The strange house or, A moment's mistake
might not die, and He did not hear."
"Ask Him for this, and perhaps He will make the other plain to you by
and by. The reason, I mean!"
"I know the reason!" said the woman bitterly. "It was because of my
sin!"
"You do not know the reason. Perhaps the loving and merciful God could
find no other way to show you your sin, and lead you to Himself to be
forgiven."
There was a long silence, while the woman's thoughts chased each other
through her torn heart.
Gertrude watched the men rolling the gravel; she heard their cheerful
tones as they went backwards and forwards. Then she bent over the
prostrate form once more.
"Dear friend," she whispered, "shall I pray that God will give you His
mighty help to keep this promise?"
The woman pressed her hand, and Gertrude prayed a prayer, the
earnestness of which had never perhaps passed her lips before.
CHAPTER XXV.
JOHNNIE'S JOKE.
"WOULD it help you to tell 'me'?" asked Gertrude, bending over the
woman as she still knelt with her head buried in her lap.
She laid a tender hand on her head, and stroked her hair softly,
wondering at herself that she could, and yet feeling an overwhelming
pity in her heart. Was not she a sinner too, and did she not know that
the seeds of all sorts of evil lurked in her own heart?
"A sinner saved!" she thought. And then she said aloud, "I have learned
what it is to be forgiven myself, you know, and so I can sympathize."
"You have never done what I have," murmured the woman. "But—I do not
know why, yet I trust you! I will, if I can, tell you about it. You
will see then that I shall never be able to keep this promise."
"You will, if you believe that the dear God is able to help you. Oh,
if only you would, from your heart, ask Him to forgive you—whatever it
is—I am sure, after that you would be able to keep your promise."
The woman trembled, and after a minute or two's silence, she said in a
low tone—
"I never meant to—not at first. But before I say a word more, you will
promise me that you will never tell 'any one'?"
"No," said Gertrude; "I will keep your secret faithfully."
Then the woman went on almost beneath her breath—
"It was two years ago. I never meant to do it! I was as honest and
straightforward a woman as you would find.
"We lived—no matter where. My husband was a steward on board one of the
steamers going to and from China, and was not at home then. I settled
down in a seaside place, and hired a house and furniture, and set up
lodging-keeping.
"I had nobody but my Johnnie with me, and we were enough for each other.
"By and by there came a lady and a little boy—a dear little fellow."
She caught her breath for a moment with a sobbing sigh, and then went
on in a low almost inaudible tone—
"His mother was obliged to go away to Scotland, and I took care of him
while she was gone. One afternoon I was called into a neighbour's to
help with some one who had got a bad scald, and the time ran away, and
I was gone longer than I had ought to have been. I know that—I'd no
business to have left him so long."
The woman wound her shawl round her face and wept bitterly.
Gertrude's heart was beating so fast that she felt choked, while she
breathlessly listened to the tale which matched—yes, yes it did!—that
dreadful one of her sister's.
Then a blank despair fell upon her. Why had she given that reckless
promise not to tell any one? Ought she to hear the rest of the story
and remain silent? And if she interrupted now, the secret might be gone
for ever!
In this terrible crisis, Gertrude could but breathe in her heart a
swift prayer for guidance and help to her unseen but ever-present
Friend. Afterwards, she knew that it had been given, but now she could
only trust.
Could this be indeed the clue to Rose's mystery? She knew not what to
do, so she waited.
"When I came back," the woman went on at last, though her words were
choked and broken, "Johnnie—my Johnnie—met me in the passage full of
excitement.
"'I've had such a lark,' he said, in his cheerful little way.
"I went into the parlour (we had no lodgers just then) with my mind
full of the scalded girl, and I said—
"'Where's the little one, Johnnie? I did not mean to be gone so long.'
"'Come up and see,' he said. And he led me up-stairs and opened one of
the bedroom doors.
"I gave a great scream—I remember it all as if it had happened
yesterday—for there before me was a great monster which Johnnie had
dressed up for fun, with a big mask on and a candle behind it, shining
out of the eyes. Of course it was only for a moment I was frightened,
and I turned round to scold Johnnie about it, when I saw close to it
the figure of the little boy I was taking care of, standing with his
finger touching it.
"He was such a wonderfully timid child that my heart gave a great jump
when I saw him first. But after all, I thought, he was less scared than
I was.
"'Come along, dear,' I said, 'we will go down-stairs.'
"But the little fellow did not move. He went on touching the great
monster that Johnnie had made, and took not the slightest notice of me.
"I went up to him and looked in his face.
"'Ain't you tired of this ugly thing?' I said. 'Johnnie hadn't ought to
have done it. Come along, dear!'
"But though I took him up in my arms, he still looked with those
startled big eyes, until I got him safe down into our parlour.
"When I got there, I expected him to 'come to,' and perhaps have a
little cry. But oh, miss! How can I tell you my feelings when he just
sat where I put him, or stood where I stood him, without taking any
more notice than a doll.
"'Johnnie!' I said. 'What did you do?'
"Johnnie was terrified enough. 'I only told him to go up-stairs and see
something pretty in your room,' he said.
"'And did he go?'
