Chapter Eighteen.
All Right.
Ernest Maltby was deeply interested in the account which Thomas Bradly gave him of the work going on in the heart of Lydia Philips.
“This is the Lord’s doing,” he said, “and is marvellous in our eyes. I am so glad that she came to you, Thomas; and equally so that you have come to me about her, for I think I know of a situation that may suit her nicely.”
“Indeed, sir; I’m truly glad of that.”
“Yes; I heard yesterday from our old friend Dr Prosser that he is wanting to find just such a young woman as Lydia Philips to fill a place which is now vacant, and the appointment to which is in his hands. I will write to him about her at once, if Lydia is willing to go. Perhaps you would be good enough to call at her house as you go by, and ask her to step up and speak to me.—By the way, Thomas, have you heard anything more about the bag since poor Taylor made his confession to you? I have been so busy lately that I have quite forgotten to ask you.”
“Nothing, sir, but Lydia’s story; and that, as you see, merely confirms poor Ned’s account. We’re fast now: the bag’s been in London half a year now, or thereabouts, if it hasn’t been destroyed long ago; and, if it’s still in existence somewhere or other, we’ve nothing whatever to show us where. I’ve not liked to trouble you any more about it, but I’ve left no stone unturned. I got a friend of mine, the guard of one of the trains, to inquire at the left-luggage office at Saint Pancras; and I put an advertisement for a week together into the London papers, offering five pounds reward to any one as’d bring the bag just as it was when it was lost; but it were all of no use, and I didn’t expect as it would be, as it were taken up to London so long ago. It would have turned up months since if it had got into honest hands, and they had found our address in the bag. But I thought it best to try everything I could think of. And now me and Jane’s satisfied to leave it to the Lord to find it for us in his own way.”
“Yes,” replied the vicar, “that is your truly wise and happy course; and now you can patiently wait.—But stay; it just occurs to me, now I have been mentioning Dr Prosser, that he must have been travelling by the very train on to which the bag was dropped. It was the night of 23rd December last, was it not?”
“Yes, sir, that was the night.”
“And it was dropped on to the express train from the north to London?”
“It was, sir; but what then?”
“Why, don’t you remember what the doctor said as we were walking with him to the station the morning when he left us? Don’t you remember his saying that his luggage was put on the top of the carriage he was in, and that he was angry with the porter for his carelessness in not covering it properly?”
“Yes, sir; I think I remember it now, but other things have put it out of my head.”
“Well, Thomas, it seems to me not at all impossible that the bag was dropped on to this carriage; and you know that the train did not stop till it reached London.”
“Well, sir?”
“Might not the bag have been reckoned by the porter at London as part of the doctor’s luggage, if it was just on the top of it, and have been carried off by him?”
“Possible, sir, but I’m afraid not very likely.”
“No, perhaps not, but, as you admit, possible.”
“True, sir; but if Dr Prosser took it home, and found it had been a mistake, wouldn’t he have sent it back to the luggage office; and if so, the guard would have found it there when he inquired by my wish.”
“I’m not so sure of that, Thomas: the doctor’s head would be full of thoughts about other things, science, and other matters; and when he got home he wouldn’t trouble himself about his luggage if he’d seen it safe on the cab; he would leave it to the servants to see that it was all brought in; and if there was your bag with it as well, he would not have noticed it. And if he came upon it afterwards in the hall, he would probably think it was something that belonged to Mrs Prosser, or to one of the servants. And as for Mrs Prosser herself, she was in those days so full of meetings and schemes of all sorts away from home, that a bag like that might have stood in their hall for days and she would not have noticed it; and so, if it really got there, it might have been carried off by the servants to the lumber-room, and may be there still.”
Thomas Bradly smiled, and shook his head sorrowfully. “It’s possible enough, no doubt, sir, but I’m afraid it’s too good to be true. But is it sufficiently possible for me to do anything? Supposing the doctor took it by mistake, and it went with him to his house, and is stowed away there in some lumber-room or cupboard, from what you say neither he nor his missus will remember anything about it.”
