CHAPTER II.
unday came, and with it a fine dry day, causing Mrs. Duncan to congratulate herself upon her good fortune. She was a martyr to rheumatism in damp weather, and obliged consequently to be very careful. To-day, however, she would be able to go to church, and at the thought her heart bounded with pleasure. For, unlike a great many—indeed, I fear I might almost say the majority of people—Margaret Duncan really loved to go to God’s house. To her the services were never long, nor the familiar prayers and collects wearisome. On the contrary, she realised, as few do, the beauty of the concise language in which they are written, and frequently caught herself wondering how much could be expressed in so few words. This morning, although alone, both husband and son having been called away to see sick people, the service seemed especially sweet, and the sermon to bring more comfort than usual to her heart.
It was perhaps by design that Mr. Mellis preached from the text “That which thou sowest is not quickened, except it die,” dwelling upon the necessity for the death of the body, that the soul might rise again, and particularly on the hope—nay, certainty—of a blessed reunion above with those who had “gone before.”
Listening to the comforting words, and looking on the face of the dear old Rector, which fairly shone, as he spoke, with intense conviction, it was little wonder that Mrs. Duncan felt happier than she had done for a long time. Her child was not lost, only safe in Christ’s keeping, till she, too, should go to join her.
How the strong faith of one individual helps the feeble faith of others! In such a manner did Mr. Mellis help his friend and parishioner to-day.
Not that Mrs. Duncan really doubted God’s wisdom in taking away from her her child, but just as we crave a fresh protestation of love from one dear to us, drawing pleasure from it, so did she find comfort and consolation in the renewed assurances of divine love, spoken by the Rector this morning. To her husband, Margaret Duncan never mentioned such topics. Years before she had made the discovery that, although the doctor was careful to keep all the ordinary religious observances, being a regular attendant at church, yet he was not imbued with that living faith which delights in dwelling upon a future life when this one shall be ended. A loving husband and tender father, Dr. Duncan had felt the death of his little daughter keenly at the time, but though his wife had hoped for some permanent spiritual awakening and an expression of it, nothing was said which could lead her to suppose it had taken place. Belief does not come to all with equal facility, and knowing this, Mrs. Duncan never even in thought blamed her husband, but was content to wait.
It was at this juncture that good old Mr. Mellis had proved himself so true a friend to the almost broken-hearted mother, and the faith which had always been so precious to Margaret Duncan became even more so under the fostering guidance and help of the good Rector of St. Jude’s.
By a fortunate turn of events it so happened that both Dr. Duncan and his son Magnus were able to accompany “little mother” to St. Jude’s on the evening of this last Sunday in Lent.
It was a fine church, and there was, as usual, a full congregation, for people will rally round a consistent Christian man, such as Mr. Mellis. Were there more like him, we should less frequently hear the familiar remark, “such a poor congregation.”
The service proceeded as usual until after the Third Collect, when the curate announced that “The words of the anthem would be found in the three hundred and thirty-second hymn.” There was a slight pause, and then the opening bars of Gounod’s “There is a green hill” rang through the church.
Magnus Duncan drew a long breath of delighted anticipation.
Presently the tones of a rich mellow contralto voice floated down the aisles and up to the vaulted roof of the building. It was a voice of rarest quality, powerful but sweet, and the singer sang as though her whole soul was wrapped up in the words and music.
The tender pathetic verses seemed to have gained a new meaning when sung as Marielle Heritage sang them that night. Magnus craned his neck to get a glimpse of the singer, but she was almost hidden from view by the reading-desk, for she had taken a seat in the choir-stalls on entering the church that evening, and a mass of fair hair under a black hat was all that could be seen.
On and on sang that glorious voice till the last verse was reached, and then with what tender insistence came the repetition of the words, “we must love Him too,” as if in pleading with a most precious child.
Mrs. Duncan glanced up at her husband’s face, to see there an expression which it had never worn before, and one which made a glad hope spring up in her heart.
