Chapter VIII: Disappointment

A FEW days had passed since Lizzie's last visit to the hospital, when about six o'clock one evening, she was in the garden attending to her plants. She was watering some young cuttings that needed special care; but every now and then she paused in her occupation and looked across the meadow at the high road, with the expectation of seeing her father on his return from Chelmsford market. Several vehicles went by, and Lizzie recognised one and another of the neighbouring farmers, but her father did not yet come in sight. Lizzie was rather eager for his coming, because she felt sure that he would call at the post office, and she hoped that he might bring her a letter from Sister Kathleen.

When next she glanced towards the road, she saw a man walking down the meadow path to the house. It was Mr. Fennell, the new minister, who had lately come to officiate at the little village chapel. Lizzie sighed as she set down the watering-pot. She had not exchanged more than the merest greeting with Mr. Fennell since he came to Danesbury, and she had no wish for further intercourse with him. She was sorry he had come now, when her father was not at home to receive him.

"Good evening, Miss Austen," said the minister in hearty tones. His round, somewhat florid face had a very kindly expression, and he shook hands in a way that seemed to show that he would be a good friend.

"I am sorry that my father is not at home, Mr. Fennell," said Lizzie, "but I expect him every minute."

"I am quite content to await his arrival," said Mr. Fennell, with a smile, "for in truth I have come to see you, Miss Austen. I have hardly spoken to you as yet, and I wish to become acquainted with all my flock, that I may if possible win their confidence and friendship."

Lizzie coloured slightly as she murmured, more politely than sincerely, that she was pleased to see him. Then she invited him to enter the house.

"Thank you; if you will allow me, I would rather remain here," said Mr. Fennell; "I am fond of a garden. Pray don't let me disturb you in your work."

But Lizzie let her watering-pot stand empty, and, taking him round the garden, showed him all that it could boast of present beauty or of promise for the future.

The minister was himself an amateur gardener, and he was interested in all he saw. But he took a deeper interest in human nature. The sadness of Miss Austen's face, the contrast between its youthful form and hopeless expression had struck him when first he saw her. He had heard her peculiarities discussed, and knew that she was no favourite with her neighbours, but what he had heard had but excited his sympathy and made him anxious to be her friend.

Now, as he marked her despondent air and heard the low, sad tones in which she replied to his remarks, he said to himself, "Here is one whose heart is crushed beneath a weight of hopeless sorrow. I wish I knew her history that I might, if possible, help her."

But his efforts to win her confidence were not attended with success. Lizzie's reserve did not relax as he talked to her. She would not speak about herself, nor talk freely on any topic save the weather and the garden.

They were in the greenhouse, and she was showing him a remarkable species of cactus, when he said, "Ah, yes; I have seen one of the kind before—in the Jardin des Plantes at Paris. Have you ever been abroad, Miss Austen?"

He was surprised to see the deep crimson flush which his words brought to her face.

"Yes, yes," she almost stammered in her confusion,—"once, a long time ago."

"Ah, indeed! Where did you go?"

"To Paris," she answered, with evident unwillingness.

"A beautiful city, is it not?" he remarked, hardly knowing what he said, so startled was he at the effect of his words.

"Yes," she said hurriedly, "but I saw very little of it. I went there on business."

And, with the manifest purpose of changing the subject, she drew his attention to the state of the vine which was trained across the top of the greenhouse.

Mr. Fennell made a final and bolder attempt to break through her reserve.

"I must be going," he said presently, "but will you first let me say a word to you, Miss Austen? As a pastor it is my duty to inquire into the spiritual welfare of all my flock. I was sorry to see last Sunday that your father came alone to the Lord's Table. You have, I know, been trained in the faith of the Gospel. What is it keeps you from doing this in remembrance of your Saviour?"

The question took Lizzie by surprise. There was a glow of anger in her pale cheek as she half turned from Mr. Fennell in her annoyance.

"Pardon me, if I seem over-bold," he said gently. "Believe me, I speak as your friend."

"I cannot tell you why it is," she said tremulously. "My father is good, my mother was good, but you must not suppose that I am good."

