Michael McAravey's death made a considerable difference in the position of his family. His widow was unable to retain and work the land; and though she obtained a considerable sum by way of tenant-right from McAuley, to whose farm the little patch was now united, she yet found herself in very straitened circumstances, especially as she regarded spending her principal as almost a sin. It was a bitter struggle, and, yet by degrees there crept into her heart a degree of peace and contentment such as she had never known before. Both she and Elsie had been deeply affected by the earnest and simple appeals of the Scripture-reader during that last sad night of watching by the bed of death. The more so, in all probability, in that the words were not addressed directly to them, so that there was none of that irritation which often results when one feels himself being "preached at." Hendrick was now a weekly visitor at Mrs. McAravey's cottage, and he had at length the gratification of seeing, in this one home at least, the results of his long-continued and faithful labours. At his suggestion, Jim, who, especially after the old man's death, could be made nothing of at home, was sent to a distant relative in Coleraine, where he had an opportunity of pursuing his studies at the Model School, with a view to entering some sort of business. This was almost the only object for which Mrs. McAravey would permit a portion of her small capital to be touched. For the rest, she and Elsie struggled on almost in poverty, but helped and, as far as possible, kept in work by the kindness of the neighbours. In some mysterious way the substance of McAravey's confession had become public property, and it was known and suspected by everybody but herself that something had come out to identify the drowned woman as Elsie's mother. Thus the child found herself, she knew not why, an object of interest to every member of the little community. And the remembrance of the dead woman was really like that of a mother to her. As Mrs. McAravey grew rapidly aged, Elsie acquired the habit of calling her "gran;" while the feelings of tenderness and sympathy that had been first roused in her by the sight of that poor soiled dead face, with the hair and sea-weed dashed across it, were cherished and sanctified by the daily call made on them in consequence of the old woman's increasing infirmities. The child had even come, strangely enough, to think of and speak to the object of her dreams as "mother." Was it an accident? Was it an instinct? Was it the result of some overheard expressions which, passing through her consciousness unnoticed, had yet made a lasting impression on the brain of the imaginative child? Or was it a providential suggestion sent by an all-pitying Father to this desolate and wandering lamb?
Thus time slipped by uneventfully, as far as external circumstances were concerned, but not purposelessly. The hard lot of the poor suffering old woman was being lighted, and her spirit trained for that eternity which was now growing large upon her vision, as earthly affairs shrank into a smaller compass. Elsie, too, who had never yet crossed the hill that seemed to meet the sky at the top of the glen, was learning lessons of perseverance and patient endurance, which would not be lost upon her, whatever the future of the child might be. Jim was seldom at home, and, alas! but little of the old childish attachment survived. The boy was ambitious, business-like, and plodding. His heart was in the town, and he seemed to retain no affection for the associations of his childhood: some of them were absolutely abhorrent to him. George Hendrick was profoundly disappointed in the lad. Not that a word could be said against his character. He was steady, diligent, and submissive. And when he was placed in a position where he could earn something, he never failed to send what he could to the old woman who had sacrificed so much to bring him on. But there seemed a total absence of feeling or religious sentiment about the lad. If he was sober and steady, it was merely because he scorned the weakness and waste consequent upon dissipation. He was pushing and ambitious, well spoken of and respected, but his old teacher failed not to see that all his thoughts were "of the earth, earthy."
When she was nearly fifteen (as far as her ago was known) a new world was opened up for Elsie. The rector's family were now growing up, and he was blest enough to find in his children, not a hindrance, but the greatest comfort and assistance in his arduous and often cheerless work. Miss Smith and her sister Louisa had recently taken the musical arrangements of the church in hand, and not before it was needed, were now busying themselves to select and train a rustic choir. The fame of Elsie's vocal abilities had been brought to Rossleigh Rectory by Hendrick, and so one day Mrs. McAravey was surprised by a visit from two bright, fresh young girls. In her reception of them you could not recognise the hard, rude woman who had so sorely repulsed their father on his first visit to the glen.
"Mr. Hendrick has been telling us about you and Elsie," began Miss Smith, "and we have only been waiting for the moors to be tolerably dry to come over and see you. Now we 've once got here, I hope we shall be good friends."
"Thank ye, miss; thank ye kindly. I shall be glad to see ye, and I hope ye won't be strangers. It's not often any one passes this way, and I often think very long when Elsie's out."
"We hear Elsie has a very good voice, and we want to know whether she could not manage to come over and sing in the choir, in summer-time at least."
"Aye, the lass has a good voice enough, and a good heart too, God bless her! She 'll sing her hymns to me here half the night when I'm kept awake with the pain. But, begging your pardon, young ladies, I don't care much for these new-fangled hymns; it's the good old psalms that I like—them's the Lord's work and not man's. And, as for Elsie singing in the church, it's very kind of you to think of her; but it 'a a long road, or rather no road at all. But here 's the lass, and she 'll speak for hersel'."
At this moment Elsie entered the cottage, and was delighted at the invitation, for which, it may be told, George Hendrick had already prepared her. "But how could she leave poor gran?" The old woman thought this could be managed if she was only wanted for the morning. And so it was finally settled that Elsie should, on fine Sundays, walk over to Rossleigh in time for the half-past eleven service, remaining for dinner at the rectory, in order that she might attend the afternoon Sunday-school, and thence return to Tor Bay at about four in the afternoon. To all this Mrs. McAravey assented, though probably the three young girls had no conception of the sacrifice it was to the invalid thus to consent to her being left alone from ten o'clock of a Sunday morning till nearly five.
Elsie soon became a favourite at the rectory. Young and enthusiastic, she thought nothing of the four miles' walk across the rough moorland; nor did it ever occur either to her or Mrs. McAravey that, in partaking of the rector's hospitality, she was profiting by the delicate sympathy of the girls for their hard-worked and ill-fedprotégée.
Mrs. Cooper Smith was much interested in Elsie, and offered to procure her a situation, or to take her into her own house as maid for the younger children. But Elsie, who thankfully received every other favour, and availed herself of every opportunity for improving herself, steadily declined to leave poor Mrs. McAravey. The family at the rectory could not but approve this resolve, and so for the time nothing further was said on the subject.
