Part 4

A few short months of wedded happiness fled swiftly by, and then Frank went away to sea. Alas for the poor young wife, he never returned. A brief newspaper paragraph brought the first sad intelligence that the captain of the brig "Middlesex" had been washed overboard and drowned, in the terrible Bay of Biscay, during a gale.

This was woeful news for the whole village; but what was the grief of all the rest compared with that which Margaret Henderson felt when she heard of the loss of her gallant young husband? She was like one turned to stone. Hers was unforgiving grief. She could moan out, "'The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away,'" but when a Christian friend would fain have persuaded her to add, "'Blessed be the name of the Lord,'" she shook her head.

"I cannot, I cannot," she said, despairingly. "It would be just a mockery; for my heart is always rebelling and calling for Frank. Oh, we were so happy; and to think he should be taken from me in such a shocking way. What had I done to deserve such a blow?"

Even the advent of little Effie failed to subdue that stubborn spirit which could not consent to say, "Thy will be done." And during eight long years, Margaret never learned to bow in submission to Him who had seen fit to chasten her.

As far as worldly matters went, Mrs. Henderson lacked no comfort, for the sale of the ship brought her a large sum of money. But she never looked on the bright side of her lot, or compared her blessings with the wants of many who might have pleaded that they were at least as deserving as she was, and yet scarcely knew how to find rest and shelter for their little ones, or food to satisfy their hunger, while she possessed all in abundance.

For eight long years, then, Margaret Henderson fought against God; only she spoke not of her mental conflict, but hid her murmurings in her heart, where they rather increased; like the seed which, though buried in the ground, dies not entirely, but brings forth more fruit.

Sunny-haired, blue-eyed Effie Henderson, found home but a cold place of refuge for her little warm heart. Petted by young and old at Deerhurst, she could hardly understand why her mother's brow should wear a constant cloud, her face be the gravest, and her voice sound more harshly than any other.

When dear little Effie came bounding into the house, ready to tell some new tale of kindnesses received from their friendly neighbours, her mother would coldly bid her "be quiet, for the noise made her head ache." Or when the little girl, emboldened by seeing a softer expression on her mother's face, threw her arms round her neck and kissed her cheek lovingly, Mrs. Henderson would resolutely turn aside without returning the caress, and bid Effie "go sit on her own chair and not tease."

But if Effie could have noticed and understood the expression of her mother's face, she would have read the maternal longing even through that unnatural coldness; for all the while Margaret thought to herself: "I would give worlds to clasp my child to my bosom as other mothers fold their little children in their arms; but I will never love aught again, lest it should be taken from me. I will not be wounded through my child as I was by the loss of her father."

Poor, vain, rebellious soul! To think that its puny strength could successfully contend against Him who holds the winds in the hollow of His hand, and to whom we poor sinful creatures are but as the clay which the Potter fashioneth as he will. So, at home, Effie was ruled less by the law of love than by that of fear, and she became accustomed to hush the merry laugh and check the bounding step when she reached the little gate at the entrance of the garden amid which stood her pretty home.

One Saturday afternoon, two women, next-door neighbours, having seen little Effie pass an hour before, ceased their household work to make remarks about the mother and daughter.

"How grave Effie looks," began Mrs. Brown, leaning the while upon the sweeping-brush she had been busily plying the minute before. "Poor thing! I declare she is beginning to look like a little old woman."

"And well she may," replied Mrs. Green, "only think what a dull time she has at home. If she had no more cheerful company than her mother, she would be fairly moped to death."

"Ay, Mrs. Henderson has grieved sorely for her husband. Nobody has ever seen her shed a tear, but I believe she never will forget him. Dear, dear me! Who, to look at her now, would think she was the laughing lass that Frank Henderson was so delighted to bring to Deerhurst."

"To be sure, she is changed, and no doubt she has mourned terribly; but still I can't think it is right to be so hard and cold with poor little Effie. I call it both sinful and selfish to nurse one's grief until it makes others miserable."