“That’s true, Thomas; and certainly it wouldn’t be worth while your going up to London on such a mere chance or possibility; but it suggests itself to me that, if Lydia Philips would like the situation which the doctor has to offer, and he is willing to take her on my recommendation, it would be a great satisfaction to me if you would, at my expense, go with her and see her safe to London, and introduce her to Dr Prosser, and you could then take the opportunity of asking his servants about the bag. You may be quite sure that if it is in the house they will be quite aware of the fact, and where it is to be found.”
“You’ve just hit the right nail on the head, sir,” replied Bradly thoughtfully. “I’ll go with pleasure; and don’t say a word about the expenses, for I shall feel it to be a privilege to give that little trouble and money if I can only lend a helping hand in settling poor Lydia in a better place than her own home, poor thing.”
Three days after the above conversation Bradly called again at the vicarage, by Mr Maltby’s request.
“All is arranged, Thomas,” said the vicar. “Lydia Philips is to go to the situation; and as it has been vacant for some time, the doctor wants her to go up to London as soon as possible; so she is to start next Tuesday, if you can make it convenient to accompany her on that day.”
“All right, sir; I can ask off a day or two at any time, and I’ll be ready.”
“And, Thomas, I can’t help having a sort of hope, and almost expectation, that you will hear something satisfactory about the bag.”
“Thank you, sir; it’s very kind of you to say so, but I shan’t say anything to Jane about it. I don’t want to raise hopes in her, as I can’t see much like a foundation for ’em; so I shall only tell her about Lydia’s getting the situation, which she’ll be very pleased to hear, and that it’s your wish I should see her safe to London. But if I do find the bag, and all safe in it, you shall hear, sir, afore I get back.”
Tuesday evening, 6 p.m. A telegram for Reverend Ernest Maltby from London. The vicar opened it; it was signed TB, and was as follows:—“All right—I have got it—hurrah!—Tell Jane.”
An hour later found the vicar in Thomas Bradly’s comfortable kitchen, and seated by his sister.
“Jane,” he began, “I have often brought you the best of all good news, the gospel’s glad tidings; perhaps you won’t be sorry to hear a little of this world’s good news from me.”
“What is it?” she asked, turning rather pale.
“Jane, the Lord has been very good—the bag is found; your brother has got it all right.”
Poor Jane! She thought that she had risen out of the reach of all strong emotion on this subject; but it was not so. “Patience had indeed had her perfect work in her,” yet the pressure and strain of her sorrow had never really wholly left her. And now the news brought by the vicar caused a rush of joy that for a few moments was almost intolerable. But her habitual self-control did not even then desert her, and she was enabled in a little while to listen with composure to the explanation of her clergyman, while her tears now flowed freely and calmly, bringing happy relief to her gentle spirit. And then, at her request, Mr Maltby knelt by her side, and uttered a fervent thanksgiving on her behalf to Him who had at length scattered the dark clouds which had long hung over the heart of the meek and patient sufferer. And now, oh what a joy it was to feel that the heavy burden was gone; that she who had borne it would be able to show her late mistress, Lady Morville, that she was innocent of the charge laid against her, and had never swerved from the paths of uprightness in her earthly service. As she thought on these things, and bright smiles shone through her tears, the vicar was deeply touched to hear her, as she quietly bowed her head upon her hands, implore pardon of her heavenly Father for her impatience and want of faith. He waited, however, till she again turned towards him her face full of sweet peace, and then he said,—
“‘Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take;
The clouds ye do much dread
Are big with mercy, and shall break
With blessings on your head.’
“Yes, Jane, your trial has indeed been a sharp one; but the Lord knew that you could stand that trial. And now he has brought you out of it as gold purified in the furnace.”
“I don’t know, dear sir,” was her reply; “I can see plenty of the dross in myself, but yet I do hope and trust that the chastening has not been altogether in vain.”
“I will leave you now, Jane,” said the vicar, rising, “and I shall be delighted to hear from your brother’s own lips all about his finding the long-missing bag.”