The rector had now established a monthly service at Tor Bay, over which he himself presided. This service, as well as the Scripture-reader's classes, was held in Mrs. McAravey's cottage, for which accommodation the old woman was almost compelled to accept a consideration that went far towards paying her rent. Elsie, from having been the chief care, had now become the invaluable assistant of the reader. The population of the neighbourhood had been recently augmented by the advent of a number of miners, engaged in opening up the numerous streaks of iron ore that have of recent years begun to be worked in the Antrim glens. Elsie, who had long since overcome her prejudice against the arts of reading and writing, was now quite competent to act as Mr. Hendrick's assistant, or even as his substitute. For this help, too, she was, after a time, induced to accept a trifling remuneration.
So had the good providence of God opened out a way for this poor parentless child, that at the age of sixteen or seventeen she found herself in a position of usefulness and importance that was pleasing to her. A homely night-school had been established on four evenings of the week, of which Elsie was the recognised and paid mistress. Her old and trusty friend George Hendrick came over as of yore on Wednesdays, and also on Fridays when no school was held, the evening being occupied by the service, and singing practice which followed.
Elsie's pure and sweet example, and bright and playful manner, were of priceless value among the somewhat rough and careless mining population which had now been settled on the moors about the headlands.
The girl was happy in herself, and therefore failed not to inspire others with something of the innocent sunshine of her own nature. She still was haunted by the dear, dead face of her whom she had learned to love as a sort of angelic mother. But she had learnt a better faith than that of hero-worship, and had come to look to another Presence, that was human and yet divinely glorious, for guidance, sympathy, and direction.
Thus matters continued for two years. Elsie was now a grown young woman, and her school was regularly established. Her's was a happy and contented time—
"Never feeling of unrestBroke the pleasant dream she dreamed.Only made to be her nestAll that lovely valley seemed,No desire of soaring higherStirred or flattered in her breast."
Even had she desired to move, the presence of Mrs. McAravey would have rendered it impossible. Though much softened and improved, the old woman had scarcely become an agreeable companion. The hard, Covenanting leaven had moulded her from childhood, and though of late years she had been touched by a gentler spirit, it was impossible that habits of a lifetime should be entirely eradicated. She suffered much pain, borne for the most part uncomplainingly, and was now nearly helpless. Elsie was not the sort of person to think herself a martyr. Indeed, it never occurred to her that, in thus watching and consoling the declining years of this poor, decrepid old body, she was even performing a noble, and at times fatiguing and painful, duty. She took it all as a matter of course. It came to her in the order of Providence, and formed an element and feature in the state of life to which it had pleased God to call her, and in which she had resolved by the Divine blessing to do her duty.
Thus matters might long have held their quiet course had it not been for Jim. As it has been said, he was very different in disposition from Elsie. Restless, eager, and full of curiosity, he could not understand her placid yet cheerful nature. He knew not the secret of her inner life, and of the way in which that life animated and directed the outer. The young man saw less and less of Tor Glen, having now obtained a good situation in a flax store at Ballymena.
Some little time previous Elsie and Jim had both been confirmed; and since that event the Rev. Cooper Smith and George Hendrick had had several consultations with regard to them. They were very unwilling to disturb the minds of the young people, nor had they anything definite to impart; yet it did not seem right to keep them in ignorance of what was known or suspected as to their parentage. Jim, moreover, had displayed a good deal of curiosity on the subject, and had questioned Hendrick as to the meaning of the reports that had come to his ever open ears about old McAravey's knowledge of the drowned woman.
At length it was resolved that Elsie and Jim should be invited to the rectory on a Saturday afternoon, and the whole matter fully explained. All being assembled on the day named, the rector briefly repeated what McAravey had said on his death-bed, as it had been told to him by Hendrick. It appeared that before the old man's death the locket had been brought out from its place of concealment, and, in presence of the priest, handed over to Hendrick, who had next day brought it to the rector. Upon investigation the locket had been found to contain the portrait of a man, and also a small folded piece of paper. The face was intelligent and powerful, but by no means pleasing. The eyes were eager and piercing, the lines about the mouth firm and deep-cut; the features in general somewhat coarse, and plainly those of a man in the lower walks of life, and one accustomed to hard toil both of mind and body. The paper had proved to be the pawn ticket of a watch pledged in Belfast for the sum of one pound, the name upon it being Henderson. Mr. Smith had redeemed the watch, which now lay before him with the locket on the table.
"You see, Elsie," he said, turning to the girl, whose eyes were full of tears, "we have but slight evidence to show either that this is your father's portrait, or that the poor creature who came to so untimely an end was your mother. It is curious that the name on the ticket is Henderson, while McAravey said the person who brought you and Jim to him was called Davison or Davis, or something like that. Of course it is quite possible the poor creature did not like to give her right name at a pawn office. What do you think?"
"I have always felt as if she was my mother," said Elsie; "and I should be glad if it turned out so. It seems very probable."
"I'm sure this rough-looking fellow is no father of mine," cried Jim, who had been sadly disappointed at the unromantic character of the revelation; "but I'll find out the secret of this matter yet. Meantime, I suppose, sir, the watch is mine. Elsie may take the locket."
"Don't you think you are somewhat precipitate, Jim?" said the rector, smiling. "This is just one of the points Mr. Hendrick and I have been considering. Of course it is just possible that some day the poor drowned woman may be identified, and turn out to have no connection with you at all. But I am inclined to think she was your mother, and that that accounts for her coming to Tor Bay. We have thought it only right, therefore, that you and Elsie should have the locket and watch, for the present at least. As for the division, you must arrange that between you."
"I think I ought to have the watch, as I said, sir, and Elsie the locket."
"Well, perhaps that is the most suitable division," said the rector, coldly; "but I don't think you are quite consistent in claiming the watch so eagerly, and at the same time scorning the miniature, since, in all probability, if the watch belonged to your mother, the likeness is that of your father."
"As such I at least shall be glad to keep it," said Elsie.