"None is good save God," he replied. "You do not think that any of us would dare to come to the Lord's Table trusting in our own goodness? We come, knowing that we are sinners, to meet with Christ, the Friend of sinners; and no one, however unworthy, need hold back who can come in faith, calling Jesus, Lord. Do you not believe in Jesus as your Saviour?"

Lizzie shrank visibly from his words. She glanced at the house, as if longing to make her escape into its shelter.

"Do not ask me!" she exclaimed, feeling driven to speak. "Religion is not for me."

"For whom then is it?" he asked gently. "Forgive me. I cannot help seeing that you are in trouble, and all sorrowful ones need Jesus. He calls to Himself the weary and heavy-laden. Will you not obey that call?"

"I cannot!" she exclaimed, in a tone the desperate misery of which went to his heart.

"Why not?" he asked. "What is it holds you back? Is it sin? 'This Man receiveth sinners.'"

Lizzie could bear no more. She felt herself on the verge of tears, and, resolved not to give way to emotion, she turned from Mr. Fennell with an abrupt "Good evening."

"Good evening," he said, his voice full of sympathy. "May Christ give you peace!"

Peace! The word seemed to mock Lizzie as she hastened into the house, for like a bitter comment came to mind the words: "'There is no peace, saith my God, to the wicked.'"

She went to her room and sank on her knees beside the bed, weeping as for long she had not wept. But though she took the attitude of prayer, she could not pray.

The sound of her father's step below roused her. She rose, and, forcing herself to be calm, hastily bathed her eyes and went down-stairs.

Her father was calling for her, "Here's a letter for you, Lizzie," he said.

Lizzie took the letter, and a glance told her that it was the one she was expecting. But she fetched her father his pipe and tankard of ale, and stayed to listen to his slow account of what he had heard and done at Chelmsford, ere she opened her letter, though her fingers trembled as they closed over it, and her heart was fluttering with impatience to know its contents.

A fine-looking old man, with snowy hair and keen dark eyes, was John Austen. Though he was getting bent with age, there was still a certain stern dignity in his bearing. Indulgent as he had ever been toward his daughter, he was not generally considered to be a man of mild and pliable temper.

The men who worked for him knew well that it was a serious thing to offend the old master, for he was not one who could overlook a breach of duty or readily pardon a wrong-doer. Above all things, he detested deceit, and any one whom he convicted of telling a lie, or acting in an underhand manner, was at once dismissed from his service. The land he held had been farmed by his father before him, and he was proud of the respect which in that neighbourhood had ever been accorded to the name of Austen.

"No one ever doubted the word of an Austen," he was wont to say. "No one ever knew an Austen have cause to hang his head."

Of late years, there had grown up in Lizzie's heart, intertwined with her love for her father, a strong element of fear. She shivered sometimes at the thought of what he would say or do if he knew certain things which she had hidden from him. She fancied, too, that her melancholy shrinking from the company of others was an annoyance to his pride, as being an approach to that hanging of the head to which the Austens had never been given. Lizzie made an effort to appear cheerful when with her father. She listened now with an appearance of interest to all he had to tell her, till at last, the old man ceased to talk and began to nod as he sat in his arm-chair by the fire.

Lizzie stole noiselessly from the room. She felt sick with hope and fear as with trembling fingers she opened her letter. It was very brief. Sister Kathleen had not time to write long letters.

"DEAR MISS AUSTEN," she said.

"You will be sorry to hear that my hope has been disappointed. You were right with regard to Phil's mother. She has refused to give up her child, and she took him away with her last night. Poor little Phil! We must pray the Lord to watch over him.—Yours faithfully—

"SISTER KATHLEEN."

The letter dropped from Lizzie's hand, and she sat gazing before her with dilated eyes. She had not known how strong had been her hope for Phil till she felt the force of this disappointment. No sound escaped her ashen lips, but her spirit was crying out in wild rebellion against her misery:

"O God! My punishment is greater than I can bear!"

How long she had sat there in tearless despair she knew not, when her father's voice roused her. She rose and tried to go to him, but her trembling limbs refused to support her. She sank fainting to the ground.