Mr. Mervyn laughed and clasped the squire's hand, and so linked, they passed out and into the drawing-room, the curate following, and greatly exercised in his mind by the discussion, in which he had taken no part but that of listener. He knew that Anna Spencer had half her dead mother's fortune, and that not a trifle, in her own right, and he had ever deemed this a barrier which his pride could not overleap.
There was a little interval of singing, and Aunt Adelaide dozed now and then, as old ladies will, and wakened with a start, to thank the young people for the music which had been unheard by her, and to declare that it was very pretty indeed.
The little party walked to Fairhill in the gloaming, and saw the children, and helped to distribute the gifts. And Mr. Spencer's face was like the weather—much more Christmas-like than could have been expected. His heart was far too warm, his nature too kindly, to be unsympathetic when he saw others happy. He tried to forget the cloud that had burst over his own hearth, and thanked God that there was so much of sunshine left for others and for him.
As to Mr. Ulyett! Nobody would have imagined that a caustic word had ever dropped from his lips, or that he could doubt the disinterestedness of any human being. He was the life and soul of the Christmas gathering. He was pulled about by small hands, and clung to, and made to act as a beast of burden. He looked so happy at being tyrannized over by a crowd of children, that everyone felt it was the greatest mistake for him to be an old bachelor.
Anna Spencer declared that she had quite fallen in love with Mr. Ulyett; which statement must, however, be received with caution. Girls will guess that had such a sentiment really existed, it would not have been publicly proclaimed.
All happy days must end. Before the guests departed, however, young and old sang a carol together, a few words of prayer were said, with thanks for the past year's good, while a blessing was asked for the new.
Then away through the lanes—and soon the moon looked down upon a sleeping village.
ARTHUR managed during the evening to tell his friend the rector about his mysterious Christmas-box. He showed him the letter, and asked Mr. Worthington if he could give him any clue to the sender of such a valuable gift. The look of genuine astonishment on his friend's face told even more than words. Mr. Worthington said, and truly, that he could not even hazard a guess as to the unknown donor.
"What should you do with the money, were you in my place?" he asked.
"Keep it, use it, and thank God for it."
"That was my first thought, but—"
"What else can you do? Depend on it, Glyn, your first thought was the right one. Look on this as God's gift, and use it as such, reverently and thankfully."
And Arthur took the advice and did so.
A month passed, and the curate was often the squire's invited guest at Cray Holm, and Anna's bright eyes seconded her father's welcome.
The curate began to wonder whether he ought to be so happy, or whether he should look upon that attractive fireside as dangerous ground, and flee whilst he had the power. He had no right to involve another in the pain of parting, and what other ending could there be? He recalled Mr. Spencer's words; he thought of the mysterious gift, and associated him with everything that was kind towards himself. Should he go to this good friend, tell him all that was in his heart, and abide by his decision?
He had about determined to do so, when a letter arrived from Mr. Mervyn. This gentleman had not forgotten the curate's Christmas sermon, and through his own influence had obtained the offer of a living for Arthur. It was of considerable value, but at a distance from Little Cray. With this letter in hand, he went to Mr. Spencer and told his twofold tale—the story of Mr. Mervyn's offer and of his own affection for Anna.
In answer to the latter, the squire opened the door of his daughter's pretty room, and told Arthur to repeat his story there; Anna's reply would serve for her father too, he said; and so he left them together.
I do not quite know how it is, that the very words used by wooers, and all the little tender accompaniments which wait upon an offer and its acceptance can be given in detail, unless a bird of the air does indeed carry the matter. The public are generally informed by us tale-tellers of everything done and every word said by our heroes and heroines when the crisis of their fate arrives. I will not be so communicative, though I could tell if I chose. Enough, that when the door of Anna's boudoir reopened she came out, led by Arthur, whose face sufficed to show Mr. Spencer what answer he had won. And as the girl threw her arms round her father's neck, and laid her bonny, blushing cheek on his shoulder, the squire clasped the young man's hand in his, and confirmed his daughter's gift.
"Only," he said, "I cannot spare her from Little Cray. If she does not reign under the old roof; she must have her new nest quite near it."
Matters were arranged in this wise: By dint of Mr. Mervyn's friendly efforts, the new and more valuable living was offered to Mr. Worthington, who, in consideration of his growing family, accepted the same. Arthur became rector, instead of curate, of Little Cray, and by the time the little sister's trousseau was ready, and her future home prepared by her expectant bridegroom, Miss Spencer was also ready to take her part in a double marriage ceremony, with Arthur.
When Arthur and his bride returned to Little Cray, after the usual tour, he on one occasion spoke to Mr. Spencer of the anonymous Christmas-box—
"I always felt that I had only one friend who would do a kind act so kindly. But for the encouragement then conveyed, I should never have dared to ask you for Anna," said he.
Then he discovered that Mr. Spencer had neither part nor lot in the matter, and had never even heard of it, until Arthur told his story. It was to Anna's feminine wit, that he was indebted for the discovery of the real sender.
"Had I known of it at the time, I should have guessed Mr. Roger Ulyett," she said. She was right. While many a one had misjudged that gentleman, and deemed him cynical and hard during his early residence at Little Cray, Anna had done justice to the true nobility of his character under all circumstances, except in his manifest devotion to herself. In after days, when Arthur's elder sister, Hilda, was Mrs. Roger Ulyett, and mistress of Fairhill, Roger was brought, not to own that he was the sender of that Christmas-box, but to say—
"If I had done such a thing, I should only have paid a very small instalment of the debt I owed your father. Had he taken advantage of a certain opening offered to him, I should not stand where I do to-day. He neglected his opportunities—I secured them; hence my fortune. It matters less now which of us got it, for it is all in the family."
SIX MILESTONES:A CHRISTMAS MEMORY.
MANY men and women have days and seasons in their lives which stand out from all the rest, and mark its stages as the milestones bid us mark the distances we travel on the king's highway, and the guide-posts indicate a turn in a fresh direction.
I look back on such days and seasons, and I love to look, even though some of them bring sorrowful pictures before my mind's eye, or tell of actual bereavement—of hushed voices and empty chairs. For, thank God! the memories of mercies and blessings far outnumber those of a sorrowful sort. Indeed, He has shown me the exceeding preciousness of trial as a preparation for the enjoyment of happiness to follow, and which was held back for a little while, until I was fit to be trusted with it.
Thirty years is a large portion of even a long life, but as each Christmas is drawing near, I look back to the same season.