"Come, come, neighbour," said Mrs. Brown; "we must remember what the Bible says about judging. It isn't easy to see the thoughts of another person's heart, and I am sure Mrs. Henderson never neglects anything to make Effie comfortable. There is not a child in the place that wears such beautiful clothes and goes so neat as that little thing does."

"Well, to be sure, the Bible says, 'Judge not, that ye be not judged,' and I don't mean to say for a moment that Mrs. Henderson means to be unkind to the poor child. Still, one can't help having some idea of a person's heart if one sees their actions. Now, do you think a child cares half so much for fine clothes as for loving words and kind looks? Why, if my little lass were not allowed to run and throw her arms round her father's neck and mine, and tell us all her little pleasures or troubles, she would wonder what was going to happen. Depend on it, you must treat children just like little friends, if you want them to grow up honest, truthful, and loving."

"I don't think Mrs. Henderson understands much about a child's ways, or cares for poor Effie's pleasures or troubles. It does seem strange, too, for she is so like him that's gone. I would look at her till I fancied I saw poor Frank Henderson himself."

"It just comes to this, though," replied Mrs. Green, "that Mrs. Henderson seems to want to make an old woman of Effie, and never remembers or sits down to think a bit about what she liked when she was a child herself. I have a great idea of duty to parents; but I consider I owe a duty to my children; and that if I would have them care for the things I care for, I must show that I feel for all their little troubles, and am glad when they are happy."

At this moment, a gentle and pleasant-looking lady came in sight. It was Mrs. Elwood, the wife of the Deerhurst doctor; and the two gossips suddenly recollected not only that the household business was at a stand-still, but that they were "not fit to be seen;" so they vanished indoors and resumed the labours which their chat had interrupted.

It was a common thing for Mrs. Elwood to ask little Effie Henderson to spend the Saturday half-holiday with her own children, and she was now going with the intention of taking her back. But, when she arrived, the widow's face had a flushed and angry look, as she opened the door for her visitor; and Mrs. Elwood began to fear for the success of her mission, when she saw Effie's hands clasped in a supplicating attitude, while the tears streamed down her cheeks.

A table was strewed with a curious collection of odds and ends, such as would provoke a smile in a grown-up person, but which in a child's eyes are priceless treasures. There were shreds of silk and velvet; a little half-dressed doll, whose other garments were close at hand; a few beads; a ring or two, which had been manufactured by Effie's little fingers from the same stock, and deemed by their owner as good as diamonds; her doll's necklace; some pictures profusely coloured in red, blue, and yellow, together with all those miscellaneous bits of rubbish which every mother has smiled at, when she turned out her little girl's pocket after the young ones had gone to bed.

Mrs. Henderson placed her visitor a chair, and while making a remark about the weather, gave a reproving glance at Effie, and then with a quick motion of her hand threw the whole queer little collection to the back of the fire. Poor Effie durst not speak; but she sobbed bitterly, and followed her mother's movements with sorrowful and longing eyes.

Mrs. Elwood felt uncomfortable; but, hoping to act as a peace-maker, said: "I trust my little friend has not been guilty of any serious fault, for I have come on propose to take her home with me, if you can spare her. I dare say my two little daughters are eagerly watching and listening for our footsteps, and thinking every minute an hour until mamma returns with Effie."

"I am sorry to disappoint them, Mrs. Elwood," replied the widow; "but I cannot let Effie accept your kind invitation to-day. I am going to send her to bed, to keep her out of mischief. I told her I should before you came, and I cannot break my word, though I dare say she thought it would be all right when she saw you. You can go, Effie," she continued, pointing towards the staircase as she spoke. "Say 'good-afternoon' to Mrs. Elwood."

The child placed her trembling hand in that of her friend, and in a low voice, interrupted by sobs, thanked her for coming to ask her to tea. Mrs. Elwood pressed her kind motherly lips to the little wet cheek, and said she hoped Effie would be able to go another day, but she must not say anything just at present, as Mrs. Henderson was displeased.

