During these dark days Neighbour Bessie was a constant visitor, and she never came without seeking to bring some brightness, though mostly it was in the form of fun. Sometimes it jarred on Phebe when she first came in, but invariably Phebe was found enjoying the fun before Bessie left. Bessie was in high feather when Phebe told her in neighbourly confidence that an old great-uncle, recently deceased, had left her the freehold of a meadow at Edenholme, a place four miles from Hadley. "Do you mean to say you are a landed proprietress?" "Yes, if you care to put it in that grand style." "Of course I do—style is everything. But really to be serious, I should like to see this estate of yours!" "Estate! Just one field, with one solitary donkey, perhaps, in it." "Well, let's make the dear donkey's acquaintance, anyhow. Could we not drive there? Couldn't Darling Jones drive you and me, and let's have half-a-day's holiday? Now, do, there's a dear! I'm sure I'm losing all my complexion because I never get an outing." "I do wish you wouldn't call that young man by that foolish name. Suppose he should overhear you?" "That would be perfectly lovely! He'd put his hand on his heart, and say 'Somebody loves me!'" and Bessie put herself in the supposed tragic attitude. "You are a dreadful girl. Now, just for a punishment Reynolds shall drive us." "Then you consent to go?" and Bessie's eagerness confirmed Phebe in her suspicion that it was simply a ruse to get her out. However, the drive was taken and enjoyed. Instead of the donkey being found in the meadow, there was a blind child groping about on hands and knees for flowers and grasses. "Just look there!" exclaimed Bessie, quite philosophically; "and yet with two eyes of quite the proper sort and power, most of us miss heaps of flowers we might gather." The meadow was close by a small railway station soon to become an important junction, a new line being under construction which would run into it from quite an opposite direction. Reynolds drove them to the other side of the line, where some hundreds of men were at work on a long tunnel. The curious little wooden houses in which some of the men lived were inspected, and Phebe had quite a long chat with one of the "gangers." On their return home Bessie informed Mrs. Colston that the "estate" had some "park-like stretches," and was quite "a suitable site for a summer holiday with the help of a tent." "But it is a shame," she went on, "that it is not on the other side of the railway. Why, if that meadow had only been near that tunnel the railway folks would have given ever so much for it. Don't you think it is too bad?" "No, I don't." "You don't! Wouldn't you like Mrs. Waring to make an honest bit of money?" "Of course I should. But if it would have been better for the meadow to have been where you wished it, it would have been there, no doubt about that." "Do you think, then, that whatever is, is best? But I don't see how you can. I didn't have any breakfast this morning. Mother said I was in one of my tantrums. Suppose I was; but I can tell you it wasn't the best thing for me." "Perhaps it just was; but I cannot say positively about your affairs, because I don't know that you come under the same list as mistress does." "What list is that?" "The list of Christians. You know 'whatever is is best' for them. Perhaps it doesn't seem so at the first, but God makes it so sooner or later." "He doesn't do so, then, for everybody?" "No, I don't think so; I can't see how they can expect Him to." "It's a bad look-out for me, then, Mrs. Colston," and the girl looked her frankly in the face. "I often wish I were a Christian; but there, I never shall be." "Why not, Bessie, dear? Tell me what is your difficulty." "I can't give up my nonsense and fun; it's no good, I couldn't be serious like Mrs. Waring is for anything. And then," dropping her voice, "mother would never believe I was trying to be good, no, not if I tried like an archangel." "What your mother believes, or doesn't believe, shouldn't come into the question, dear. It's the Lord's opinion of us we've got to trouble about. But you make a great mistake if you think you've got to give up fun, so long as it's innocent fun. Why, I believe God is often disappointed in His children because they're such a long-faced, sour lot; I do indeed." But just then Mrs. Marchant sent in a message that Bessie was wanted at once. That same evening Phebe was called into the grocery department to see a woman who particularly wished to speak to her. She was a very forlorn-looking being, and seeing the marks of tears upon her face Phebe invited her into the parlour, placing a chair for her by the fire, for the evening was chilly. "I've come to ask you, Mrs. Waring, if you will come and see my husband. I do believe he is dying." "But why do you want me to see him?" Phebe was feeling very bewildered. "Why not get a doctor? I'm not even a nurse." "Oh, it's not that. I've got a doctor for him; he wants to talk to you. It's him that sent me to ask you." "But why does he want to see me?" "I asked him if I should get anybody to come and pray to him, and he said as how he didn't want no parsons a-bothering of him, but he would like Mrs. Waring to come, for," in quite a whisper, "he's mortal afeared of dying." "He wants me to come in place of a minister?" said Phebe with a gasp. "How does he know me? How did he come to ask for me?" "Why, you know he used to go a good deal to 'The Rose in June,' and they was a-talking about you there one night—he told me so when he came home—as how you shut your shops early on Saturday 'cause you were particular about Sunday. One of your shopfolks said so to somebody. And my Jim said as how you must be one of the right sort, for your religion cost you summat. That's how it is. He's talked about it a lot of times; and one night some of the men that goes to 'The Rose in June' came to have a look at you." Phebe smiled. "I should like to help your husband all I could," she said, "but I am quite unfit to talk to a dying man. Why not let me send for one of our good ministers? Or, I will ask my friend if she will go." "I'm sure he won't see anybody