"Ah, then, indeed! But, in the meantime, we will go to bed and wait
there for to-morrow. Is it not a lovely thing to know that God is
thinking about you? He will bring us to _our desired haven,_
Hector, dearest!"
So in their sadness they laid them down. Annie opened her arms and took
Hector to her bosom. There he sighed himself to sleep; and God put His
arms about them both, and kept them asleep until the morning.
And in this love, more than in bed, I rest.
Annie was the first to spring up and begin to dress herself, pondering
in her mind as she did so whether to go first to the pawnbroker's or to
the baker, to ask him to recommend her as a charwoman. She would tell
him just the truth--that she must in future work for her daily bread.
Then Hector rose and dressed himself.
"Oh, Annie!" he said, as he did so, "is it gone, that awful misery of
last night in the omnibus? It seemed, as I jolted along, as if God had
forgotten one of the creatures he had made, and that one was me; or,
worse, that he thought of me, and would not move to help me! And why do
I feel now as if He had help for me somewhere near waiting for me? I
think I will go and see a man who lives somewhere close by, and find out
if he is the same I used to know at St. Andrews; if he be the same, he
may know of something I could try for."
"Do," replied Annie. "I will go with you, and on the way call at the
grocer's--I think he will be the best to ask if he knows of any family
that wants a charwoman or could give me any sort of work. There's more
than one kind of thing I could turn my hand to--needle-work, for
instance. I could make a child's frock as well, I believe, as a
second-rate dressmaker. Can you tell me who was the first tailor,
Hector? It was God himself. He made coats of skins for Adam and his
wife."
"Quite right, dear. You may well try your hand--as I know you have done
many a time already. And, if I can get hold of ever so young a pupil, I
shall be glad even to teach him his letters. We must try anything and
everything. We are long past being fastidious, I hope."
He turned and went on with his toilet.
"Oh, Hector," said Annie suddenly, and walked to the mantelpiece, "I am
so sorry! Here is a letter that came for you yesterday. I did not care
to open it, though you have often told me to open any letters I pleased.
The fact is, I forgot all about it; I believe, because I was so unhappy
at your going away without breakfast. Or perhaps it was that I was
frightened at its black border. I really can't tell now why I did not
open it."
With little interest and less hope, Hector took the
letter,--black-bordered and black-sealed,--opened it, and glanced
carelessly at the signature, while Annie stood looking at him, in the
hope merely that he would find in it no fresh trouble--some forgotten
bill perhaps!
She saw his face change, and his eyes grow fixed. A moment more and the
letter dropped in the fender. He stood an instant, then fell on his
knees, and threw up his hands.
"What is it, darling?" she cried, beginning to tremble.
"Only five hundred pounds!" he answered, and burst into an hysterical
laugh.
"Impossible!" cried Annie.
"Who _can_ have played us such a cruel trick?" said Hector feebly.
"It's no trick, Hector!" exclaimed Annie. "There's nobody would have the
heart to do it. Let _me_ see the letter."
She almost caught it from his hands as he picked it from the fender, and
looked at the signature.
"Hale & Hale?" she read. "I never heard of them!"
"No, nor anyone else, I dare say," answered Hector.
"Let us see the address at the top," said Annie.
"There it is--Philpot Lane."
"Where is that? I don't believe there is such a place!"
"Oh, yes, there is; I've seen it--somewhere in the City, I believe. But
let us read the letter. I saw only the figures. I confess I was foolish
enough at first to fancy somebody had sent us five hundred pounds!"
"And why not?" cried Annie. "I am sure there's no one more in want of
it."
"That's just why not," answered Hector. "Did you ever know a rich man
leave his money to a poor relation? Oh, I hope it does not mean that my
father is gone. He may have left us a trifle. Only he could not have had
so much to leave to anybody. I know he loved you, Annie."
In the meantime Annie had been doing the one sensible thing--reading the
letter, and now she stood pondering it.
"I have it, Hector. He always uses good people to do his kindnesses.
Don't you remember me telling you about the little old lady in Graham's
shop the time your book came out?"
"Yes, Annie; I wasn't likely to forget that; it was my love for you that
made me able to write the poem. Ah, but how soon was the twenty pounds I
got for it spent, though I thought it riches then!"
"So it was--and so it is!" cried Annie, half laughing, but crying
outright. "It's just that same little old lady. She was so delighted
with the book, and with you for writing it, that she put you down at
once in her will for five hundred pounds, believing it would help people
to trust in God."
"And here was I distrusting so much that I was nearly ready to kill
myself. Only I thought it would be such a terrible shock to you, my
precious! It would have been to tell God to his face that I knew he
would not help me. I am sure now that he is never forgetting, though he
seems to have forgotten. There was that letter lying in the dark through
all the hours of the long night, while we slept in the weariness of
sorrow and fear, not knowing what the light was bringing us. God is
good!"
"Let us go and see these people and make sure," said Annie. "'Hale and
Hearty,' do they call themselves? But I'm going with you myself this
time! I'm not going to have such another day as I had yesterday--waiting
for you till the sun was down, and all was dark, you bad man!--and
fancying all manner of terrible things! I wonder--I wonder, if--"
"Well, what do you wonder, Annie?"
"Only whether, if now we were to find out it was indeed all a mistake, I
should yet be able to hope on through all the rest. I doubt it; I doubt
it! Oh, Hector, you have taught me everything!"
"More, it seems, than I have myself learned. Your mother had already
taught you far more than ever I had to give you!"
"But it is much too early yet, I fear, to call in the City," said Annie.
"Don't you think we should have time first to find out whether the
gentleman we were thinking of inquiring after to-day be your old college
friend or not? And I will call at the grocer's, and tell him we hope to
settle his bill in a few days. Then you can come to me, and I will go to
you, and we shall meet somewhere between."
They did as Annie propose; and before they met, Hector had found his
friend, and been heartily received both by him and by his young wife.
When at length they reached Philpot Lane, and were seated in an outer
room waiting for admission, Annie said: "Surely, if rich people knew how
some they do not know need their help, they would be a little more eager
to feather their wings ere they fly aloft by making friends with the
Mammon of unrighteousness. Don't you think it may be sometimes that they
are afraid of doing harm with their money?"
"I'm afraid it is more that they never think what our Lord meant when he
said the words. But oh, Annie! is it a bad sign of me that the very
possibility of this money could make me so happy?"
They were admitted at length, and kindly received by a gray-haired old
man, who warned them not to fancy so much money would last them very
long.
"Indeed, sir," answered Annie, "the best thing we expect from it is that
it will put my husband in good heart to begin another book."
"Oh! your husband writes books, does he? Then I begin to understand my
late client's will. It is just like her," said the old gentleman. "Had
you known her long?"
"I never once saw her," said Hector.
"But I did," said Annie, "and I heard her say how delighted she was with
his first book. Please, sir," she added, "will it be long before you can
let us have the money?"