Jim was somewhat crestfallen at the rector's rebuke, but merely added, with some pomposity—
"Now that I have been informed of the circumstances, I shall probably, by the aid of this watch, be able to unravel the mystery of my parentage."
He meant it merely as a piece of brag to cover his retreat, and as such the rector and Hendrick took it, receiving his words with a quiet smile.
"I consider that Mr. Smith has acted very wrongly in keeping these things from us so long," commenced the young man, as he and Elsie walked home together after ac early dinner at the rectory.
"O Jim! how can you say so? Mr. Smith could have had no motive but consideration for our feelings."
"I say nothing against his motives, only that I think he acted wrongly. Valuable time has been lost; but clergymen are never good men of business, and Scripture-readers are like them, I suppose."
"Jim, I don't like to hear you speak like that; it's ungrateful. And what you mean by valuable time I can't conceive."
"I dare say you don't understand the value of time, leading the sort of life you do in a place where nobody ever knows the hour," said the youth, superciliously, as he glanced at his newly-acquired treasure; "but of course I mean time has been lost in investigating our family history."
"I'm quite content to be as I am," said Elsie. "If the history was known, it would probably be neither important nor interesting. I don't see how the watch will help you, Jim; and you know you won't have the likeness."
And she looked into the lad's face with her merry brown eyes. But Jim was on his high horse, and merely replied—
"I cannot say what I shall do all at once, but the matter shall be looked into at an early date."
Elsie smiled, as the rector and Scripture-reader had done—not visibly, indeed, as they had, yet Jim somehow felt he was being laughed at, which made him angry.
"He is a smart lad that, but I don't like him," said the rector, as he and Hendrick watched Elsie and Jim going down the avenue. "He wants to be a fine gentleman, and is ashamed of his father's portrait—an ill-looking fellow enough, it must be admitted."
"Aye, I didn't like that," said Hendrick; "but he is a steady boy, and may do well when the conceit has been taken out of him a wee bit."
"If only a 'wee bit' is taken, there will be what the people call a good little wee lock left. But I sincerely hope, for his own sake, that his pride will be taken out of him. He is insufferable."
For the present, at least, Jim was elated with a pardonable pride in his watch, and, after the manner of youths thus recently set up, he looked at it again and again during his walk next morning across the headlands to Ballycastle, where he had to catch the Ballymoney car, thence to proceed to Ballymena by train. Ho was looking at his watch for the hundredth time, and half smiling to himself at his rash and boastful words as to making it the means of discovering his family history, when a sudden thought occurred to him. He looked long and eagerly at the watch, while his pale face flushed up. "I have it," he muttered; "and if I'm right, I shall take down the minister a bit."
It was a long, tedious journey by foot and car and rail that lay before him, and his patience was almost exhausted when he reached his destination. Once arrived, he immediately sat down to write in his humble lodgings. The watch bore the name of the maker, "John Turnwell, Leeds, 7002." Was it not possible that a record had been preserved, stating when and to whom the watch had been sold. Ho did not know whether such was the practice, but at all events he would inquire. A brief note was soon written and left ready for the morning mail; then the tired and excited lad went to bed, and dreamed of a beautiful lady who said she was his mother, and that his father was a lord, and had been murdered by the repulsive-looking man in the locket; and then a carriage and pair came thundering up to his lodgings, and his employer stood in the hall as he passed down, and congratulated him, and called him "my lord." Then he thought he saw the man in the locket looking at him with hard, cold mouth, and then the face grew smaller till it shrunk into the locket, and it was open on the breast of the dead woman as she lay on the sands; and he saw himself and Elsie standing by the body. In a moment he passed into the little figure, and felt himself turning to call Mike McAravey, as he had done so long ago. The horror of that last vision awoke him. It was late, and he had only time to get his letter posted and to hurry to his office.
But Jim could not rest, till in the course of a few days a letter arrived with the Leeds post-mark. He trembled as he took it in his hand, and then as he read a flush mantled up his face, and he burst into a laugh as he saluted himself in the cheap mirror that adorned the mantelpiece—
"Aw, mi lord! Glad to make your lordship's acquaintance!"
The note ran thus:—
"WATCH AND CLOCK FACTORY, LEEDS,
"August 19, 187—.
"SIR,—In reply to your favour of the 16th inst. we beg to say that we always keep a register of all watches made or sold by us.
"No. 7002, an English lever made by ourselves, appears to have been purchased by Lady Waterham, of Burnham Park, in this neighbourhood, on the 21st of October, 185—.
"We should advise you to communicate at once with her ladyship, who is now at home.
"We remain, Sir, your obedient Servants,"J. TURNWELL & Co.
"Mr. J. McARAVEY,"Market Street, Ballymena, Ireland."
It was enough to turn the head of an ambitious boy. Poor Jim, though generally cautious and reticent, could not contain himself, and, in strict confidence, revealed his coming splendour to one or two of his companions. It was soon reported that Jim McAravey had come in for a fortune of 50,000 pounds, and was the son of a lord. Even his employers seemed to treat him with new consideration, and, though annoyed that the affair had got so soon bruited about, he could not feel angry when he saw himself pointed at in the street, and half jokingly spoken of as "my lord" by his fellow-clerks.
Jim building castles-in-the-air.Jim building castles-in-the-air.
Jim building castles-in-the-air.Jim building castles-in-the-air.
Jim's first step was to write a somewhat haughty letter to the Rev. Cooper Smith, and an excessively gushing and almost affectionate one to Elsie. Both letters were shown to George Hendrick, the consequence being that one afternoon on returning home Jim found the Scripture-reader awaiting him. "The young lord" (as they called him) was about to offer a gracious but distant welcome, when Hendrick, who had heard the town talk, anticipated him by exclaiming—
"Well, Jim, my boy, I'm afraid you have been making a rare fool of yourself!"
"I would thank you to explain your language," said the young man with great hauteur.
"There, don't be offended, lad," replied the reader, kindly; "I only meant it was a pity you let this thing get talked of before you had more certainty. I needn't tell you, Jim, how glad we shall all be to hear of anything really to your advantage."