As the last notes died away, a tear, noticed by the loving eyes that watched him, trickled slowly down the doctor’s face, and with a long-drawn sigh he sank upon his knees as the congregation knelt for the rest of the prayers. “For the Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed them, and shall lead them unto living fountains of waters, and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes,” was the text of the curate’s sermon that night. He was only a young man, but very earnest, and Dr. Duncan could not help thinking that he himself, though so much older, was as a very child in comparison, with regard to spiritual things. Only God knew how fervently John Duncan prayed to be led to the “living fountains of waters” that night!
It was about ten o’clock on the Saturday night following. Magnus, tired with a long day’s work, had just said “Good night” to his parents, and betaken himself off to bed, leaving them sitting by the drawing-room fire.
John Duncan was ostensibly reading the paper, but a close observer might have noticed that the reading progressed in a most eccentric fashion. He had not got beyond the first six lines of the leader during the last hour, but was staring absently at the printed matter before him, evidently without cognisance of the news it contained. Eventually he dropped the paper and gazed into the fire instead. Mrs. Duncan was occupied in finishing an interesting article in a favourite magazine, and when she had concluded it, she said, without looking up:
“What is the news in to-day’s paper, John? Anything fresh taken place?”
Finding that her husband did not reply as usual, she hastily glanced at him, laying down her magazine as she did so.
“He did not hear my question,” she decided in her own mind; then rose and knelt beside his chair saying, “What can you be thinking about so deeply, my dear old man? It must be something very interesting, I should think, seeing that you did not even hear me speak to you just now!” And Margaret gave a happy little laugh, and looked teasingly at him.
“Thinking of, my darling? Why, something that has been on the tip of my tongue to tell you all the week, but I was almost afraid to; besides, I was not quite sure of myself.”
“It sounds like an enigma, John! But do tell me. I am all curiosity to know what you mean.”
Placing one arm round his wife as she knelt beside his chair, the doctor drew her closer to him and began:
“You remember last Sunday evening, Maggie?”
Mrs. Duncan nodded, and her eyes lit up with pleasure at the recollection.
“Well, it is a wonderful thing to me, and it may seem strange to you, my wife; but ever since I heard that girl sing that song, I have felt quite differently about religious matters.”
A glad cry burst from Margaret Duncan’s lips, but she checked it as her husband continued:
“I cannot tell how it was, but the reality of Christ’s death for us was borne in upon me as it had never been before. The story of Jesus had always seemed more like a beautiful dream, or myth, somehow, to me; perhaps I had not felt the need of a Saviour. But now, oh! Maggie, I can only wonder that I have been blind so long. I feel like a child when it first opens its eyes upon the world, and notices the beauties it contains. I had so often wished I could feel as you did, and draw the same comfort from religion, but I never could. And last Sunday evening it was as if Christ revealed Himself to me all at once, showing me my need of a Saviour, and asking only my love in return. All the week I have been thinking of it, Maggie, but the only prayer I could find to say was, ‘Lord, I believe, help Thou mine unbelief!’”
“Oh, Jack! my Jack! If you only knew how I have prayed for this, and what it means to me!” cried Maggie, flinging her arms round her husband as she burst into a very passion of tears—tears of joy, not sorrow.
Drawing her head down to the shelter of his breast, John Duncan held his wife very tightly to him, as he said, in a voice which shook with emotion:
“You will help me, won’t you, my darling? I want help so much, and we can speak of these things together now. I am groping in the dark yet.”
“Nay, John,” said Margaret, smiling through her tears, “I think you are just dazzled with the light. But all the help I can give is yours, you know, my dear one.”
Hand in hand, for the first time during their married lives, these two knelt that night at the feet of their heavenly Father, while Margaret prayed for strength and guidance for them both; and John Duncan was not a whit surprised when, in concluding, his wife added a petition for a blessing upon the dear girl who had been God’s instrument in effecting the longed-for change in her husband.
“It was just like Maggie,” he reflected, as he helped her to rise from her knees, and thought, as he kissed her, that she had never looked so fair in his eyes.
Happiness is a great beautifier, as we all know, and it was a very happy Margaret Duncan who laid her head on her pillow that Easter Eve.
(To be continued.)
[CHRONICLES OF AN ANGLO-CALIFORNIAN RANCH.]
By MARGARET INNES.