Chapter XV: Molly's Difficulties Come to an End

AFTER some difficulty, Molly's uncle succeeded in finding the minister, who readily consented to come at once to see the child. He listened with sorrow to the story of the trouble Molly had known since he had lost sight of her, and the sad way in which her little life was ending.

But he believed that God would bring gain out of loss, and crown that blighted childhood with everlasting joy.

The day was near its close, and it was almost dark when Mr. Macardie and the minister climbed the steep stair to the attic.

Molly had grown much weaker during the last hour. Her strength was going rapidly, but her mind was still unclouded.

She recognised her minister as he entered the room, and stretched out her little hand to him with a smile of welcome.

"I'm so glad you've come," she said, softly; and then turning to her sister, she added, "bring the candle nearer, please; I want to see my minister quite plain."

Kathleen brought the light and held it, whilst Molly gazed with love and confidence at the kind face which looked on her with tenderest sympathy.

"It is all right, is it not, Molly?" asked the minister. "Jesus is with you."

"Yes!" she murmured, faintly, her lips parting with a smile. "Jesus is with me!"

In a few simple words he spoke to her of the loving Saviour, and of the happy home to which his own darling child had gone, and into which she, too, would soon be gathered.

Molly seemed to understand what he said. The happy look lingered on her face.

"It's all real true!" she whispered once. "All real true!"

Then the minister knelt by her bedside, and commended the dying child to the care of the Good Shepherd.

As he prayed, Molly fell into a doze, from which she did not rouse whilst he remained there.

As he went out of the house, the minister met Madame Ganelli, who was coming to see her little friend.

Giving him a quick, observant glance, she said, "You are little Molly's minister, are you not, sir?"

"Yes," he replied, looking at her with surprise; "I am little Molly's minister."

"Oh, poor little Molly!" cried the singer, in a broken voice. "Is it not a dreadful thing? My heart aches for the child. To think that she should be sacrificed to a man's cruel rage!"

"Do not grieve for her," said the minister, gently. "Sad though her case seems, it is well with the child."

"I know it! I know it!" cried the lady, bursting into tears. "She is so good! Oh! I cannot tell you what I owe to little Molly! That child has been my salvation!"

"How so?" he asked.

"To explain that, I should have to tell you a sad story," said Madame Ganelli, stepping within the shelter of the doorway, and giving a searching look into the minister's face.

The look seemed to encourage her, for she added, "The story is too long and too sad to be told now and here, but I think I should like to tell it to you some time, if you would let me. I have long wished to open my heart to some one, and it seems to me that you are the person to help me."

"Indeed! I shall be glad to receive your confidence, and to give you all the help in my power," replied the minister, his voice full of sympathy. "Could you come with me, now, to the mission hall? It is but a few steps from here, and we could talk quietly there."

Madame Ganelli hesitated for a moment. She felt half frightened at being so promptly taken at her word.

"Just as you like," he said; "if you would prefer speaking to me at another time—"

"No, no," she responded, quickly; "there is no good in delay. I will come with you at once, as you kindly ask me."

In a few minutes, they were at the mission hall. The gas was lighted within, and a woman was moving about arranging the benches for the service an hour later. At a word from the minister, she retired.

"Now," said he, as he gave the lady a chair, "what is it you have to tell me? Do not be afraid to speak freely, as to a friend."

"I believe I shall find you a friend," she replied, "and will therefore hide nothing from you. You will be surprised to hear that the wicked man who brought this trouble upon Molly is my husband."

"What!" cried the minister, with a look of astonishment. "Your husband! Is your name Vavasour, then?"

"No; nor is his. That is merely a name assumed to serve the purpose of his profession. For a similar reason, I have called myself Ganelli. My real name is Sherwin—Catherine Sherwin. I am no foreigner, but was born and brought up in a pretty country place in Berkshire. My parents were good Christian folk.

"My father was postmaster of the little town where we lived. He had to work very hard, but his leisure was devoted to doing good. On Sunday afternoons, no matter what the weather might be, he would walk several miles in order to hold a cottage-meeting in an out-of-the-way place, where there was no church for the poor people to attend. In our home, we always had family prayers, night and morning. I can remember my father's prayers now."

Here Madame Ganelli's voice trembled with emotion, and she was obliged to pause for a while.

"I was my parents' only child," she went on presently, "and they lavished on me all the love of their hearts. But I wounded their love and disappointed their hopes. They were determined to give me a good education, and that I might have unusual advantages, sent me to a superior boarding-school, from which I returned accomplished and polished, but vain and frivolous in character. I had learned that I was beautiful, also that I possessed a remarkably fine voice. A vain ambition awoke within me, and longing to display my gifts, I was no longer satisfied to share my parents' humdrum life.