"I'm not aware that the thing has been talked about. I only mentioned it to one or two personal friends, with a view to obtaining their advice."
"Your friends have not been discreet, then," said Hendrick; "why, Jim, the whole town is talking about you, and should this come to nothing, you will have made yourself ridiculous. Had you no truer or older friends with whom you might have consulted? I 'm sorry for this, Jim."
"If you mean Mr. Smith and yourself, I must say you did not seem to take much interest in my welfare—and Elsie is not much better," he added, bitterly. "Perhaps it will be different now."
"Come, Jim, you don't believe a word of all that. You know well who your truest friends are, though we don't always encourage all your notions. But will you not let me see this famous letter?"
Hendrick read the letter carefully, and then asked, "And what do you mean to do, Jim?"
"Why of course go over to see her ladyship as soon as I can arrange matters here. I shall speak to Messrs. Moore to-morrow, and see whether they can let me free at once—I should think under the circumstances they would."
"My dear Jim," cried the reader, "are you mad? You don't seriously mean to give up, or run the risk of losing, your situation for what may after all prove a wild goose chase?"
This was just what Jim had contemplated, and it was not without difficulty that good George Hendrick brought him to a sounder judgment. Unlike Jim's youthful friends, who, partly animated by love of mischief and partly by youth's natural hopefulness, had encouraged him to indulge the most glowing fancies, Hendrick showed him gently, but plainly, how fragile was the foundation on which he had been building. The watch might have been stolen, or lost, or given away. There might turn out to be no direct or traceable connection between Lady Waterham and the unknown woman whose property it had been. Jim was not shaken in his own private conviction (strengthened as it had been by his dream), but he was too hard-headed not to admit the reasonableness of Mr. Hendrick's arguments; and the more he heard of the tales that had been circulated, the more deeply he regretted his pride and misplaced confidence. He finally made no objection to Hendrick's proposal that the matter should be left in the hands of the Rev. Cooper Smith, who was going to England in the course of ten days, and was willing to make a slight detour to Leeds. So it was settled. The watch and locket were entrusted to the rector, who promised to see the watchmaker and Lady Waterham.
"You seem more annoyed than anything else," said Jim crossly to Elsie, when the final arrangements were being made in the rectory study.
"I cannot say I am pleased," replied the girl. "I fear lest you should be disappointed, Jim; and, on the other hand, I don't want to be anything but what I am. I have not been brought up a lady, and to find that I had been born one would be no pleasure. If you could be a lord, Jim, without affecting me, it would be all right."
"Why, Elsie, you have no ambition."
"None to be put in a false position, which I could not rightly fill."
"What a solemn and mysterious communication," said Lady Waterham, laughing, as she handed a letter across the breakfast table to her husband.
"Pooh! my dear, it is some Irish beggar; you had better not see him," said his lordship as he rose from the table.
"O scarcely—it would be too impertinent."
The letter ran as follows:—
"The Rev. Cooper Gore Smith presents his compliments to Lady Waterham, and trusts that she will find it convenient to receive him on Tuesday morning at about eleven o'clock, when he hopes to have the honour of waiting on her ladyship.
"The Rev. Cooper Gore Smith's reasons for troubling Lady Waterham can scarcely be explained in a letter. Suffice it that the affair on which he is engaged is of considerable importance to those chiefly concerned, and may even prove not to be without interest for her ladyship.
"Railway Hotel, Leeds,"Sept. 3, 187—."
This the worthy man flattered himself was in his best style. He was considerably puffed up by the importance of his mission, and, although he had the wisdom to keep them secret, his aspirations were nearly as far-reaching as those of Jim himself. To have been the friend and patron of two long-lost scions of nobility was an idea too romantic and agreeable not to be dwelt on, even though he reminded himself again and again that it had probably no foundation. It was, therefore, with no little self-importance that the note was penned, and in a similar frame of mind he started for Burnham Park next morning.
Lady Waterham was sitting in the morning-room with her two daughters when the clergyman was announced.
Lady Eleanor and Lady Constance More were like each other, being both agreeable-looking, simple, and yet elegant. They seemed about the same age, and were certainly past their first youth; still they looked bright and cheerful, and evidently troubled themselves but little about the advancing years. Lady Waterham was somewhat frigid in her manner, and as she slightly rose and pointed Mr. Smith to a chair, he became conscious that he had forgotten the exact words in which he had intended to commence the conversation. This led to a slight pause, but having plenty to say, he soon found a way to begin.
"I have ventured to call on your ladyship about two young persons in whom I am deeply interested, and into whose parentage I am making inquiries. The story is a romantic one, and will take some little time to relate——" He was brought to a sudden pause by the cold, inquiring look of Lady Waterham.
"But I ought to tell your ladyship how I come to call on you."
"Thank you, sir," said her ladyship, drily—she was beginning to suspect that her husband had been right.
"Well, the fact is," continued Mr. Smith, "the only clue to identity which we have is this watch, which it appears was purchased by you some twenty-three years ago at Mr. Turnwell's in Leeds."
Her ladyship was not like her daughters, and scarcely quite relished being reminded of what happened twenty-three years ago. She took the watch coldly, and, after looking at it a moment, said—
"Really, sir, I think there must be some mistake. I remember nothing about this watch. I am sure it was never mine, nor have any of us lost a watch. I am sorry you should have had so much trouble."
"Excuse me, your ladyship, but it seems almost certain that the watch was bought on your account. I have seen the entry in Messrs. Turnwell's books, from which this is a copy."
"This is very strange," said Lady Waterham, as she read the memorandum. "L7 10s. it cost, I see."
"When was it, mamma?" asked Lady Eleanor, looking up for the first time.
"The 18th of April, 185—."
"O mamma, I know! It must be the watch we gave to dear Elsie before she was married. You remember the marriage was in May, and that was the year I am sure. I was just fourteen."
"Fourteen and twenty-three are thirty-seven," said the Rev. Cooper Smith to himself, as he looked at the still fresh and eager face.
"Poor dear Elsie! what has become of her? Do you know her, sir?" she continued, turning to the clergyman.
