulse that, after her ring at the door-bell, she awaited admittance to the spacious, old fashioned house.

The servant was a man who had been in Mr. Lambert's employ for many years. He recognized Miss Howard, but was doubtful whether his master would see any one.

"Tell him I have just heard of his sickness and am very anxious to see him. Stay, wait a minute!" she cried, with a sudden resolve, "say that I want to tell him a piece of news personal to myself."

Even when she sat in the parlor she heard the loud growling of the master as the servant announced a guest.

It was several minutes before the man came back, with a troubled countenance, to say that Mr. Lambert would see her. "I told him he'd better not," he explained, "and that set him that he would. He's very, very bad to-day, miss; perhaps you'd better say nothing to cross him. I'll be close at hand if you want me."

For one instant her courage failed, then with an earnest lifting up of her heart to God for help she ascended the stairs and passed into the room.

Mr. Lambert had often surprised her with his eccentricities, but never so much as now. He was lying dressed in a suit of white duck, on a luxurious lounge, his face almost as colorless as his dress, and altogether so changed that she felt a disposition to scream. He held out his hand, saying in a most polished manner, "You must excuse me, my friend, for not rising. I am quite reduced by illness."

Trying not to show her surprise, Marion cordially seized his hand and drew a chair close to his side.

"I'm so sorry I didn't know it before; I'm a very good nurse, and you must let me try my skill on you."

His chin began to twitch with his efforts at self-control, so she added at once, hoping to change the current of his thoughts, "We've been such good friends that I know you will be glad to hear some news about me from myself. I'm going to change my name soon." Her cheeks, dyed with blushes, explained her meaning.

"Is it to that bow-legged donkey you've pledged yourself," he shouted, starting from his pillow. "If it is, I protest!"

"No, indeed, it is not he," she laughed, understanding to whom he referred, as he had warned her against him. "My friend is a clergyman, a real, working Christian. I must tell you how I first met him."

She related the incident of selling him the gloves, at which he laughed heartily, and when she went on to tell what Mr. Angus wished to do for his people, he caught her hand and gave it a hearty shake, saying, "He's the kind. I'll consent to that."

"You must treat me as you would a daughter," she said, putting her hand on his forehead, "and tell me when you're tired of hearing me talk. Don't you like to hear reading?"

"Sing," he said, "sing something lively."

She sang several secular songs, and then one beginning,

"Jesus, Thou art all compassion,"

which brought the tears to his eyes.

"Another," he said, briefly, when her voice ceased.

"Yes, Mr. Lambert, I'll sing a favorite hymn, which I am sure you will like.

"'Lord, lead the way the Saviour went

By lane and cell obscure,

And let love's treasures still be spent,

Like His, upon the poor.

Like Him through scenes of deep distress,

Who bore the world's sad weight,

We, in their crowded loneliness,

Would seek the desolate.

"'For Thou hast placed us side by side

In this wide world of ill,

And that Thy followers may be tried,

The poor are with us still.

Mean are all offerings we can make,

But Thou hast taught us, Lord,

If given for the Saviour's sake,

They lose not their reward.'"

When she sang the last lines he suddenly covered his face, but while she was hesitating how to begin a conversation on another subject, he exclaimed, irritably,—

"It's no use trying to make one's self believe what he knows can't be true."

"I am sure of that, dear friend."

"You, sure? Then how am I to blame for not believing?"

"Suppose I was stricken down with want. I was dying of hunger. Just before me there is abundant supply of food, but I can't raise myself to get it; my weakness has rendered me powerless. You come in, and seeing my condition, point to the food. I can't see it, or I can't reach it. 'Try,' you say. I try, but fall back. 'Ask me, and I'll give it to you.' You kindly urge this upon me, but I refuse. 'No, I don't believe it's for me. That food is for somebody else'; and so I lie there and die for want of the food, stubbornly resisting every motive you urge—that it is free to all, the only condition being that I ask for it.