"I hope," said Mrs. Elwood, when Effie was out of hearing, "that my little friend has committed no serious fault."

"Quite enough to deserve punishment," was the reply. "She fills her pockets with all sorts of rubbish, and I am continually picking up some of her trumpery about the house. I have told her before I would burn all I might find, so to-day I made her gather up every bit, and I have taken care they will not be strewn here and there again."

"But, my dear Mrs. Henderson, excuse my asking, had Effie a proper place in which to put her little treasures?"

Mrs. Henderson seemed half-amused, half-scornful, at the very idea of such a thing. "No, indeed," she replied; "I do not set aside a place for mere rubbish. Effie must learn to do without such trash as that I have burned."

"She will in time, let us hope; but all those shreds of silk, and odds and ends, which are valueless to you and me, are very precious in the eyes of a little girl. I can assure you my two children have just such collections, but so far from destroying them, I am constantly applied to for additional scraps to eke out their treasures. Of course I insist on their being put away when done with; but the children have no excuse for untidiness, because each has a drawer for her property. I presume Effie's fault has been that of making your beautiful home look untidy by strewing it with her odds and ends?"

Airs. Henderson made a gesture of assent. She had felt annoyed that Mrs. Elwood should interfere even in such a gentle manner, and now, though somewhat mollified by the deserved compliment paid her by the lady, she did not regret when the visitor rose to take her leave.

There were sorrowful faces at home when Mrs. Elwood reached it, and even the kind doctor's good-humoured countenance was overclouded when he asked in vain for little pet Effie.

"It seems strange," said he, when his wife told him the cause of the child's absence, "that so few people have patience and love enough to deal with children. But poor Margaret Henderson is like many others; she cannot forgive Him who has seen fit to afflict her; and because He has taken away one blessing, she flings the rest after it, and will have none. What froward children we are in the sight of our heavenly Father."

Mrs. Henderson's cottage looked beautiful indeed that evening, but the heart of its mistress was not at rest. She could see nothing but the little sorrowful figure, with clasped hands and streaming eyes; and that look, so like the dead father that she almost fancied she heard his voice pleading that she would love their child, and be very tender with her for his sake.

Conscience was busy with Margaret. It brought before her the many blessings she had slighted because one was taken away, her own unthankfulness of heart, her unloving ways with those about her.

Visions, too, of her own bright childhood filled the heart of the lonely woman, and she contrasted it with Effie's, such as she had made it. Her own had been all love from the first day that she, the youngest lamb of the fold, could remember, to that on which, with a father's blessing ringing in her ears, she had left her childhood's home for the far distant roof of her sailor-husband. All her own coldness and unkindness, the many times she had cast off the little clinging arms, and turned her cheek away from the proffered kiss, the harsh words of reproof which the slightest fault had been sufficient to call forth upon her child, and the difference between Effie's home and out-door looks, rose plainly before her.

And then, as she sat with the fire-light shining upon her pretty room, she became sensible of the value of her comforts, as she had never been before. God's long-suffering and goodness, too, were made apparent, and the words, "Shall I receive good at the hand of the Lord, and shall I not receive evil?" came into her mind. "He has taken away ONE good gift," she murmured; "oh, Frank! But He has left me all beside, and I have thanked Him for nothing. Yet, instead of wishing, as I have often done, that I had never owned the lost blessing, ought I not rather to thank God that I have so sweet a memory of my short married life, unmarred by the recollection of one unloving word?"

At this moment a little scene, witnessed years before, was vividly recalled to the widow's mind. It had chanced that she had been entrusted with the care of a much-spoiled child, when she was quite a girl; and the little urchin being denied the possession of a watch, had refused all the toys suitable to his age, which had been provided in abundance. She recalled to mind how he had dashed aside the proffered playthings, and even stamped upon them with his little feet, refusing all her efforts to make him happy because the one thing was withheld.

"I have been like that child for all these long years," said Margaret to herself, and the thought brought her upon her knees.