"The girl on whose behalf I am inquiring is called Elsie, and it seems probable she was your friend's daughter."
"I must tell you, sir, whoour Elsiewas," said her ladyship, who had caught and did not like the word "friend." "She had been my maid; but we found her so conscientious, nice-mannered, and well-informed, that she almost occupied the position of nursery governess to the younger children. We were all very much attached to her, and when she married we gave her a watch, which Lady Eleanor supposes must be the same as this. The marriage was not a happy one, and we opposed it as long as we could. After some time she went to India, and thence I think to China, with her husband. For many years we have heard nothing of her, though I think we fancied we saw his name among those lost in a terrible shipwreck some years ago. It was a sad story altogether. Poor Elsie! Do you remember how anxious we used to be about her, girls?"
"It was only the other day I was thinking of her, and wondering what had become of the little baby. You know I was its god-mother, and she was called after me."
"Yes, indeed, I had forgotten," said Lady Waterham; "but perhaps, sir, you would kindly tell us what you know about our former protégée."
Mr. Smith told the sad tale with which our readers are acquainted as briefly as he could. At the end there was a pause, and then her ladyship said—
"Poor foolish girl! She would not take my advice, and I foresaw that her end would not be happy."
"Our poor dear Elsie!" said Lady Constance, her eyes overflowing. "It was a sad day for her when she first saw that horrid man Damer; her head was quite turned afterwards."
"At all events my baby godchild is living, and a credit to me apparently," said Lady Eleanor.
"And the boy?" said the clergyman.
There was a pause. The Ladies Constance and Eleanor looked at each other, and then at their mother.
"I have not mentioned the boy," said her ladyship; "but that is the most painful part of the subject. He is not Elsie's brother at all; and what is worse, it was never exactly known who he was. About four months after the marriage a poor woman came to the village. She said her name was Damer, and inquired for Elsie's husband. He was very much put out by her appearance, but at once took a lodging for her, where the poor thing had a baby, and died immediately after. Damer said the woman was his only sister, and accordingly that he must take the child. At the time Elsie seemed to have no doubts, but every one else talked about it. Some said the woman was his wife, and others—you can imagine what they said. Shortly after that they left the neighbourhood, and we never saw Elsie again. Her husband, I must tell you, was a mechanical engineer, and considered an excellent workman. He got a capital appointment in India after he left Leeds, and Elsie wrote to tell us she was going with him. It was then I so strongly urged her to stay at home with the children; but she would not be guided, and merely wrote to say she had placed them with some people in the north of Ireland, where, I think, she came from herself."
"I fancy," said Lady Eleanor, "I have some of her letters still. You remember, mamma, they were imprisoned in China, with a number of other English people, for ever so long. It was after they were released that we had the last letter (which I am sure I kept), saying that she was coming home. We did not know at the time whether she meantaloneor not; and then when we saw Edgar Damer's name among the people lost in that vessel—I forget its name—we concluded that she must have gone on before."
Thus piecing together the broken memories of the past, the morning went by. The Rev. Cooper Smith stayed to luncheon, and in the course of conversation various confirmatory incidents came out. The miniature in the locket was at once recognised, and it appeared that the locket itself had been the special gift of little Lady Eleanor. A more careful comparison of dates proved quite satisfactory, showing, among other things, that the body had been found at Tor Bay just four months after the date of the letter which Lady Eleanor had succeeded in finding, and in which Elsie said she was to start in a few days, and would be nearly four months on the voyage. "My first visit will be to the glens, and then I shall try to go over and see you. I have so much to tell, and to ask your kind advice about. I am unhappy and anxious, and feel somehow as if I would never see either my child or you, though I am writing about it. It is so long since we have heard of anybody, we seem to have been dead, as it were."
Having returned to his hotel, the clergyman made some brief notes of the story that had thus providentially been brought to light. He did not know whether to feel pleasure or disappointment. He was glad to have the mystery cleared up; glad, too, to find that Elsie had had so sweet a mother, and was likely to have such kind and liberal friends. Yet he could not but feel sorry for the collapse that was awaiting Jim's castle in the air. It would be a bitter trial for him, and he knew not how Jim would bear it. Mr. Smith was somewhat puzzled, moreover, what to do himself. He had promised to write to the expectant Jim; but now he could not bring himself to do so. His own holiday would not expire for a fortnight, and he was naturally reluctant to return home sooner than was necessary. While debating what was best to be done, a telegram was put into his hand. It was from the irrepressible and anxious Jim. "Please telegraph results obtained immediately. Reply paid for." "The fool!" muttered Mr. Smith; and, yielding to a sudden irritation, he filled up the reply for which the boy was waiting:
"All clear enough, but quite unsatisfactory as far as you are concerned."
It was a cruel blow, and no sooner was it dealt than he was sorry for it. He resolved to write to the poor lad, and, finding an invitation to dine at Burnham Park, which had first to be accepted, he sat down, well pleased with himself and all the world. The letter to Jim was kindly. The whole truth was not told, but it was announced that Jim and Elsie were no connections of the Waterham family. All else was reserved for verbal explanation.
The dinner at Burnham was pleasant enough. The earl was affable, and after dinner had several reminiscences of that "clever dog Damer" to tell, which did not raise his character in the clergyman's estimation. When about to leave, Lady Eleanor handed him a note for Elsie, adding—
"I do wish so she would come over and see us! Of course I should gladly pay all her expenses."
The Rev. Cooper Smith left Leeds next morning quite satisfied with himself, and, having written a long letter to Hendrick, giving a general idea of his discoveries, he went on his tour with a light heart.
Poor Jim! his pride had indeed met with a fall. The rector's letter was soothing enough, but the winged messenger which he himself had demanded had arrived full twenty-four hours earlier. Full of the most ridiculous dreams, that he would have been ashamed to put in words even to himself, the young man tore open the brown cover. One glance at the cruelly brief, well-written announcement, and all the top-heavy aerial erection his vanity had heaped up lay shattered around him. Poor boy! shall we not pity him? From very childhood, though so silent and undemonstrative, he had fed himself with extravagant visions and wild speculations. All this had been merely an amusement, though an unhealthy one. The dreamer had scarcely entertained the idea of his dreams possibly proving true. But the train was laid for a future explosion—the imagination was diseased, and so when the watchmaker's letter came, all the shadowy fancies of the past seemed to be suddenly transformed into substantial realities. He fancied ho had alwaysknownthat which hitherto he had only amused himself by fancying.
