Chapter XIII: Phil's Prayer Is Answered

SISTER KATHLEEN'S hospital duties made it impossible for her to seek Phil as early as she would have liked on the following day. Without delay, however, she despatched a telegram to Lizzie Austen to inform her where Phil was to be found.

But in less time than she could have made the journey from Chelmsford after receiving the telegram, Miss Austen appeared at the hospital and requested to see Sister Kathleen. As she glanced at her downcast, miserable face the Sister guessed what had happened.

"I have told him," Lizzie said, with quivering lips; "and he has cast me off, as I knew he would. He says I have disgraced him and disgraced my mother, and that he wishes I were not his daughter, and he never wants to see me again. Oh, my heart feels like to break when I think of the hard things he said."

She struggled for a few moments to maintain her composure, but in vain; the sobs would come.

"I am very sorry for you," said Sister Kathleen gently, "but you must remember how unprepared your father was to receive such a confession. It must have given him a severe shock, and it is not strange that he should utter hasty words in his anger and grief. After a time, he will repent of what he said."

Lizzie shook her head.

"I cannot think so," she said; "you do not know my father, and how he scorns all underhand ways. He will never forgive me for deceiving him. And he loved me so. Oh, if my father is so hard upon me, how can I hope that God will forgive me?"

"God is infinitely more pitiful than man," said Sister Kathleen; "He will forgive you for Jesus Christ's sake. And now, as a token that God is merciful, I have good news for you. I have heard where Phil is living."

The unhappy mother sprang from her seat, exclaiming eagerly,—

"Oh, my child! My little Phil! Where is he? I must go to him at once."

"He is at some distance from here—in Shoreditch," said Sister Kathleen. "We will go together in search of him, if you are sure you feel equal to the undertaking."

"I am strong now," said Lizzie; "the thought of seeing my child gives me new life. Oh, let us lose no time."

Sister Kathleen hurried her preparations, and in a short time, they were seated in a cab, being driven towards the City. The driver had difficulty in finding St. Bride's Lane. But at last, after some tiresome driving to and fro, they entered the narrow street and alighted at the door of No. 17.

"Does a woman named Dutton live here?" inquired Sister Kathleen of the idle, slatternly women who gathered about the door to see the ladies alight from the cab.

"Moll Dutton? To be sure she did live here, but she's not here now."

"Not here! Oh, where is she?" asked the Sister, in disappointed tones, whilst Lizzie's heart sickened in new despair.

"Oh, only in gaol. Moll was not too particular how she came by things, and the police found her out at last. She had stolen things on her person and in her room. She was a deep one, was Moll, but she's caught at last."

There was a strange mingling of admiration for Moll's cunning, with satisfaction at its defeat, in the tones of the woman who gave this explanation.

"But she had a child—a little boy; what became of him?" asked Sister Kathleen.

"Oh, Phil, the little cripple. He's here somewhere. I say, where's Phil? Has any one seen him?"

No one answered. Apparently Phil had not been seen of late.

"Happen he's up in his mother's room," said one. "We've children enough of our own to look after here without troubling about other folk's brats, let alone a gaol-bird's."

Sister Kathleen stayed but to ask where Moll's room was, and then hurried up the narrow, dirty staircase, closely followed by Lizzie Austen.

"Phil," called the Sister, as she opened the door of Moll Dutton's close, disordered room. "Phil, are you here?"

There was no reply. Phil's mother pushed past her into the room. A cry broke from her as she saw on the bed a tiny form stretched motionless.

"My child! My child!" she cried. And then, as he did not stir, "Oh, is he dead? Have I come too late?"

"He is not dead," said Sister Kathleen, pushing her gently aside and bending over the child. "He has fainted, I think. Fetch me some water quickly, if you please. And open the window. Ah, there! He is beginning to revive."

As she bathed his brow and moistened his lips, the child opened his eyes and looked with dazed vision at the kind face bent on him.

"Do you know me, Phil?" she said.

"Sister," the boy murmured, and then his heavy eyelids drooped again.

His mother began to sob.

Sister Kathleen turned upon her almost sharply.

"This is no time for crying. Run quickly and get milk and bread. The poor child has been left to himself all day, and is faint for want of nourishment, I believe."

In an instant, Lizzie was gone. With all speed she returned, bringing the food.