"'He was mighty afraid at first, and then he ran up all at once, very
brave-like, and I thought there was no harm!' said Johnnie.
"And no more he did, miss; he loved the little fellow as much as I did.
Only Johnnie was always one for those jokes; that's what it was."
CHAPTER XXVI.
FLIGHT.
GERTRUDE could hardly breathe, but she kept quiet, and the woman
continued her narrative, still in the same dull, hopeless, heart-broken
tone in which she had spoken all along.
"I did everything I could think of. I gave him a warm bath—I poured out
prayers and tears—I did everything to bring him back, but to no avail.
"As to Johnnie, he hung over him too, and cried as I never wish to hear
a child cry again; it wrings my heart now to think of it.
"All night we watched him, and kissed him, and coaxed him, but it was
of no use! At last, Johnnie fell asleep, kneeling on the floor by us,
but no sleep came to my eyes.
"Then I made my fatal mistake and committed a dreadful sin.
"When the morning sun crept in, and still those wide-open startled eyes
gave no sign of intelligence, I made up my mind for flight.
"At first I only intended to gain time, perhaps to consult a doctor in
London, or to try what change of air would do to restore him. But I did
a dreadful thing—I robbed a mother of her child, and I prevented her
doing what she might have done to repair the mischief.
"You will blame me—I know you must—I feel your knees trembling beneath
me. But oh! No one who has not passed through it can conceive what I
suffered then, and what I have suffered since!"
Gertrude's knees did tremble, but by a great effort she murmured some
words of sympathy. While the woman raised her face to wipe from it the
drops of perspiration which stood on her brow.
One thought crossed Gertrude's mind of what they would think if she did
not arrive at the confectioner's, but she was reassured that they would
conclude that she had been persuaded to drive home with Mrs. Shaddock,
and till both parties arrived, each would think she was with the other.
This woman's story would be enough excuse when once she got home!
"It was my terror of what would be done to Johnnie," the woman went on
at length, "that made me fly. Ah! I had better have faced it all, ten
thousand times! Better for myself, better for him. As to me, I have
grown an old, broken-down woman; as to him—he lies here in the cold
ground, and I shall never, never see him again!"
"He is gone to Jesus," whispered Gertrude in a broken voice; "if you
seek Him too, you will meet your boy again."
She did not know how to articulate the words, and yet—still she thought
of herself as a forgiven sinner, and must she not forgive too!
The woman seemed to listen.
"Oh, if I could!" she said, with a yearning cry.
"'Him that cometh to Me I will in no wise cast out,'" said Gertrude
earnestly. And then she thought of the unfinished story, and how could
she bear to speak of anything till that was told?
But had she not in that brief prayer asked her Heavenly Father to take
it all in hand? And was she going to slight "His" work, which He had
given her to do, in order to take what she thought the best road to
finding little Lester?
"Those are the very words my Johnnie said!" exclaimed the woman,
raising her face for the first time, and letting Gertrude gaze upon its
haggard lines—at least upon so much of them as could be seen in the
increasing darkness.
"'In no wise cast out!' Those are good words!"
She laid her head down again on the trembling knees, and did not speak
for ever so long.
"Why are you so good to me?" she asked at last.
"Because I am so sorry for you," said Gertrude in a low tone.
"I'm not worthy to come to Him," the woman went on; "and yet—yet I
think I must try. Johnnie said he'd been forgiven—and he said I should
be. And oh, though you may not think it, from such a dreadful thing as
I am, but if I could be forgiven by God, and know that the poor mother
I robbed—"
She broke off and flung herself upon Johnnie's grave, and lay there
with her face against the cold clay.
"Dear friend," said Gertrude kneeling down beside her, "go to Jesus
now! Do not wait any longer. You will never be happy without Him; you
will be at peace even in the midst of this dreadful sorrow, if only you
have Him for your Saviour. Do not wait another moment."
And again repeating those words which have brought balm to thousands of
hopeless hearts, Gertrude said, as Johnnie's nurse had done, "'Him that
cometh to Me I will in no wise cast out.'"
Perhaps Johnnie's persuasion had prepared her, perhaps the week of
anguish she had just passed had softened her heart; at any rate, the
woman believed the loving promise and acted on it.
She "came" to Jesus, and found that she was not cast out! But, covered
with the Atoning Blood, she was drawn into the circle of everlasting
love!
"I've done it!" she whispered at length. "I've come, and He has not
cast me out! Oh, I never saw such love!"
She rose from the ground, and taking Gertrude's hand, pointed towards
the entrance, where the men were beginning to put away their tools.
"I shall never be able to thank you, miss," she said brokenly, "but if
ever there was a grateful heart!—To think that I 'shall' see Johnnie
again now! Oh, miss! I'm lost in joy and wonder. I cannot think that I
am the same woman that I was an hour ago!"
Gertrude, amidst all the conflicting feelings of joy for this new-born
soul, sorrow for her sister, and anxiety as to the future, could do
nothing but weep.
CHAPTER XXVII.
A DARK RIDE.
THE woman, still holding her hand, led her to the gates.
"Dear miss," she said at last, "why do you cry? You, at any rate, ought
to be very glad, for you have brought me, by your great kindness, what
is worth the whole world to me! Why do you cry?"