I was a homeless girl, just turned nineteen. I say "homeless," because there was no house in the whole wide world which I had the right to call home, no roof under which I could actually claim a shelter. I had neither father, mother, sister, nor brother, though three years before I had all these. How I lost them, one by one, and was left with no provision or property except two hundred pounds, the bequest of my great-aunt, I will not relate at length.
I had, however, one dowry which was better than houses or land, and was sure to be the best fitted to cheer me in my lonely condition, because it came to me as a direct gift from God. This was a bright and happy disposition, which inclined me to thankfulness rather than repining, and made me ever on the watch for some gleam of light, however dark might be the overhanging cloud.
I was nineteen when I found myself in the position I have described—namely, about to be homeless, and with an income of six pounds sterling per annum arising from the two hundred pounds in the Three per Cents.
I can hardly say, however, that this was my only heritage, for during my father's prosperous days, he had spent money freely enough on my education, and given me a good all-round training, which was likely to prove useful, and of which, I could not be deprived. Then he had left me an honoured name, and though, through unforeseen circumstances, he had no money or lands to leave his child, what he did leave sufficed to pay every claim, so that I could hold up my head and feel that his memory was free from the reproach of insolvency.
It had always been a matter alike of principle and of—shall I say, pride?—with him to owe no man anything. It lightened his last hours to know that no one would lose a penny through the trouble which had deprived him of everything in the shape of worldly goods.
I hope I cheered him too, for, when the curate had gone, he turned his dying eyes upon me, with a wealth of love and tenderness in the look, and said, "Lois, I never thought I should leave you penniless. I expected to enrich my children by what has beggared you, the last I have left. Can you forgive me?"
I turned a brave face towards him, choked back the sobs that wanted to make themselves heard, and said, "I am young and strong. Do not fear for me, father. If I could only keep you, I would work by your side, for you, or with you, and desire nothing better than to use such talents as God has bestowed upon me to gain a livelihood for us both. As to forgiving, do not name the word. What have I to forgive? You and my mother strove by every means that love could devise to make my life a happy one."
He smiled, and then, as if talking to himself, he said, "Yes, the child will have happy memories, and, thank God! No debt, no dishonour. He is faithful that promised to be a 'Father to the fatherless.' She may find earthly friends turn carelessly or coldly away, but that Friend will never forsake my Lois. But she is so young to be left alone."
image004
LAST HOURS.
I took up the subject in reply, though he had not addressed me directly.
"Not alone, father," I said. "What would be the worth of such promises as you have just called to mind, if I could not lay hold of them and get strength and comfort from them? I have no doubt, there will be rough places in my path, but what has God given me a brave heart and a bright spirit for? No doubt to fit me for what lies before me."
"True, my child. He bestows His gifts in proportion to the need of His children," he replied, and as my father spoke his face looked brighter still.
I would not give in whilst he lived and needed such ministry in word and work as I could render, so I stayed by him to the last. Then, when I could do no more for this well-loved parent, I went from the death-bed of my earthly father to the footstool of my Heavenly Father, and prayed for a renewal of the strength which I felt was fast breaking down.
I did not ask in vain, and when I rose from my knees it was with power to face my position and to begin my work.
It was on Christmas Day that the snow was cleared away round a newly made grave in Askerton Churchyard, and I stood on the strip of black bare ground thus uncovered, and saw all that remained of my father lowered to its last resting-place.
I was not quite alone. That would have been too terrible. My maternal uncle stood beside me, a kindly man, with not much depth of feeling or of purse. He had a large and expensive family, altogether out of proportion to his income, and knowing something of my present circumstances, had come to the funeral of his brother-in-law in fear and trembling—fear that the sight of my loneliness would be too much for his kindly nature to endure, and that he should be obliged to offer me a home in his already over-peopled dwelling; and trembling as to the reception I should meet with from his wife were I to accompany him thither.
He did offer to take me back with him, and was, I am sure, immensely relieved when, with grateful thanks, I firmly declined the invitation. Perhaps it may be thought I had little to thank him for, but indeed I had, because I knew his will to serve me exceeded his ability.
My uncle asked me a number of questions, which I was quite prepared to answer, and at every reply, his brow cleared. I could see that he had come to the funeral in doubt whether the expenses of it might not have to be met by himself. But I reassured him on this and every other point relating to money matters. There was absolutely nothing to be paid by any outsider.
Then my uncle turned to me. "About yourself, Lois. What are you going to do?"
I replied, as cheerfully as possible, "Pack up what belongs to me. This will soon be done."
He thought I was a strange girl, and he said, "You bear up wonderfully, Lois. It is hardly natural to see a girl like you coming from your father's funeral with dry eyes."
It was not natural. No one could be more sensible of this than myself, and when he said those words, looking straight in my face, I had hard work to steady my quivering lips and keep the tears from overflowing.
"Uncle James," I said, "it is the thought of my darling father that makes me both want to weep and keeps me from weeping. When I think of what I have lost, it is hard work indeed. He was so good."
I paused, and he looked pityingly down upon me, for he understood by my face and tone something of the struggle that was going on within, and of which before, he hardly guessed the existence.
"But," I continued, "think what it would have been for my father, ruined in means, broken in health, bereft of the true helpmeet of thirty years, and of his two eldest children, to begin a new struggle with the world. I turn my back upon the old, happy past, the very memory of which would break me down just now, and I say to myself, 'God knew best. He has reunited the two who loved each other so well on earth. He has given them back the children over whose graves they shed such bitter tears. What if I am left solitary?' I keep saying to myself, 'It is best so,' and this is why I will not weep, Uncle James."
"It is really wonderful, Lois, how a girl like you can argue the matter out in this way and keep so calm. Well, my dear, if you have quite made up your mind that you will not go back with me, I will try to catch the half-past two train. I think your aunt and the children hoped I might be home in time for dinner at five. Being Christmas Day, you know, they would all miss me. But before I start tell me where you go from here, and if you have money for present needs."
"Our old nurse, who married the lodge-keeper, will find me accommodation for a few days. I am willing to work, and hope soon to find some employment. As to money, I have this."
My face went very hot as I opened my purse. It held just half-a-sovereign, and about as much silver as made up a pound.
"And is this all? My poor child, I have not brought a great deal with me, but I can spare you a five-pound note; and mind, you must write for more when you want it. My sister's orphan daughter shall not be without a shilling to call her own."
I kissed my uncle's kind face, and thanked him, adding, "I shall pay this back, Uncle James. You have plenty of calls upon your purse without my adding to them. Will you please give me gold instead of the note?"
He did as I asked, deprecated the idea of repayment, and went away, I am sure, full of good-will and affection towards me, but not a little relieved to find that, God helping me, I meant to help myself.