"That is a very weak illustration of what we, as sinners before God, do continually. Christ has provided an abundant feast; we are starving for want of that very food. He graciously invites us, 'Come without money and without price,' but we persist in saying, 'I know it can't be true. That food looks inviting, but it is not for me.' Now comes in the gracious Spirit, with His soft, pleading voice. He repeats Christ's words, 'I came not to call the righteous, but sinners.' 'To Him give all the prophets witness, that through His name whosoever believeth on Him shall receive remission of sins,'—shall be welcomed to the feast; and by it be restored to life."

One hand covered Mr. Lambert's face, and through the fingers Marion saw the tears trickling down.

"I'm tired, perhaps you've stayed long enough," he said softly.

She rose at once, gazed in his face, longing to comfort him.

"Stop a minute. Pray for a poor old sinner, who has never before had a daughter to comfort him."

Her breath almost stopped. "Can I pray before him?" But before he noticed her hesitation she was on her knees at his side. Like a little child, running to his father whose arms were outstretched to fold her in his embrace, so she ran to her Heavenly Father, and told Him all her desires for this dear friend. She asked the Saviour to reveal Himself to the poor, desolate heart, wearied with carrying its burden alone. She pleaded with the gracious, waiting Spirit to help him open his heart to this dearest and truest of friends; that the Holy Spirit would take of the things of Christ, and show them unto him; that, like the man dying of hunger, he might ask for the food from the abundant supply before him, and be filled.

Poor Mr. Lambert! He wholly lost control, and, before she rose from prayer, sobbed without restraint. As she took his hand to wish him good by, he looked up into her face with such a pitiful expression that it almost overcame her.

"Oh," she exclaimed, "do trust Him! He is waiting for you to say, 'Lord, I believe!'"

[CHAPTER X.]

NEDDY CARTER'S MISSION.

WHEN Neddy Carter was carried from the hospital, he was at once admitted to one of the mission schools; but he begged so hard that he might still make his home with his mother that he was permitted to do so. He said nothing of his motives in preferring a bed on a pile of straw to a comfortable cot in the mission house, but he had a strong motive, which soon began to appear.

Unassisted and even unknown to his best friends, he gathered a few little ones in his mother's garret, and then repeated to them the instructions he had gained. Perhaps his pleasant blue eyes, gazing so frankly into theirs, had made him a favorite before; or it might be that the sight of him, wheeling about in his chair, enduring so bravely the great trial that had come upon him gave him influence over his companions. At any rate, he had influence and he used it to win them to better paths.

Miss Howard learned something of this, and was so rejoiced at it that she resolved to visit him in his home. She had never been there since the day of Neddy's accident, when, with Hepsey's help, she had had him conveyed in the ambulance to the hospital.

This visit occurred on the Sunday afternoon following her call on Mr. Lambert, described in the last chapter. It so delighted her that she longed for Mr. Lambert to know how the boy he had befriended was using his influence for Christ.

On Thursday of the following week she called upon the sick man, and found he was out for a drive. Sitting in his room, she wrote him a hurried note, asking him to accompany her to see a mutual friend on Sunday afternoon, enclosing in the note a piece of poetry she had selected for him. She left the whole with the servant, requesting an answer to be sent to her house.

Let us look upon Mr. Lambert as he enters his chamber, leaning upon the arm of his valet. The note has been placed in plain view from his lounging chair, and he notices it as soon as he has taken his seat.

"Who sent that?" he asks.

The tone is much softer than when Marion called last. Perhaps his sickness has weakened him.

"Miss Howard called, sir, and finding you out, wrote her errand."

"Glad I was away." Even while uttering the words he felt that they were untrue.

He took the note in his hands,—thin, bony hands, showing his sickness. "Get me some gruel," he said, "I'm tired, and shall try to sleep."

"Shall I say you cannot see any one?"

"How many times must I repeat that I see no one but the doctor?"