The blow was sharp and decisive, and Jim felt he had brought it on himself. Curiously enough, however, the sudden stinging pain acted as a tonic stimulant. The lad summoned up all the latent manliness and force of his character. He looked the thing in the face, and saw clearly that he had played the fool. He knew that he would be laughed at, and resolved to bear it like a man.
Next day came Mr. Smith's letter, and it was as balm to the wounded spirit. Elsie also wrote a line to say she was glad not to be a lady, and believed that he would get on all the better for not being a lord.
Thus it came to pass that when the Rev. Cooper Smith arrived at Ballymena station, the first person he met was Jim McAravey.
"I do not know how to thank you, sir, for all the trouble you have taken; I at least was not worthy of it. But I trust this piece of folly has been enough for me. I hope I am wiser, but I shall strive not to be sadder."
Mr. Smith was as much surprised as pleased at this change in the young man's character, and he the more regretted having to tell the whole of the narrative, which was sure to cause further pain to the lad. However, it had to be done, and Jim, who was no coward, took it all better than might have been expected.
"And so I am only Elsie's half-brother, at best—or shall I say atworst?" said the poor lad, with trembling voice. "I'm afraid, sir, I shall be terribly laughed at here, but I must bear it as best I can. I have brought it on myself."
Elsie was profoundly thankful for the result of the investigation. As she had said herself, she "did not feel like being a lady," and was therefore glad to be delivered from what would have been, to her, an unwelcome fate. At the same time it was a pleasure to obtain definite information as to her parentage, and also to find that in Lady Eleanor she had a friend who had known and loved her mother, and who was bound to herself by a sacred tie. That Jim had proved not to be her brother was, if the truth be told, a relief. Elsie had often reproached herself that she did not feel for him that sisterly affection which she believed it her duty to cultivate. In fact she began to like Jim better now, partly because he was decidedly improved by the "taking down" he had received, and partly because affection was no longer a duty to which the girl had to school her heart.
Lady Eleanor's letter was kind in the extreme. She told Elsie in simple language how they had all loved her mother, and enclosed for her perusal the one or two letters that had been preserved. "Although Elsie could not remember their last meeting, yet they were not strangers, since Lady Eleanor did not forget that she had held her in her arms at the baptismal font." Elsie was urged most affectionately to go over to England, if it were only for a time; and it was suggested that if she settled there Mrs. McAravey might accompany her. Elsie, however, felt at once that, even could she bear the journey, it would be a cruelty to transplant the aged woman from her native soil to a region where she would find all things alien and strange. Nor would she entertain the idea of deserting the poor old body, though Mrs. McAravey stoically offered to give her up.
"I won't stand in your way, Elsie, lass, though I can't bear to think of it; but it's not long I'll be here to trouble anyone, and I'd like to know you were well provided."
But Elsie would not be persuaded, nor could her new friends do otherwise than approve her noble resolve. They were disappointed, but felt that such a girl was worthy of their affection and patronage, and trusted that time would afford them opportunities of benefiting her.
The winter that ensued was a trying one. The snow lay deep on the moors, so that Tor Bay was practically shut off from the rest of the world. The rector was not able to get over, and even George Hendrick's visits were few and far between. For several weeks Elsie could not go to church, and when she did the fatigue and wet brought on a cold which stuck to her all the winter. Old Mrs. McAravey seemed fast approaching her end; she long had been quite crippled with rheumatism, and now her mind was at times beginning to give way. It was a sad, dreary time for Elsie. Scarcely any children were able to come to school; and as she struggled on day after day at what seemed, in her present low state of health, a barren and uninteresting task, she could not but have visions of the comfortable home she might have acquired with her hitherto unseen friends. Not that she ever regretted her decision; indeed Elsie was scarcely capable of entertaining a selfish thought. Without any apparent effort she lived for others, and habitually thought of them before herself. Yet it was a trying time for the poor young girl—gloomy and disheartening days, succeeded by restless and anxious nights, and literally not a soul to speak to.
Jim, too, had a bad time of it that winter. So great had been the ridicule to which he had been subjected in Ballymena, that he was at length forced to abandon his position. Messrs. Moore accepted his resignation somewhat coldly. They regretted the loss of a valuable servant, but Jim had failed to gain the affection of his employers. He had "kept himself to himself" with such reserve that no one took much interest in him, though his good business qualities were fully appreciated. Messrs. Moore gave him a high character for steadiness and capacity, but they did not seem inclined to go out of their way to obtain him employment. Poor Jim was much mortified at the calmness with which his resignation was received. He knew that he had done his duty to his employers faithfully, and therefore he felt hurt when they made no effort to retain him. The poor lad had well-nigh to begin again. He went to Belfast, and there soon obtained employment, but in a far inferior position to that which he had occupied at Messrs. Moore's. Moreover, he soon found that in the great capital of the linen trade there were numbers of young men as capable, as energetic, and in many cases better educated than himself. It was a harsh and unpleasant experience, but Jim had the strength and courage to bear up under it. He still was full of a laudable confidence in himself, and felt sure that patience and diligence would have their due reward. It was a hard struggle, however. Trade was bad, and after a few months the house in which he was just getting established was compelled to stop payment. For a few weeks Jim was absolutely without employment. After that time he obtained another situation, and thus escaped being reduced to actual poverty; for the first time, however, he was brought face to face with the possibility of privation—of being unable (however willing and however anxious) to obtain the means of gaining his daily bread.