I did sit down for a little while after my uncle left me, to indulge the grief which I had kept back whilst he was present. His allusion to all those who would be awaiting his coming, in order to gather round the Christmas dinner-table, was in such a strong contrast to my utter loneliness, that I was forced to let the waiting tears find a channel.
This little indulgence did me good, and I was even able to picture the welcome that my uncle would receive, and to fancy how the troop of children would be looking for him, and set up a glad shout when he came in sight; how clinging arms would surround his neck, and the youngest of all the flock would insist on being triumphantly carried, held by his father's strong grasp, shoulder-high into his mother's presence, and she would also be waiting with words of welcome.
Then my uncle would tell them about my poor father, and how he had left Lois so much better than he expected, and they would put the subject out of mind as a thing well got over, and begin to enjoy themselves as we had been used to do on bygone Christmas Days.
I did not think hardly of them as I drew this mental picture. My aunt was only akin by marriage, and of the large troop of cousins we knew but little personally.
I was not without another invitation for that Christmas Day. Our good rector and his wife had asked me to go to their house, and they really wished me not to return to that which was home no longer. But for the sake of them and their little ones, I would not carry my sorrow to the rectory. I felt it would be cruel to kill by my presence the innocent mirth in which I was unfit to share, and so I went back to Birch Hill—my old home—to complete my preparations for leaving it. Hannah Brown, our former nurse, was waiting for me there, and after Uncle James left she assisted me to finish my work.
There was not much to be done. I had gradually prepared for leaving the only home I had ever known. In half an hour, I had passed through the various rooms, and taken a silent farewell of everything to which I had been accustomed from my very birth. All the contents of the house would soon be scattered, the place would have a new master, and I felt that when I next crossed its threshold it would be for the last time.
My old nurse had no children. She and her husband were a quiet, sober, elderly couple, so no young hearts would be saddened by my presence in their little home. Still, it may well be supposed in that, in spite of my efforts to be brave and look boldly towards the unknown future, my heart sank within me as I turned my back on all that had been associated with my life thus far.
That Christmas Day may well stand out among others, may well be deemed the date at which one stage of my life-journey ended. I call it the first of the six milestones.
WITH all my troubles, however, my old nurse was very good to me on that sad Christmas Day. She left me alone. By this, I do not mean that she neglected me. My few wants were thoughtfully supplied, and whenever I looked into her kind face, I saw there a world of tender sympathy. But she did not speak much or trouble me with words, which would have been equally useless and meaningless at such a time. She kept the house quiet, and showed her desire to comfort me rather by deeds than words.
In so doing, Hannah Brown manifested a truer instinct than do many much better bred people. As a rule, one's friends, and kind ones too, think that in the first days of a great sorrow, we must be perpetually followed up and down, and consoled by torrents of commonplace verbiage. If they did but know the uselessness of words, and the pain of being compelled to listen, when the sore heart would fain bare its wounds before the Great Physician, and ask for healing at His compassionate hand alone!
Time, too, was precious with me. I must get work, and soon, though I knew not where to seek it. I had written to my own old governess, now the happy mother of a family, to ask her help, half hoping that she might find room for me as teacher to her children.
She would have done so, but already the post was filled by a kinswoman of her own. She did what was next best, and sent me the particulars of two situations, either of which she believed she had influence to obtain for me. I quote from her letter about the two places.
"Lady Minshull will engage you, Lois, if you think such a place as you would occupy at Westwood Park would meet your views. I have no fear as to your qualifications. Her children are young and accustomed to obey, which is a great advantage, especially to a beginner at tuition. But while you will have all outward comforts, the social atmosphere of Westwood is a cold one. You will be the governess, and as such, Lady Minshull will look down upon you with an air of conscious superiority. She will talk to you about her children in a thoroughly common sense way; but your intercourse will be a purely business one, and if you were to spend half your life under that roof, you and Lady Minshull would never come any nearer. Friendship or affection between her and a governess, however gifted and well-born, would never cross her mind as a possibility.""Mind, you would have absolutely nothing to complain of; so far as externals go. But you would never call Westwood 'home,' and there would be some danger of your carrying a mummified heart in a living human body, for want of being allowed to love those among whom you found yourself. I do not know whether my being in the neighbourhood would be any compensation, but as my husband is Lord Minshull's lawyer, he goes to the Park very often, and I occasionally, so that we should meet sometimes.""The other situation open to you is in a Yorkshire vicarage. There is a large family, eight altogether the two eldest boys are away at school, and two tiny girls are not old enough to need teaching; but your actual pupils would be five.""You will smile at the arithmetic which adds two, two, and four, and makes the total nine, but the fifth is a girl of fourteen, the only child of a wealthy man in the immediate neighbourhood. She is taught with the vicar's children, and lives at the vicarage, within reach of her parents, who cannot wholly part with her, but who feel the advantage of companionship for their one darling.""You will be surprised to find that the salaries offered by the titled lady and the poor parson are identical, namely, forty pounds a year and laundress's expenses. The vicar could not afford so much but for the liberal terms he receives with Mary Baxendell, but he is a conscientious man, and gives the governess her full share of this payment.""He and his wife are well-born and highly intellectual people, of whose Christian practice I know enough to make me honour them with all my heart. They are really poor in this world's goods. Their surroundings are of the simplest, though not without refinement. Food, clothing, furniture—all, in short, at Hillstowe Vicarage, must needs be of the plainest. But it is the home of warm hearts and cultured minds, though a very long way from Askerton and Birch Hill, as well as from every one you have known. Choose for yourself, dear Lois, and may God direct you!"
I need quote no more. As I read the last lines of description, I caught myself saying, "Give me the home, however poor, so long as warm hearts shelter there, and the farther it is from my old one the better."
Then I read the prayer of my old friend, "May God direct you!" and, rebuked by conscience, I fell on my knees and asked for the guidance I so much needed. When I rose, after no stinted time, I found that conscience confirmed my first choice, with this one reservation; it suggested doubts as to the fitness of a girl of nineteen to teach those who were so few years younger than herself.
However, I wrote to the Rev. David Barr, at Hillstowe Vicarage, with all possible frankness, told him my age, position, and capabilities, as honestly and fully as I could in a letter, and awaited the result. He did not keep me in needless suspense, but met me with equal frankness, and owned that he had some doubts about engaging one so young.
"If I could see you," he added, "the difficulty which presents itself to my mind might vanish. But we are about two hundred miles apart, and an interview seems hardly possible, as I can neither afford the cost of such a journey nor offer to pay your expenses. I shall have to go about half-way in your direction three days hence; if you could afford to come the other half on the chance of an engagement, let me know."