"I yearned to distinguish myself in a larger world, never doubting that my beauty and accomplishments would win me the happiness I craved.

"My parents saw the mistake which they in their love had made. Vainly they strove to arouse in me higher aspirations. My father pleaded with me to give my heart to the Saviour, but I would not heed his words. I did not want to be religious. I wanted to be gay and clever and admired. My foolish vanity was fed from time to time by words of admiration from friends outside my home. My voice was heard and admired as I sang in our church, and the rector came himself to ask me to join the choir. This I was easily persuaded to do, and from that time, the very praises of God's house were a snare to me.

"Strangers inquired who was the lovely girl who sang so sweetly, and compared my voice to that of their favourite opera-singer.

"Their words came to my ears, and gave a definite form to my ambitious longings.

"I was eager to go to London and be trained for a public singer. Oh, what a life, I thought, mine would then be! I pictured myself a famous singer, with crowds flocking to hear me whenever I sang in public.

"How delightful to stand upon a glittering stage, and hear the hall ring with applause of my song, whilst bouquets were tossed at my feet, and I was flattered and admired as a queen!

"With such visions did I delude myself, never dreaming of the heart-ache and disappointment, the sin and misery, which such a career too often involves.

"I did not mention my wishes to my parents. I knew that they would never consent to my leaving home, and devoting myself to such a profession. But the thought was seldom out of my mind. I dwelt upon it till selfish ambition stifled all sense of filial love and duty, so that when temptation came, my will yielded a ready consent.

"That summer there came to our neighbourhood a fine gentleman, an actor from one of the London theatres. He had come into the country to recruit his health, and during his idle hours, I attracted his notice, and was soon flattered by his constant attention. He was a handsome man, and my vanity was easily beguiled by his winning manner. Ere my parents even knew that I had made his acquaintance, I had confided to him my ambitious dreams, in response to his lavish praise of my voice and my appearance. He gladdened my ears with repeated assurances of success, and took advantage of my weakness by urging me to marry him without my parents' consent. If I became his wife, he promised me the training I required to fit me for a public career. In glowing terms, he described to me the grand future thus open to me. I listened, and in my folly believed all. I fancied that I loved this man, of whom I knew scarce anything, fancied that with him I should find a happiness that would compensate me for the loss of my old home and my parents' love.

"But I did not yield to his persuasions without a struggle. It cost me many a pang to think of leaving, without even a word of farewell, the father and mother who loved me so dearly. But with artful words, he made light of my scruples. It was only for a time, he said. I should soon return to see my parents, and how pleased and proud they would be when I won for them fame and distinction. So I took the irrevocable step. In the darkness of night, I stole away from my home accompanied by this man. We were married the next morning in London, and at once started for the Continent."

Here Madame Ganelli made a pause. The minister said not a word, but waited till she could recover herself and continue her narrative.

"I never saw my father and mother again," she said at last. "Before I had been long married, I learned the true nature of my husband, and saw what a fatal mistake I had made.

"We settled in lodgings in Paris, and there my musical education began. My husband spared no pains in procuring me the best instruction. He had set his heart, for his own sake, on my success.

"I worked hard with a kind of desperate diligence, trying to kill by industry the sore pain of remorse. For a time my husband treated me with tolerable kindness. But as months rolled on, and my spirit grew more and more despondent, he wearied of me, and often left me alone for weeks at a time in my dull lodging.

"I heard nothing of my parents all this while. My husband would not allow me to write to them. I should see them, he promised, when we returned to England. He had entered on a long engagement at one of the Paris theatres, and did not propose returning to London till the following year.

"Ere that time arrived, I became the mother of a beautiful boy. Oh, how I loved my precious babe! He was the sole joy of my life. I used to picture to myself the day when, carrying him in my arms, I would make my way back to my old home, and falling at my mother's feet beseech her to forgive me, if not for my own sake for that of the child.

"But it was not to be.

"My musical studies compelled me to consign my babe to the care of another for the greater part of each day. This was a great trial to me. I grudged every hour passed away from my boy, and was always anxious lest harm should come to him in my absence. He was a small and delicate child, and did not thrive as I could wish.

"At last, the time came when my husband was free to take me to London, there to make my 'début' as a singer.

"Ah! What hopes and fears contended within my soul when I landed on the English shore! Not from anxiety for professional success; I had ceased to care much about that. But I hoped to see again the faces of my father and mother, and to hear them say that they forgave me.

"But this hope was soon slain.

"At the hotel, where we were to rest that night, I chanced to take up a newspaper. My eye glanced over the list of deaths. Suddenly my heart stood still, and a numbness took possession of my frame. For there in that line was my mother's name! Then I knew that my wicked conduct had broken her heart."