Thus the winter and spring wore on. Almost the first gleam of sunshine that came to Elsie with the reviving year was a letter from Lady Eleanor, in which she said that as Elsie would not come to see them, they had almost resolved to go and look for her. The earl, her father, had often spoken of taking them to the Giant's Causeway, and so they thought of running over before Easter if the weather was fine, which after so severe a winter they hoped it might be. The hope thus held out was destined to be gratified. Easter was late that year, and the weather in March and April beautiful. Jim was astonished one day early in April by receiving a letter from Elsie, directing him to wait upon the Earl and Lady Waterham, who were to arrive from Fleetwood next morning, and would stay a day at the Royal Hotel. Jim blushed as he recalled the vain dreams of six mouths before, and naturally felt some embarrassment at the prospect of meeting such exalted personages. However, he conducted himself so modestly and naturally that he won the approval of the whole party. Even the earl, who, out of dislike to Damer, was much prejudiced against the lad, spoke kindly to him, and expressed a willingness to serve him, if possible, at any time.
Having proceeded to Larne by train, the party posted along the noble coast road, arriving at the Ballycastle Inn in time for a very late dinner. Next day the younger ladies, having procured two stout ponies and a guide, started for Tor Bay, taking the magnificent Fair Headen route. They were determined to find out Elsie for themselves, and to take her by surprise in the midst of her ordinary work. It was one of those glorious spring days that might have belonged to June, were it not for a keenness in the air that surprised you when the sun was for a few seconds over-clouded. There was, too, a clearness in the atmosphere that warm summer days cannot claim, with a suspicion of frost, as you looked towards the sea. And often did the two ladies look in that direction during their ride on the lofty headlands. Rathlin Island lay below them, separated by the few miles of narrow and often impassable sea, but to-day it was but a "silver streak." Far in the horizon the Scotch coast could be seen all along the line, while the Mull of Cantyre looked but a few miles away, the very houses and boundaries being almost distinguishable. Full in front the sun gleamed on Ailsa Craig, as it rose abrupt and lovely from out of the sea. Elsie, though familiar with it, had not been insensible to all this beauty. She had spent almost the entire night at Mrs. McAravey's side, nor did the old woman fall off to sleep till it was almost time to open school. It was a weary morning's work; and when the children went home to dinner the exhausted girl wandered down to the beach (having seen that Mrs. McAravey still slept) in search of fresh air and quiet before resuming her duties. Since the arrival of Lady Eleanor's last letter she had naturally enough been excited and nervous. She knew that in a few days at latest she should see her mother's friend, and one who promised to be hers. Would she like her? Would the meeting be a disappointment, or otherwise? What should she say? Where would they meet? How should she dress herself? The first meeting with one to whom we are bound by any ties, whom we have long corresponded with, or are likely in the future to be much associated with, is always looked forward to with embarrassment and nervousness. How much was this the case with a poor, simple orphan girl, who had never been five miles from home, called upon to encounter a titled lady, who actually claimed her as her godchild, and to whom she felt bound by so many tender associations? Filled with thoughts of the approaching interview, Elsie wandered, she knew not whither, on the beach. Suddenly a shadow seemed to pass over her, and she became conscious of the bitterness of the north-east wind that blew upon the shore. Drawing her cloak round her, she looked up and found that she had come under the shade of the great cliff that rose at the extremity of Sandy Creek. She stood still a moment, gazing on the dreary scene, and then a sudden flood of recollection came over her. The tide was low, and she stood on the very spot, as it seemed, where, twelve years before, she had caught sight of the strange black mass that was being tossed on the sand amid the tangled sea-weed. She saw herself a trembling, ragged child, alone by the dead body in the fast gathering twilight. And this was the only time that she had seen her mother. The girl was out of spirits, low in health, and very weary, and so, for the only time almost in her life, she gave way to repining thoughts. All the gracious path by which a kindly Providence had led her was obscured, and she thought of herself merely as the orphan child of this poor dead thing that lay upon the sand. The whole history of the past flooded back upon her. She saw little Jim, so eager to escape from the gruesome sight; then Mike McAravey approaching through the twilight, and herself as she ran up against good George Hendrick; then rose up the horrid bewildering scene at the inquest; and finally she seemed to stand in the bleak wind-blown moorland churchyard, and before her was the nameless head-stone, "In Memory of E. D." The sense of loneliness was complete as she stood beneath the overhanging cliff exposed to the biting nor'-east wind. With an effort she aroused herself, and looking up with tear-filled eyes to the pale clear blue sky so far away, she resolutely turned back into the warm sunshine that seemed the more dazzling after its temporary withdrawal. It was almost school-time, and on the far hill-side path Elsie's quick eyes caught sight of two or three tiny little figures, as they trotted down the path towards her cottage-school. In a moment all sadness was banished, and she felt herself again.
"Have we not all one Father?" she murmured; "and have I not One to love me who has said, 'Inasmuch as ye did it to the least of these, ye did it unto Me'?"
Glancing again to the hill, she perceived that the children had stopped, and were forming a little group as they looked backward up the path.
"They 'll be late, my little loiterers," said Elsie, with a smile; "I must scold them well. But what is it?"
An uncommon sight indeed for Tor Glen, and one that might well distract the whole school's attention. Two discreet ponies were picking their way down the zig-zag path, while behind walked a man. But greatest wonder! on each pony was seated a real lady. Erect and gracefully, too, did they keep their seats, as the patient beasts let themselves slip down the gravelly path.
"It's early for tourists," thought Elsie, as she quietly walked on her way.
The travellers and their attendant group of urchins had now passed out of sight behind a screen of the thick foliage, which we have described as adorning the sheltered bottom of the glen. Elsie thought no more of the tourists. Their pleasure-seeking was a thing she had absolutely no experience of, and the sight of her scholars had banished all other thoughts but practical ones as to the conduct of the afternoon lesson.
A sudden turn brought the young mistress in front of her school. It was a humble enough affair—a mere shed in fact, built on to the end of Mrs. McAravey's cottage, and adorned over the door with a plainly printed sign-board, "Tor Glen National School." But the place did not look uncared for. The school indeed was bare enough, and surrounded by a brown wilderness, in which the children used to play, but the adjoining dwelling-house was made green and warm with ivy and fuschia, while the little garden was neat, and for April almost gay.