I turned out the contents of my purse, already reduced by one-third, and resolved to risk journey. I could go by the cheapest train, which started early in the morning, but on returning, I must travel second class.
The bare railway fares would take more than one of my four remaining pounds. But I had an inward hankering after that Yorkshire home, and if I failed to obtain an entrance, there was Westwood Park to fall back upon, where the children were young; and Lady Minshull being absent, I need not send an answer for a week to come.
Hannah Brown packed a little basket for me, so that I should not need to buy anything at the refreshment rooms. A bottle of new milk, some home-made cake, a little packet of sandwiches—enough for me, and good enough for any one. The kind woman went with me to the station, on that frosty morning in early January, the crisp snow crunching beneath our feet and the stars glittering overhead, for it was hours before dawn. We had good two miles to walk, and the train started at six o'clock. On the road we met furniture vans, empty, but going to be filled with the contents of my old home, that they might be conveyed to the auctioneer's rooms and scattered at the fall of his hammer.
Such a meeting was not likely to raise my spirits, but I made no remark, though my eyes filled.
I was glad there was no stronger light for Hannah to discern my trickling tears. But I think her love made her conscious of them, for she whispered—
"Keep a brave heart, Miss Lois, and trust still. God is faithful, and He is above all. I don't think He would have given you such a spirit as you have, or such a bright disposition, unless He had known they would be wanted. He has bestowed many grand gifts upon you, though He has taken some away. You have health, strength, youth, and a good firm will of your own, as well as a loving heart and the power to feel for others. It is always a comfort to one who has been about children to say, 'I never knew the tongue of that girl utter a lie, or her hand act one.' You were always true, Miss Lois. Be so still. In your talk with this gentleman you are going to meet, seem what you are, and be sure you undertake nothing but what you can do. And may God bless and speed you!"
I had hardly time to answer; but the dear woman's words gave me fresh courage, and I felt my heart grow lighter and my hopes stronger as I sped on my way. It was bitterly cold, and it was a new thing for me to travel third class, but at any rate I was well wrapped, and as I looked at my fellow-passengers, I felt how many around me were far worse off than myself.
There was an ill-clad mother, with such a young baby and another two-year-old child. I could spare a shawl to the woman and her infant, and I took the other child, a clean, wholesome little thing, upon my knee. Fed with a little of my cake and milk, and huddled beneath my cloak, this child had a peaceful sleep. So the time was whiled away and the long journey shortened for us all. We got out at the same large station, and I rejoiced to know that the mother and her little ones were near home, and to see them taken in charge by the waiting husband and father.
The crowd of the passengers dispersed, and I stood alone, but not for long. A tall figure, whose dress bespoke the parson, and whose ruddy face suggested the country home, stepped forward and said, "Are you Miss Anstey?"
I replied, "Yes; and you, I presume, are Mr. Barr."
"It is very good of you to risk such a journey and in such weather," he said. "I wish my means had allowed me to make a less trying arrangement."
I thanked him and said, "I hope we shall be satisfied with the result of the journey."
Then Mr. Barr took me to the waiting-room, where he thought we might be able to talk without much interruption, as the porter said the next half-hour would be a slack time, with but few passengers about.
"You must have some refreshment," said Mr. Barr. "What will you take? I am going to lunch with a friend, so shall need nothing, but I must care for you. Hot soup, tea, or coffee would suit best, I think, after your cold journey."
"Thank you, I have all I need," said I, producing my basket; and spreading a snowy napkin on the waiting-room table, I uncovered my provisions, so neatly packed by Hannah's careful hands. I saw a look of interest and amusement on Mr. Barr's face as he watched me, and noticed that the basket contained a small drinking-glass, two plates for the cake and sandwiches, and that I drew out a silver pocket-knife, to divide the former with.
"You see, I have more than enough," I said. "Will you take a sandwich or a little of the cake and a draught of milk? Here is a second glass on the top of the water-bottle; and you, too, have been travelling."
Mr. Barr smiled and accepted my offer, while protesting that he ought to be the entertainer.
"You were right in saying that you stand in need of nothing more," he said. "You must be a very methodical young lady, Miss Anstey."
"I told him it was not I who had prepared and packed the provisions, but my old nurse, with whom I was staying until I could find a new home."
"But it was not your old nurse who washed and replaced this waiting-room tumbler, after polishing it on the corner of that spare napkin," he replied.
These words showed me that Mr. Barr was a keen observer, and that the smallest trait of character was not likely to escape him. This did not make me feel more comfortable, for I can truly say that I already formed no high estimate of my powers, and when he asked me a great many questions, I felt still more humbly about myself.
"Mrs. Goulding was mistaken," I thought, "when she told me that I could choose between Hillstowe Vicarage and Westwood Park. I doubt whet Mr. Barr will have anything further to say to one so inexperienced as myself. He seems to know so much and shows me that I know so little. However, come what may, I will pretend to nothing, profess nothing to which I am not fully equal."
I derived great comfort from remembering that I had striven prayerfully to leave myself in God's hands. I had asked Him to overrule all for my good, and was I to begin by fretting at the first prospect of not having the work to do which I had mentally chosen for myself?
I went on answering carefully and truthfully all Mr. Barr's questions. He paused after a time, then said, "You seem to have studied a great many subjects. Mrs. Goulding told me that you might be called a very well-educated, even an accomplished, girl."
"I have dipped into a good many things," I replied, "but I cannot be said to have studied the subjects. I have only a very superficial knowledge of any. How could I have more at my age? But my father thought it good to give me a little of each, so that I might afterwards improve myself by further study. I have no great talent for anything, and have obtained no special proficiency in any one of the so-called accomplishments. I keep working on and trying to improve, but I really know very little. I am afraid, considering the ages of Miss Baxendell and your eldest daughter, I should be more like a fellow-student than a governess, and that you will consider me too young to teach them."
Mr. Barr had been so very particular in his questions that I made up my mind to the loss of the money expended on my journey and the extinction of my hopes.
"You are young, Miss Anstey, and if you had told me you were fully competent to teach all the 'ologies into which you have dipped, I should have declined your services with thanks, and deeply regretted that I had been the means of bringing you so far. As it is, I believe you will suit us, if you think that such modest surroundings as ours will meet your requirements. I have made many inquiries, and perhaps tried your patience a little, but you will excuse this when you consider the circumstances. To the governess is entrusted the parents' most precious treasures; through her they will receive the instruction which will influence their after lives for good or evil. And my wife and I have a double responsibility resting upon us in making choice of a governess, because the one dear daughter of valued friends will receive the same instruction and impressions as our own children from her lips and life. Mrs. Goulding has told me your past history, and from her I know that you have been a dutiful daughter and are a brave-hearted girl."