else," the woman exclaimed, but Phebe was out of hearing. Presently she returned, saying in a very quiet voice that she would accompany her home at once. Nanna had firmly refused to go, saying it was a distinct call from God to Phebe herself, and that it would be wicked to disobey. So in great fear and trembling Phebe went. The man was lying on a wretched bed, evidently very weak, but with no signs of death about him. After inquiring as to how he felt Phebe started straightway by telling him how unfit she was to help anybody, being only a learner herself, and her very simple straightforwardness drew the sick man all the more to her. "But, look here, missis," he said, turning on his elbow eagerly towards her. "You can help me all I want, and I'd rather have you than one of them preaching chaps as is paid to do it. What I wants to know is this: Do you think as how God is good and only does good things?" Phebe paused for a moment, and while she hesitated the man was keenly watching her, with great hungry-looking eyes. "I want my answer to be perfectly true," she replied, "that is why I waited." "I know it'll be true," said the man. Is God good? What about the taking away of her child! Could she say to this hungry, seeking soul He was not good? A thousand times, No—that she could never do. "I have been in great trouble lately—for more than a year the way has been very dark"—there was a choke in her voice. "I guessed so," said the man softly. "But God is good," her voice was clear and firm again. "Yes, He is good; I have found Him so over and over again. We judge Him too quickly so often, and so often blame Him for what comes through the sins of other." "There's so many queer things in the world," said the man, "that it seemed to me there couldn't be a good God." "It's the men and women who are queer." "But, look here, if He's really good, will He take pity on a poor chap like me, who's been such a wicked 'un, and only comes to Him when he's not got nobody else to go to?" There was a depth of yearning in the voice. "Before I answer that question I should like you to answer me one, because I cannot know your heart as God does. Suppose, now, God was to give you back health, how would you treat God then?" "Ah, now, missis, I must take time to think, as you did." Then, after a pause: "I'd stand by Him, blest if I wouldn't!" "And leave off going to the public-house and lead a straight, clean life?" "Yes, I would, if only He'd make me downright sure He wiped off all old scores agen me. Will you ask Him to?" "Yes, I will." "But I mean here—now!" To pray in public! She had never done such a thing in her life! Again came the feeling of fear, but again it was conquered. Kneeling down by the side of the bed, with the man's hand in hers, and the man's wife kneeling by her side, she slowly, in short sentences, asked for just what the man needed, and under his breath he repeated every word she said. If the man had never heard of Jesus, and what Jesus had done for him, he learnt it from that prayer, and grasped the truth for himself. "Now," said she, as she rose from her knees, "I believe you are going to get better." All the way home her thoughts dwelt on the fact that she had publicly testified to the goodness of God. "After that," she said to herself, "I must not grieve any more after my darling. It must have been right for her to go, since God is good. To doubt that will make me a liar, and my life, too, must show I do not doubt it; but, oh, that I might catch a glimpse of her just for a minute!" It was a trembling Phebe who left home—a radiant Phebe returned. Nanna could not understand the change, but when she heard the story she exclaimed: "There now, that's always the way! If ever you want help, go and help somebody else. I do declare it was the Lord Himself who got you to commit yourself in that way. He just cornered you for your own deliverance." It was a hard, strenuous life that Phebe Waring led day by day. An hour was spent in the business every morning before breakfast, and till the last shutter was up at night she was still at her post. But never a day passed without some portion of it being entirely given up to sunny-haired little Jack. There was no piece of work done in which she did not lend a hand, and not only was there in every department every evidence of fair and honest dealing, but the utmost economy was also studied, down to the tying of string and the folding up of paper. Economy is not the sign of a small mind, but waste the sign of a mind with empty corners. As the new year approached Reynolds asked if there was to be any stocktaking, and, if so, on what lines it should be done? The truth was Phebe had not thought of this, but did not think it necessary to say so. After due deliberation the whole affair was arranged, and when she cast up her accounts, to her great astonishment she found there had been considerable advance made—and this in spite of the extra help employed, the purchase of a horse and cart, and several improvements which had been made in the premises. "Is not that splendid!" she said to Nanna, as all the figures were explained. "I shall give a good bonus to Reynolds, for he deserves it; and Jones must have something, too. If I go on at this rate I shall some day be a rich woman! Think of that! God is indeed good!" "Ah, dearie, it's easy to say 'God is good!' when the balance is on the right side, but what must please Him best is when we can say it just as trustfully when the purse is empty." The truth was, Nanna was just a wee bit afraid lest her darling should not stand the test of wealth. She remembered an old story about a play which used to be enacted at country fairs in the days when the Quakers were so bitterly persecuted. Among the dramatis personÆ came the evil one, who, in the course of a speech, made these remarks: "Let these Quakers alone; it's no good hunting them down. This is my plan: God is sure to prosper them in basket and in store, because they serve Him faithfully; then when they are rich, that will be my time. I shall be sure to get them then." "God keep her from the snare of riches!" was the old woman's fervent prayer. |