* * * *

"I scarcely know how I lived after that. I was like one in a dream, save when I had my baby in my arms, and was comforted by the touch of his tiny hand smoothing my cheek or playing with my hair.

"I began to sing in public, but my singing was not the success my husband had hoped it would prove. It was good in its way, but it lacked inspiration. I won my fair meed of praise, but gave no promise of rising above mediocrity in the ranks of singers.

"My husband was furious at what he termed my failure. But in vain, he stormed and threatened. I could do no better.

"At last there came a day I shall never forget. My beautiful boy was suddenly taken ill. All day he lay on my lap, his little body racked by convulsions, which threatened death at every moment.

"I was engaged to sing in an opera that night, and my husband had set his heart on my making a sensation. I implored him to find some one to take my place, and get me excused, but he would not listen to me.

"The child would be all right, he declared, and I must and I should sing. With cruel force, he took me from my child, as he lay panting and struggling, a sight to rend a mother's heart, and carried me off to the theatre at which I was to sing.

"I sang that night as I had never sung before. Tortured with anxiety, trembling from excitement, I stood upon the stage. My song was a wild lament, and I poured out in its swelling notes all the anguish of my soul. It was with no feigned misery that my voice quivered, and the reality of my emotion penetrated to the hearts of my audience, thrilling them in response. As my song died away, a thunder of applause greeted my ears. The building re-echoed with the sound of my triumph. A bouquet fell at my feet.

"As in a dream, I heard the shouts and clapping; through a haze of tears I saw the admiring glances cast upon me; then bowing low, I retired. Thus were my girlish dreams realized. Did any one envy me that night, I wonder?"

The speaker's voice again failed her. Tears would have their way, and some minutes passed ere she could go on with her story.

"I cannot dwell upon the events of that night," she said, speaking with forced calmness. "When I reached home, my boy was dead. They told me that for an hour before he passed away, he kept calling for me in baby words.

"I must pass over the anguish of that time. It almost killed me. I was ill—very ill—for weeks.

"When I recovered, I was an altered being. My beauty was gone, and with it all hope of shining as a star in the musical world.

"My voice had lost its power. I could no longer command the rich, full notes which had won me admiration. Even if my voice regained strength, as a physician declared that in time it would, it was but too evident that I should never be more than a second-rate singer.

"My husband did not attempt to conceal his mortification at this issue. He no longer made any show of affection for me, but treated me with the utmost cruelty.

"Before I had fully recovered from the effects of my long illness, he basely deserted me, leaving me to struggle through life as best I could alone. I believe he went to the Continent, but I did not try to recall him, though I might easily have traced him through his connection with the theatres.

"The first thing I did in my freedom was to journey to my native place, in the hope of finding my father there. But again I was too late, and reached my old home only to learn that my father had died a few weeks earlier.

"Heart-broken, I returned to London.

"I took lodgings in a quiet suburb, and found employment in giving singing lessons. I called myself Ganelli; and when people questioned me as to my history, I said that I was the widow of a foreigner.

"But I could not long endure the quietude and monotony of this life. Painful thoughts tortured me, and I hoped to escape them by resuming my old profession. My voice was now stronger, and I could sing in public again.

"So I once more appeared in concert-rooms and halls, and sang with some measure of success.

"But no happiness came to me. Sorrow and remorse were ever working at my heart, though no one would have guessed it who heard me sing. The songs I chose were generally of a lively character. I could not bear to sing a melancholy strain; grief was too real a thing for me.

"Sacred music also I avoided. I felt myself too great a sinner to take holy words upon my lips.

"However, one day, contrary to my usual habit, to oblige a friend, I agreed to take part in an oratorio. In preparation for the concert, I was one morning practising the sublime words, 'I know that my Redeemer liveth,' when suddenly little Molly burst into my room, and eagerly asked me to tell her how I was so sure that the Redeemer lived.

"The child was employed to clean boots at the boarding-house in which I lived, but I had not seen her before. I was greatly startled by her sudden appearance and the strange question she put. I would fain have checked her eager words, but her anxiety was so real and earnest that I felt bound to assure her of the truth, which I could never doubt. Unhappy though I was, I believed that there was a God and a Saviour. I told the child that what she had heard of the Lord Jesus was indeed true, and she left my room with hope sparkling in her eyes. Then I bowed my head and wept, because there was hope for that poor child, but no hope for me.