Sister Kathleen broke off a morsel of the bread, dipped it in the milk, and held it to the child's lips. The lips closed over it feebly at first; then eagerly the food was taken. She held the cup to his lips, and he drank eagerly, uttering a faint protest when she withdrew it. A more life-like colour was creeping into the little face. There was a look of satisfaction in the blue eyes as they met Sister Kathleen's.

"You know me, Phil?" she said again.

"Yes, Sister Kathleen," the child said faintly. "I asked Jesus to make you come."

"Yes, He has led me to you," said the Sister. "I would have come before, my poor little Phil, if I had known you were alone here, and so ill."

"Yes, I'm very ill," said the child quietly, "but I don't mind now. You'll soon make me better, Sister."

"If it please God, I will," she said brightly, as she felt his thin, hot hand.

Phil moved his head slightly and tried to look about him.

"Where's mother?" he asked in a whisper, whilst a look of fear came into his eyes.

Low as the words were uttered, his mother heard them.

"I'm here, Phil, here!" she cried, bending over him and drawing him to her bosom, whilst she kissed with passionate fondness the little white face. "My precious child! You are mine now, and I will never give you up again."

Phil looked startled and amazed for a moment. But when he saw whose face it was bent so close to his, a smile broke over his own.

"Why, you're not my mother!" he said. "You're Aunt Lizzie. Oh, Aunt Lizzie, I am so glad you are come!" Then, with a feeble little laugh, he added, "Mother would never have kissed me like that."

"God bless you, my own poor forsaken child!" she sobbed. "May He forgive me for my wickedness!"

"Why are you crying, Aunt Lizzie?" he asked, in wonder. "Oh, you are not going to leave me yet!"

Sister Kathleen had drawn back out of sight, and Phil saw only the face of his mother gazing tenderly on him through her tears. He thought the tears meant that she was about to bid him farewell.

"I will never leave you more, my child. Listen, Phil, I am your mother. Moll Dutton was not really your mother. You are my own dear child, whom God gave to me, but whom I wickedly forsook."

Phil looked at her in bewilderment.

"You my mother! How can that be?" he said. "Moll Dutton is my mother, and a bad mother she is too. She's away now, but she'll come back again, and then she'll beat me for getting ill. You'd better go away before she comes, Aunt Lizzie; for she's awful when she's in her tantrums."

"I'll not go from here, Phil, unless I take you with me. I'll never leave you again. It is true, although you cannot understand it, that I 'am' your mother. God made me your mother."

"Did He?" said the boy, still puzzled. "But she won't let you have me, I know. She'll want to keep me to beg for her."

"She 'must' let me have you, Phil. You are my child. Moll Dutton has no right to you but that I gave her. It's true, my child. Ask Sister Kathleen; she will tell you it is true."

"Yes, Phil, you may believe it," said Sister Kathleen, coming forward and laying her hand on Lizzie Austen's arm; "this is your mother. Moll Dutton will have nothing more to do with you."

A gleam of joy lit up the little wasted face.

"Oh," he cried, his weak tones quavering with delight, "I can hardly believe it, but it has all come round as I prayed that it might. Fan said it couldn't be, but I knew that God could manage it. He has taken away my wicked mother and given me a good mother."

"Not a good mother, Phil," cried his mother, breaking again into sobs; "a wicked mother—the worst mother that ever was—a mother who could cast off her own child and leave it to suffer! God knows I do not deserve to have you in my arms this moment."

Little Phil looked distressed at her emotion.

"But you'll be good," he said; "I know that you'll always be good to me."

"I want to be good," she sobbed. "Thank God, there is hope for the chief of sinners through Him who died upon the cross to save us. I'll ask God every day to give me His Holy Spirit for the sake of Jesus Christ, and to help me to be a good mother to you. Oh, if I could only atone to you for my past neglect!"

"And you'll never leave me, Aunt Lizzie?" he said.

"Never as long as I live," she replied. "But, Phil, you must call me mother now."

"Must I?" he said, looking troubled. "I'd rather call you Aunt Lizzie. I don't want to think of mother any more."

His mother winced as from a blow. Phil's words gave her exquisite pain. Here was one bitter result of her sin. The very name of mother had for Phil a cruel sound. The tie between parent and child, which she had wickedly dared to break, could never now be perfect, as it might have been. All his life long, Phil would retain the memory of his early years of hardship and pain. In his poor crippled body, he would bear a lasting memorial of his mother's sin. Would not the day come, she asked herself with keenest anguish, when he would reproach her for his being as he was?