“Who calls my mother’s name?” asked the sick woman.
“I, your father’s son, Madelaine Arnaud. I, your brother, who despoiled you, and sold his life for gold, but,” and his voice trembled with
emotion—“but who will devote that life to you now, if you will allow it, to atone for the cold selfishness of the past.”
“I should be no daughter of the church which you despise, William Stanfield, if I bore anger to my father’s son. I teach my little children to pray, ‘Forgive us, as we forgive those who sin against us,’ therefore must my heart refuse all malice against God’s creatures, else would my own prayers avail not.”
He could not answer then, for he, the bigot, the scorner of that church which he had ridiculed, felt now the beauty of her teaching when, even in the midst of her sufferings, this desolate woman could forgive one who knew that he was responsible for so much that might have been alleviated.
“Elaine!”—ay, it was the first time that she had listened to her old name since the night when her brave husband had spoken his farewell, and the sound thrilled her with strange memories—“Elaine, your roof has sheltered me to-night, and saved from destruction one who claims as a proof of your forgiveness acceptance of the home which he will share with yourself and little ones.”
And, ere she answered, the chimes of Trinity heralded the dawn of that thrice-blessed morning when the angels sang, “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace to men of good-will.” And that message of the Incarnation brooded with its holy evangel on the troubled hearts within, as, when the Christmas sun shone over the snow-covered city, the carriage of the rich merchant bore its precious freight to his home, and light, and life, and joy succeeded the gloomy night. And she, when her prayer ascended on that night of shelter and rest, realized the fulfilment of her mother’s benediction: “Adjuvabit eam Deus!”
[82] “For all the gods of the Gentiles are devils.”
[83] “God shall help her.”