To her surprise, Elsie's ear caught no sweet clamour of children at play; there was indeed a sound of voices, and as she turned the corner some dozen eager voices cried together, "Here she is; here's mistress."
Elsie stepped hastily forward, fearing some mischief, and then paused as she saw the two strange ladies standing in the midst of an admiring and wondering group of children, while the guide stood by, a pony bridle in each hand.
In a moment one of the ladies had pushed through the little circle and seized the girl's hand.
"Elsie Damer! I 'm your godmother, Eleanor More. I 'm so glad."
Poor Elsie knew not where she was, or what it meant, and could find no better thing to say than "Your ladyship!"
"There, don't talk like that," was the quick reply; "I'm so glad we've met at length. What a sweet little nest this is, hidden away from the world by these great cliffs. We were fortunate, too, to find you out so soon," continued Lady Eleanor, who, perceiving that Elsie had not recovered the sudden shock and embarrassment, considerately gave rein to her power of speech, which was by no means limited.
"We met a nice little fellow on the top of the hill, and I asked him whether he knew where Elsie Damer lived. I stupidly forgot about the name, so he answered 'Now.' Then I remembered, and asked about Mrs. McAravey. 'It's teacher she 's askin' for,' said a little girl who had come up. Then I saw it was all right, and so we all came tumbling down the hill together."
"I saw you," said Elsie, "in the distance, but of course I had no idea who it was. How very kind you have been to me!" and again the tears were trembling in the nervous eyes of the poor, overwrought girl.
Lady Constance had now joined them, and the children stood around, all eyes and ears.
"Kate, take them in," said the mistress to a tiny monitress, when she became conscious of the inquiring glances. All were seated demurely as Elsie and the two ladies entered.
"Now," said Lady Constance, "do you not think you might give these little ones a holiday this fine afternoon, so that you and my sister may have a good chat?"
"Perhaps I had better," replied Elsie; then turning to the eager audience, "Children, these kind ladies have come all this way to see me, and have asked me to give you a holiday; what do you say?"
"Thank you, ma'am," responded the little chorus.
"Very well," said the mistress; "mind you don't get into any mischief. No noise," she added quickly, as she perceived that Lady Eleanor's friend was expanding his lungs, and gathering up his little bantam-cock-like figure, preparatory to starting a cheer. "No noise; poor gran is very bad to-day, and would not like it. Go quietly."
And so they did, under the generalship of tiny Kate, all defiling past in silence, save Master "Naw," who, being the hero of the school, thought it necessary to distinguish himself; therefore, being forbidden to cheer, he stepped forward, and touching his forehead with a bow, said—
"Thank your ladyships both;" and then, with a rush to the door, "Now, boys, we'll have a look at the ponies."
"He is almost past me," said Elsie, laying her hand on the boy's shoulder as he darted through the door.
"You have them in very good order, I think," said Lady Constance; "but I was sorry to hear you say the old lady was so poorly. Let us go and see her."
Elsie led the way, and as she lifted the latch they caught Mrs. McAravey's plaintive voice—
"I 've been thinking long for you, Elsie, lass, for I heard the children say as the ladies had come. You won't take her from a poor old creature, will you, miss?" she added, as the visitors came in view; "I won't have long to trouble you."
"O no," said Lady Eleanor, kindly; "we 've only come to pay you and Elsie a visit. She is just like her mother, Mrs. McAravey; and now that you are so weak and low you ought to be glad she has found some of her mother's friends. We will always take care of her."
"The Lord be thanked!" murmured the old woman, lying back with closed eyes; "and I bless His name He has brought me to see the day. Elsie's a good lass—none better, ladies."
Almost immediately she fell off into a broken and uneasy sleep, while Elsie and her friends whispered together at the door.
"We shall gee you again the day after to-morrow, Sunday," said Lady Eleanor, as they prepared to start. "We are going to Ashleigh Church, and will lunch at Mr. Smith's—he says you always stay for Sunday-school."
"Yes," said Elsie, "that is very nice, and I'll be sure to be out—unless gran is too bad," she added, anxiously glancing towards the bed.
Sunday came, and there was quite an excitement at Ashleigh Church when the clumsy hired carriage from Ballycastle drove up, and the two ladies appeared.
The Rev. Cooper Smith, who had been popping his head out of the vestry door off and on for the last ten minutes, was in readiness to receive his guests, and then retired to have as much time as possible for a last look at the specially prepared sermon. Mrs. Cooper Smith was too anxious about the lunch to go to church, but all the rest of the family were assembled in full force. Elsie, however, did not put in an appearance, and the absence of her fine voice left a sad gap in the somewhat too elaborate service that had been, got up for the occasion.
After service was over the clergyman took his guests to see poor Elsie Damer's grave. Lady Eleanor suggested that something should be added to the inscription, setting forth the way in which the name had been discovered. How this should be done was the subject of conversation during the walk to the rectory. There they found Elsie just arrived. Mrs. McAravey had been much worse all Saturday, and Elsie could not get away in time for church. She had only come now because the dying woman had expressed a wish to see Mr. Smith. This news cast a shadow over the party. Elsie remained for luncheon, on Mr. Smith's promising to be ready to start immediately after, when the returning carriage could bring them a considerable distance on the way, dropping them at a point not more than two miles from Tor Bay.
"I must say good-bye now," said Lady Eleanor, drawing Elsie aside as they left the dining-room; "I cannot tell you how glad we are to have found you, and to have found you so like your dear mother too. It is too bad papa and mamma cannot see you, as we must leave to-morrow; but we shall meet again soon."
"I do not know about that," replied poor Elsie, almost breaking down.
"My dear child, you do not think we are going to let you be lost again! And this is what I want to say to you, Elsie, dear: will you promise to come over to us when—I mean if anything happens to Mrs. McAravey?—she cannot live long, poor old body."
"Oh, you are too kind!" cried Elsie, fairly bursting into tears, and hiding her face on her new friend's shoulder—"you are too kind; but how can I promise? It sometimes seems my duty to stay here."
Eleanor More was a true woman, and so—though surprised at this sudden outbreak—she lifted the girl's head between her hands, and kissing her