"Your own lips have added the information that you are a true one, and that no thought of self-interest would induce you to give a false impression of your powers. You will have to work and study, no doubt, because your little cup of knowledge will be constantly drawn upon. You must try to keep replenishing it."
The revulsion of feeling produced by these kind words, and the knowledge that my journey was not to prove vain, rendered me almost unable to answer. For the first time since I met Mr. Barr, my voice trembled and tears came into my eyes. But I was very glad, and at length I found words to tell him so.
He knew, it seemed, that I might have gone to Westwood Park, for Mrs. Goulding had given him to understand that an engagement with Lady Minshull was absolutely open to me, should I not go to Hillstowe, and he asked me why I chose to come so far on a mere chance of being engaged by him.
"Because I wanted, not only to find employment, but a home," I replied.
"You shall have it at Hillstowe," said Mr. Barr. "I am a poor parson, and my wife and I are hardworking people. All about us is planned for the simple supply of our daily needs. We have no luxuries or superfluities, though I dare say many of our neighbours, looking at our troop of children, would say several of them were superfluous. But my wife is a true mother, and though her heart has so many occupants, she will find room in it for you. We have said nothing about holidays yet, but you will not be dissatisfied because yours are too short. The truth is, we have to send our eldest lads back to school before we have room for the governess, so you will come a day after they leave us, and begin your vacations a day before they commence theirs."
I would rather have heard Mr. Barr say there would be short holidays or none, since I had no real home. But I promptly reflected that, with forty pounds a year, I should be able to find one for myself, if no one invited me. There were always the lodge and Hannah Brown to fall back upon, though it would be terrible to return to the immediate neighbourhood of my old home. However, I was glad at heart, for my mission had sped, and I was not going to meet trouble half-way and on the heels of present success.
Mr. Barr saw me into the return train, and then bade me a kindly farewell, with a promise that I should hear from his wife soon. She wrote to me a few days later, and on the last Monday in January, I parted with my good old nurse, and started for Hillstowe Vicarage. Hannah Brown was very unwilling to receive payment for the homely accommodation afforded me at the lodge, but I took care that she should not lose by her goodness to me. When I reached Hillstowe I had a solitary half-crown left, and no certainty of more until Midsummer. Mr. Baxendell paid half-yearly for his daughter's board and education, and when his cheques came, in June and December, I should receive my share of their value.
Five months was a long time to look forward to when one had no certainty of a shilling beyond the half-crown aforesaid, without begging or borrowing; and against both plans for raising money I determinedly set my face.
My old governess had no idea of my poverty. My Uncle James never calculated how far five pounds would go in my present circumstances; perhaps he had so many calls on his purse nearer home, that he was afraid to glance in the direction of his orphan niece, especially as I wrote cheerfully of my prospects, and said I should soon repay his loan.
As I crossed the threshold of Hillstowe Vicarage, I felt that I had reached another of my six milestones.
IT was a kind but careworn face which looked down upon me as I alighted from the vehicle that brought me from Hillstowe Station. The trap was a borrowed one, for the vicar kept none. But his parishioners were very neighbourly, and were always ready to place a conveyance of some kind at his disposal, without fee or reward.
The kind motherly face was that of Mrs. Barr, and it was very sweet to a weary girl amongst strangers and far from all her old surroundings, to see those gentle eyes shining upon her. I shall never forget what I felt when she bade me welcome, not only with words but in sweeter ways still. She clasped my hand, outstretched to meet hers, and then putting her left arm round me, she drew me towards her and kissed me more than once.
No salute, no just touching of my cheek, but warm, repeated motherly kisses fell on my quivering lips, whilst the gentle pressure of that kind arm seemed to say that I was no longer without shield or shelter on the rugged path of life.
My arms went up and round her neck. I could not help it. I returned those kind kisses with interest, and despite every effort at self-control, I wept on her shoulder, as I had never wept since I closed my father's eyes in death.
Mrs. Barr gave quick directions about the placing of my luggage; then drew me into a room which I saw must be the vicar's study.
"Sit here for a moment, my dear," she said, drawing me to a broad window seat and taking her place by my side, while still holding me in that motherly clasp. "Tears are blessed things sometimes, and knowing what I do of your late trials, I am glad for you that you can weep freely. But we shall try and help you to dry your tears. I hope you will be happy with us, and find in your daily occupations one remedy for your trouble."
I tried to tell her that I was not broken down by the memory of past trouble, but by the kindness of her welcome. I told her so, and she smiled at my words, gave me another little hug, and left me to recover myself. Soon she returned and led me to my room. It was simply furnished, but there was nothing lacking; and in position, it was one of pleasantest in the vicarage.
My possessions were neatly arranged for unpacking; straps were loosed and little helps rendered which well-taught servants see to when a guest arrives. I knew afterwards that Mrs. Barr's hands had been busy on my behalf. On going down, I found tea ready and saw the young people, and Mr. Barr, who passed my future pupils in array before me.
Mary Baxendell came first. A sweet, refined, loving girl, towards whom my heart went out at once; then Margaret Barr, who was thirteen, and had an air of quiet determination that almost made me quake to begin with. Lilian came next, bright-faced and suggestive of fun and mischief; then twin boys, Harry and Ned, seven years old, Saxon-faced and sheepish; these were my pupils.
"You shall see the other two—Dot and Baby," said Mr. Barr; and in trotted Dot, otherwise Dorothy, as her name was mentioned. She was a dear little dumpling of a child; blue-eyed and flaxen-curled, and she planted herself in front of me, evidently to take my measure. She surveyed me calmly from head to foot and back again, pondered for a moment, then extended her plump arms, was lifted on to my knee, and with a sigh of content, nestled her curly head on my breast.
"Poor Dot can do with any amount of cosseting and petting," said Mr. Barr. "She cannot forgive Baby Flossy for having superseded her, and will be baby herself for a long while yet. She still sleeps in a little cot by her mother's side, which arrangement is hardly conducive to rest. One baby wakes the other sometimes."
Mrs. Barr laughed as she stroked Dot's curly head, but I thought the somewhat worn look on her face was not difficult to understand. Surely these two babies must often wake the mother.