"After this, I took great interest in little Molly. I felt anxious to befriend her, but ere long personal anxiety drove her from my thoughts. I had learned some time before that my husband had returned to London, and was acting at the S— Theatre. I did my best to avoid meeting him, and for a time was successful. But it was impossible for me, in the public life I led, to long escape his notice. One evening, when I left the hall at which I had been singing, I found him waiting for me at the door.

"A stormy interview ensued. He urged me to return to him, but I, remembering his past cruelty, and believing that he only wished me to return that he might profit by my earnings, refused to listen to him.

"Then he threatened me, but hoping that the law would protect me from his malice, I dared him to do his worst.

"At last, seeing that I was not to be moved, he left me; but from that day, he lost no opportunity of annoying me. He vented his spite upon me in a thousand ways too petty to describe, yet sufficiently vexatious.

"I bore it as well as I could. But what words can describe my consternation when I learned from poor little Molly that the man who had ruined the happiness of my life was calling himself her sister's friend, and deceiving the poor girl into such a belief in his good-will that she was ready to trust her future to him.

"Oh, what I suffered as I thought of Kathleen's peril! I felt I must save her, yet was powerless to do anything. I could only solemnly warn little Molly of the man's true nature, and entreat her to save her sister.

"But though I could not help them, I knew there was One who could. For years I had not dared to pray for myself, but now I prayed for those poor children as I had never prayed before."

"And your prayer was answered," said the minister, as she paused.

"It was answered in a sad way," she returned.

"Sad to our human short-sightedness," said the minister. "But God's ways are not as our ways. We can trust little Molly in His loving hands."

Madame Ganelli was silent.

"Is this all you have to tell me, my sister?" asked the minister, presently.

"I have told you all my story," the singer replied.

"But have you nothing to say of yourself? After you had prayed for these poor girls, could you not bring your own case before the Lord?"

"I tried to do so," she said, tears springing anew to her eyes. "I remembered some words little Molly had said to me. She told me that Jesus loved me better than even my mother had loved me; and I knew that bad though I was, my mother had never ceased to love me, and that if I could have gained her side ere she passed away, she would have received me without a word of reproach, and have given me a full and free forgiveness. Is it true? Does the Lord love us like that?"

"Ay, it is true," he answered. "Your life has been hard and bitter, but it was not the Lord's will that it should be thus. You have tasted the fruit of your own wrong-doing. He would have saved you from misery, but you would not let Him. The strokes with which He has smitten you have been dealt in love. Now, if you will turn to Him, and seek His forgiveness, He will soothe your heart's sorrows and give you peace, as a mother would comfort her child who ran to her to heal the smarting pain resulting from some act of wilfulness. Do not fear to trust His love."

The singer's face brightened.

"I shall not forget your words," she said, as she rose to go; "they give me hope. You are indeed a friend."

"The servant of a better Friend," he replied. "To Him I commend you. He can meet all your need."

From the mission hall, Madame Ganelli hastened to Molly's bedside.

The child still lay in a doze, but signs of the approach of death were becoming more and more visible to the eyes of the watchers. They thought she would pass away in her sleep, but presently she moved, opened her eyes, and looked up in bewilderment.

Her face was darkened with a look of distress. "Don't leave me, Kathleen," she cried, pitifully; "don't leave your poor little Molly! What will become of me if you go away?"

"I will never leave you," Kathleen told her, in a broken voice. "Oh, Molly dear, I would not go away from you now for the world!"

At the sound of her words, Molly's bewilderment ceased. Her brow cleared, and she looked at her sister with a smile.

"Oh no, I forgot," she said, faintly; "it is not you, but I, little Molly, who am going away. And I'm glad to go."

She smiled, as with one hand she clasped her uncle's, and with the other Kathleen's hand in token of farewell. Then she caught sight of Madame Ganelli, and greeted her, too, with a smile.

The smile died away, and she looked into the singer's face with an anxious, questioning glance, as if she would fain ask something, but had no words.

Madame Ganelli thought she understood that look. "Molly," she said, bending down close to her and speaking very distinctly, "Molly, I can say it now from my heart, I 'know' that 'my' Redeemer liveth."

Molly understood the words. A gleam of joy lit up her tiny white face, as half raising herself in bed she cried in clear, ringing tones, "I know, I know! Jesus lives! It's all real true."

They were the last words she spoke. She sank back, and her eyes closed. A happy, peaceful expression settled on her face, and remained there. The breath came slowly and quietly through her parted lips. Soon no sound broke the stillness of the room, for little Molly was away.

Doubts and difficulties would vex her spirit no more, toil and want were for ever past. Out of the darkness of this lower world God had taken her into the perfect light beyond, and the child was in the presence of the Saviour whom on earth she had yearned to know.

THE END.

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London: Pardon and Sons, Printers. Paternoster Row.