Kind Mrs. Elwood would have been rejoiced could she have seen how God was answering the prayer which she, in the quiet of her chamber, was offering for her friend, that she might receive light from above, and that the eyes which were blind to His goodness might be opened, the cold heart warmed by Divine grace, and the orphan child made happy in a mother's love and sympathy.

Truly God's ways are not as our ways. During that lonely hour by her still fireside, the dim twilight shutting out the external world, Margaret Henderson was taught the lesson which for more than eight long years she had been refusing to learn. When she rose from her knees, it was with an humble desire to place herself in God's hands, and a resolution to prove herself thankful for past and present mercies.

Naturally her first thought was of Effie, and of the lack of maternal love which was due to the little one. She felt that she had often been too harsh; but here arose her first difficulty. It was comparatively easy to acknowledge her errors to God; but how change her conduct to the little one without at least owning that hitherto she, and not Effie, had been to blame for the gloom in their home and the cloud on the child's brow.

With a new-born perception of the value of her little daughter's love, Margaret Henderson felt a jealous dread of doing anything which might lower her in Effie's eyes, and she therefore hesitated for some time before she even determined on stealing quietly to the room to which the child had been banished. She took no light in her hand; and when she stood by the bed, nothing but the feeble ray from the new moon showed the couch in dim outline, though she could not see the child.

There was no movement when she reached the bedside, and she was about to steal softly away, feeling relieved at the thought that Effie had forgotten her troubles in sleep, and resolving that, by God's blessing, a new life should begin with the awaking. But first she bent to kiss the little sleeper, and she was startled at the clammy coldness of the cheek. She listened; she could not hear Effie breathe.

Then she gave utterance to an exceeding bitter cry. "She is dead; my child, my darling!" For there, in the almost entire darkness, the conviction rushed on her mind that, to punish her rebellious and unthankful spirit, she had been permitted to become sensible of her blessings, only that she might lose the greatest and most precious of the many that were left to her. Who can describe the agony of that moment? The mother believing the child dead, from whom she had parted in anger, unreasonable anger, a few hours before!

Oh, the terrible torrent of remorse that passed through the widow's mind, while, with trembling steps, she hurried to find a light, and then returned to look on what she believed to be Effie's corpse. And oh, what joy to see one blue eye unclose, and then to hear a faint sigh! To know that she was spared a terrible trial, and a life-time of bitter self-upbraidings!

The real truth was that Effie had swooned from the effects of fright. She had lain awake all those long hours, feeling sad and miserable, weary of solitude, and compelled still to bear it until sleep should bring forgetfulness. At length the dim rays of the young moon had just sufficed to show a dark figure stealing noiselessly towards her bed. Her mother never came thus, she thought; and dreading some evil, the poor child became senseless from very terror, her over-wrought nerves being unable to withstand its effects.

When little Effie recovered her senses, she could scarcely think they told her truly, for she was resting in her mother's arms; warm tears were falling on her cheeks, and endearing words sounding in her ears. It was the beginning of a new life of love and confidence between the mother and her child, and Effie had in the end little cause to regret her sorrowful Saturday afternoon, and her terror at sight of the dark figure stealing towards her bed in the dim moonlight.

To Mrs. Elwood, the widow confided the experiences of that still evening hour, when visions of unheeded mercy rose one after another to her mental vision, "How wonderfully God deals with us," said she. "Little did I think, when you came to ask my poor Effie to be your guest, and found her in trouble about a few baby treasures, that the words you then spoke would raise such a train of thought, and be, by God's blessing, the means of opening my eyes to my unthankfulness.

"Yes," continued Mrs. Henderson; "I can now say the words I never thought I should school my heart into agreeing with: 'The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; and blessed be the name of the Lord;' yea, doubly blessed for all He still leaves me. May I be taught daily to own His goodness and my own unworthiness, and, while thanking Him for every gift, still own that I and all I have are in the Lord's hands, 'Let Him do what seemeth Him good,' both with me and mine."

London: Pardon and Sons, Printers, Paternoster Row.