I do not want to tell much about my life at Hillstowe Vicarage, but I must give a few particulars, or I shall do scant justice to the good pastor and his wife. If ever two people united the truest refinement of manners and the most thoughtful Christian courtesy, and manifested sweetest patience and consideration towards all with whom they had to do, they were the vicar of Hillstowe and his true helpmeet.
They had such scanty means and lived such hardworking lives, the mother in her home, the pastor in ministering to his flock, that it was wonderful to me how they could find time to think and care so well for all.
I used to think, as I saw Mrs. Barr in the most simply-made cotton gown, and actively engaged from morning to night, that, in spite of all the sordid cares which beset her, her gracious dignity of carriage would have well become a duchess. What stitching and contriving she got through! What making down of garments from elder to younger, not only of girls, but boys! All the masculine garments, those of Mr. Barr only excepted, were made by her busy fingers. She told me this very simply, saying she had bought paper patterns and cut and fitted the clothes unassisted by any tailor.
"My husband's stipend is small," she said, "and though I have a little income, we can only make ends meet by much stretching. My tailoring would not bear town criticism, but here it is seen only by country eyes, and passes muster."
I thought the children's garments models of neatness and suitability, and said I should be very proud of turning out such work. I offered to help her, but for some time I could not induce Mrs. Barr to accept my aid. She and her husband held high views as to the dignity of a governess's work, and said that they felt it alike a duty and a pleasure to give the instructress of their children a place next only to that filled by themselves, as parents. The governess at Hillstowe Vicarage was not regarded as a stop-gap, to fill any household place that chanced to be vacant.
My need of quiet for reading and rest was duly considered. The room used for teaching in was really intended for the drawing-room, but was the only apartment that could be spared for the purpose. With true wisdom, Mr. and Mrs. Barr decided on giving up their drawing-room, and instead of having a useless show apartment, gave their children a large, bright room for lessons. After seven in the evening it was my own, and no one intruded upon me without invitation. At the same time, I was free to join Mrs. Barr and the elder children in the dining-room if I chose; the pastor was always in his study then. If the little ones were restfully inclined and the mother's arms free, this evening hour was a very pleasant time.
By degrees, I coaxed Mrs. Barr into letting me help her, by representing the benefit it would be for me to learn the many lessons she was so competent to teach. Then, when her fingers were freed from the needle, she would take a book and read aloud to us.
Our party usually consisted, besides our two selves, of Mary Baxendell and Margaret Barr, though the latter generally withdrew into a separate corner, and stopping her ears, chose her own book, in preference to listening whilst her mother read. Mary Baxendell would sit on a low chair or on the rug, and take in with eager ears the word-pictures or wise lessons which came so musically from those cultured lips. I could not help sighing at times, as I thought how large a portion of Mrs. Barr's daily life was taken up with things so far beneath her, and I pictured her amidst different scenes and adorning by her gracious presence some stately home with all the appliances of wealth around her.
Was I right, I wonder, in regretting that her lot was cast where it was? Did she not there shed happiness on all around her? Were these little cares and calculations unbecoming to this true wife and mother, who had deliberately chosen to share the lot of the good man to whom she had given her heart? Her life was a thoroughly womanly life, her example a noble one, which must influence others for good. Would wealth and ease have developed such a character as Mrs. Barr's?
After asking myself all these questions, I came to the same conclusion about her that I had done about myself. The discipline must have been needed, and for some wise end, the All-wise had permitted her to occupy this particular niche, so different from that to which she had once been accustomed. For Mrs. Barr had been, like myself, brought up in a luxurious home, and had never known a care about money matters until the children increased around her, while the pastor's income remained the same and much of her own had been lost.
Each day passed at Hillstowe showed me how my choice of this sphere of work had been Divinely directed in answer to prayer. Could I be with this dear woman, so patient, industrious, uncomplaining, and so cultured, without learning in some degree to imitate the virtues I admired? If nothing had come of my being at Hillstowe beyond the fact that I derived hourly benefit from the influences around me and earned my own bread, I should have infinite cause for thankfulness to God for having sent me there.
But, in the end, the current of my whole after life was changed, through my choosing the home in preference to the hall as the scene of my labours.
Our winter evenings were not always like what I have described. Baby Flossy's teething time made her fractious, and then the mother's care was given to the most helpless. She would not have me in company with a crying child, so I was gently dismissed to my room, Mary Baxendell's mute appeal being always answered by me with an invitation to accompany me. Lilian always went early to bed from choice, and Margaret, the determined, thought it infra dig to sit in the schoolroom after hours.
She was a clever, but rather hard girl, from whom her mother had little sympathy or help. She disliked babies, openly called them little nuisances, and declined to touch one if she could help it. But she would neither go to the nursery with the twin boys and Lilian, nor to the schoolroom with me. She was the eldest daughter, and insisted on her privileges.
These meant sitting with her mother, though she might have to fill her ears with cotton, whilst she pored over a book, on account of the crying baby, and having tea and bread and butter for breakfast, whilst the rest, Mr. Barr included, took porridge and milk. Still, I had my comfort out of Margaret. She had great abilities, was an omnivorous student, did credit to her teacher, and obliged me to work hard to increase my stores of knowledge for her to draw upon.
In Mary Baxendell I had a tender, sympathetic girl friend; in the three bright children, plenty of objects of interest; in Mrs. Barr, mother and sister combined; in Dot, a precious baby.
It was almost immediately after I went to Hillstowe that Dot announced her intention of being "Miss Anstey's baby," and took every opportunity of stealing away from nursery to schoolroom, and nestling in my arms. Many a lesson I gave with the little head resting on my breast, as the child, weary with play, slept peacefully.
The second little cot in Mrs. Barr's room was vacant within a week after my arrival at Hillstowe for, hearing the baby begin to cry, and Dot—roused suddenly—take up the chorus, I stole into the too-populous chamber before the mother could get upstairs, and carried off Dorothy to my own.
"Dot will stop here," said the sobbing mite. "Dot will be Miss Anstey's night baby, too." And such she was during my stay at the vicarage.
I explained to Mrs. Barr that I had been acting the child-stealer, and pleaded for Dot's nightly company.
"Let me have her. She will so comfort me, for you know, dear Mrs. Barr, I have lost all who used to love me."
She saw I meant this, though at first she thought I only wanted to leave her hands a little freer and was taking Dot away for her sake. It was for hers and my own too, and when she consented, and I lay down with the sleeping darling on my breast, I felt, oh! So rich and so thankful, though my purse held but that solitary half-crown.
In spite of past troubles, I was very happy at the vicarage. There were few visitors, but I had the benefit of whatever society there was, and it was always of an enjoyable kind. As the days grew long, the children and I had delightful rambles up the hill-sides to the wide Yorkshire moors. We found warm welcome and hospitality on holiday afternoons at farmhouses, or the dwellings of small cloth manufacturers who still employed hand-loom weavers, though there were larger mills in the valley, turned by water-power. The parsonage children and their governess had a general invitation, and we never seemed too many guests, or our visits too frequent, for our large-hearted, homely neighbours.
My heart glows again as I think of them after thirty intervening years, and picture the faces that brightened at the sight of my little troop and me. How I felt their kindness, while I knew that it was poured on a young stranger's head, not from any merit in herself, but out of love and gratitude to the good vicar and his wife under whose roof I dwelt!
I spent Easter at Hillstowe, for the absent boys had a holiday invitation and did not come home, so my room was not needed. As may be supposed, I had some money anxieties. That half-crown could not remain perpetually unbroken, and there were collections at the church. At two months' end, I had not spent a farthing on myself, but I had only twopence left.
I had, however, made a little venture. We took a work magazine at the vicarage, and something in its pages inspired me to make an effort in designing. I possessed a good many odds and ends of materials, and out of these, I fashioned a lamp-mat in shaded wool and tinsel cord. Crochet was the fashionable work then, and I sent my mat, when finished, to the editor of the magazine. To my delight, an answer soon came. The design was original and pretty, and I was requested to name my terms for it. I asked a guinea, which was promptly sent, and enriched me—in hope as well as pocket.
The mat was not my only success, and I had the happiness of spending half my earnings in little presents for the children, though their parents protested against the expenditure; but they saw it pleased me, and I had my way.
The Midsummer holidays were coming, and I was much exercised in my mind as to how I should spend them. Mary Baxendell would have liked me to go home with her, but her parents were about to join some relatives in a Scotch town, and she was to accompany them.
It did not seem to strike my Uncle James that I might need a temporary home when I returned the five pounds lent by him at Christmas. He took the money, acknowledged it, expressed his pleasure that I was doing so well, announced the advent of another baby in words that told rather of resignation than rejoicing, conveyed the united love of himself, my aunt, and cousins, and there the matter ended.
I tried hard to muster courage to visit my old neighbourhood, and my faithful nurse sent an ill-spelt but loving letter to beg that I would go to the lodge. There was a family of strangers at Birch Hill—nice, kind people, who would very likely invite me to the house when they knew I had lived there. But I decided that I was not strong enough to face the memories that haunted every room at Birch Hill, or to see strangers in my parents' seats. So I declined dear old Hannah's loving invite. Mrs. Goulding also intended me to be her guest, but she had a less desirable inmate in the shape of scarlet fever amongst her children, and was in great trouble. It really seemed that every door was closed upon Lois Anstey.
All at once I bethought myself of a place where I could obtain accommodation. The daughter of a farmer near Birch Hill had married a neighbour's son and gone to live in Lincolnshire. They had taken a small farm and were doing fairly well, but, having no children and a good-sized house, they added to their income by taking lodgers during the summer.
It was to their house I went from Hillstowe to spend my holidays, and it was at Roundtree Farm I passed the third of my six milestones.
HAD I known that Mrs. Jennings had already two lodgers at Roundtree Farm, I would not have gone there, and I told her so.
"Bless you, miss," said she, "you might be here for months and never set eyes on them. Mr. Winn, a broad-shouldered, handsome gentleman, does nothing but hunt bees and butterflies and suchlike. Mr. Marsden is mad after out-a-way plants and flowers. They don't even go a fishing, though, there's lovely trout for the catching. I wish they would, for fish is hard to get so far from a market."
"But off they go betimes in the morning, with flytraps and tins, which carry lunch first and no end of green rubbish after. They come home as the birds do—towards night, and they have dinner and supper in one. Then they are busy arranging what I call 'regular trash,' and looking as pleased as if a bluebottle was a diamond, or the green stuff good to eat. They make a lot of litter, but it's clean dirt, as one may say, and they never torment the live things, but have a way of putting a quick end to them. I couldn't abide to have even a fly tormented here. They are quiet, regular, and pay well for what trouble they give, so what could I want more? They will never annoy you, Miss Anstey."
What could I say to this? I paid little; I had come in ignorance; I had nowhere else to go! Was I to be driven away on account of these neighbours? Not I! Mr. Winn might hunt beetles, and Mr. Marsden gloat over his "green trash," while I would do my best to forget the existence of the pair, and enjoy my holiday.
I did not quite succeed in keeping this resolution. I was a daughter of Mother Eve, and, therefore, curious. My landlady was equally her daughter, and inclined to talk; so from her I learnt that her lodgers were both "born gentlemen," though Mr. Winn had parents living and several sisters, whilst Mr. Marsden had only a mother, who doted on him.
"By all accounts she wants him to marry, and she doesn't. She would like him to have wife and children; but thinks she could pick a mate for him best, and all the while does not believe there is a lady in the world good enough for this precious son of hers. No matter what she might be, I suppose the old lady would be jealous of her. Eh, dear! It isn't the best thing to be over-much thought of, is it, Miss Anstey?"
I told Mrs. Jennings I was no judge, for I had no one left to trouble me with too much love. And then conscience reproached me as I thought of the dear family at Hillstowe, who had given me so much cause for thankfulness and made me one amongst them.
"I don't think Mr. Marsden lets his mother's fidgety ways trouble him," replied Mrs. Jennings. "When he does marry, he will choose for himself, and the right of it, too. Meanwhile, he seems as happy as a bird, and makes the old lady happy, too, for he is a dutiful son, if ever there was one."
While professing to care nothing about my neighbours, and to feel no interest in their movements, I did think I should like to see them without their seeing me. When Sunday approached, I wanted to ask if they went beetle and fern-hunting on the Sunday, but I was too great a coward to show even this much interest, and tried to persuade myself that it was a matter of no consequence to me. Still, I did wonder whether they and I would occupy opposite corners in that relic of barbarism, a high, square pew, for the church at Hailsby-le-Beck had not yet been restored, and was a marvel of internal ugliness.
But Mrs. Jennings did not leave me to wonder long.
"The gentlemen," she said, "have friends in this county, and either spend their Sundays with them, or go home. They leave on Saturday afternoons and return on Mondays."
So my devotions were undisturbed by any occupants of the square pew, except the farmer and his wife.
I spent a fortnight happily enough, for I had resolved to lay in as much strength as possible, the better to fit me for my duties at Hillstowe. I wanted to give my very best to those who were so good to me. So I borrowed a sun bonnet from Mrs. Jennings, and went with her to the hay-field, where she said I did not play at hay-making. I gathered the eggs, I fed the chickens, and after much effort and aching of wrists succeeded in learning to milk a cow. I turned my hand to whatever was going, and could soon bake, make up the butter, and do almost anything about the farm that its mistress was in the habit of putting her hand to.
"I cannot know too much," I thought, "and if I should some day go out to Australia, such accomplishments would be useful."
I had time besides for sketching expeditions and long rambles, sometimes with a cottager's child for company, at others alone, except for busy and not unhappy thoughts. I had known much sorrow, but God had been very good in answering my prayers, and giving me friends. I thanked Him and took courage.
There was a pretty view near the stream, or "beck" as it was called, and I had made up my mind to sketch it, supported in this resolution by the knowledge that Messrs. Winn and Marsden never went fishing.
The water was very low, and though the bottom was pebbly, there was some good stiff clay towards that portion of the steep banks left bare by the falling water.
I was considering which side would be the best from which to take my sketch, and wanted to cross the beck, to find out. The only bridge was the trunk of a tree—not a very wide one, but substantial enough. Still, a firm foot and steady head were needed to cross it. I determined to attempt this, and got on very well until I was past the middle. Then the ungainly bridge gave an unexpected rock, for it was only thrown across, not fastened, and over I went into the water.
I was not at first afraid of being drowned, and my clothes would wash, but the situation was unpleasant on account of that dreadful barrier of stiff clay, on which I could get no footing or hold. Not a bush was within reach, I was nearly up to my waist in water, nobody would be likely to hear me call, and any attempt at laying hold of the bank resulted in a handful of clay, and a slipping back into my original position. I hardly knew Whether to laugh or cry, my predicament being equally ridiculous and uncomfortable. I knew nothing about the turns of the stream, or the height of the banks in either direction, so I started haphazard, and began making my way through the water as cautiously as possible, fearing now that I might step into some hole, get beyond my depth, and perhaps be drowned.
I soon became even less hopeful of extricating myself without help, for the banks grew higher as I proceeded. With some difficulty I retraced my course, for now I was going against the stream. I passed the treacherous bridge, and went in the opposite direction, but seeing no better chance of escape, I gave a succession of ringing cries, which produced no reply, then resolved on a new plan. I would scoop out the clay with my hands, and so make steps by which to escape.
I had just discovered that I could not reach high enough to make my work a success, when I saw a sunburnt face looking down upon me from the top of the bank, and heard a voice saying, "Do not be frightened, I will help you. Stay where you are."
Both belonged to my fellow-lodger, Mr. Marsden, and in a very few moments he was in the water by my side.
The circumstances admitted of scant ceremony, and I was very glad indeed to feel myself held in his firm grasp, as he guided me through the stream.
"The bank slopes further on," he said, "and with my help you will be able to climb on to dry ground. I am very sorry to see you in such an uncomfortable and dangerous position. I suppose you tried to cross by that log bridge. I take blame to myself for not having replaced a dislodged stone which usually steadies it, as I noticed that the bridge was even less safe than usual when I crossed this morning. If I had dreamed that feminine feet would test its firmness, I would have taken better care."
I tried to answer lightly, and even to laugh, but I was glad Mr. Marsden did not. It was bad enough to be in such a wretched plight, and I think if I had seen an amused look on his face, I should have changed that poor ghost of a laugh into a cry. When finally landed on the bank, I was dripping wet from the very shoulders, my hands were mud-stained, my feet shoeless, for I had lost my shoes in the clay, and my whole appearance was miserable in the extreme.
Even then Mr. Marsden did not laugh. He was full of kindly pity and regrets for the wretched object before him, and hurried me on to a cottage, where a good old woman took me in hand, and insisted on my undressing and getting into her bed, until a change of clothes came to me from the farm.
Shall I make a confession? Every other girl will feel that what I did was exactly what she would have done herself, under the circumstances. I glanced towards the little square of looking-glass which hung on the cottage wall, and rejoiced to see it reflect a clean face, glowing with the effects of recent haste, and handsomely framed in short, natural curls, which anticipated by many years the present fashion of fringes. I am afraid I was vain enough to decide mentally that I looked unusually well, and to be glad of it, as well as thankful for my escape, and to my rescuer.
It was impossible after this to ignore my neighbours entirely. They must have known that I lodged at Roundtree Farm before that day, for, without a word from me, Mr. Marsden went there to warn Mrs. Jennings of my position, and asked her to send me a change of clothes. But, like good, true-hearted young men, they had guessed my wish to avoid anything like putting myself in their way, and respected it. That evening, however, Mr. Marsden came to inquire after me, and he repeated the attention on the following day. Still, he never presumed upon the service he had rendered me, and though I saw both him and Mr. Winn from time to time, it was always when the farmer or his wife were close at hand.
Both stayed at Roundtree Farm the next week end, but that had been decided on before my immersion and rescue, so it resulted from no romantic desire to improve my acquaintance. It is true we all walked to church together on Sunday, but Mrs. Jennings was between me and Mr. Marsden, and Mr. Winn followed with the farmer.
We had two or three chilly evenings, after wet days, and then, somehow, we all got together in the great, cheery farmhouse kitchen, and enjoyed the warmth and brightness, so contrary to the gloom without.
The farmer put aside his pipe out of respect to me, and his wife grew so interested as her lodgers discoursed about "creeping things and green stuff," while they displayed their new treasures, that she ceased to click the knitting-needles—so rarely at rest in her busy fingers. I listened with delighted ears, and looked at and learned much about things I had never before cared to notice, though I had spent my life amongst such. And I could not help seeing that often, whilst Mr. Winn talked, Mr. Marsden's eyes were turned in my direction. I did not seem to notice this, but listened attentively to the speaker, whilst I felt my heart beat a little more quickly.
I was glad that no one could catechise me as to how much I remembered of the lecture on creeping things and winged insects, or I fear I should have disgraced myself utterly. Then, when the early bedtime came, and we said "Good night," I could not help carrying in my mind's eye the kind, sun-browned face of Mr. Marsden, who always opened the door to let me pass out. He carried his fine manners with him everywhere, and in the farm kitchen was as respectful to Mrs. Jennings and myself as if we had been duchesses.
Mr. Marsden's face being the last I saw at night, was it wonderful that I should dream of it, both waking and sleeping, more especially as his eyes were so often turned to mine? I was glad of this, and sorry at the same time, for I knew this happy holiday season would soon come to an end.
I will not describe Mr. Marsden's looks. Let each reader picture her own hero, and he will do to represent mine, so far as she is concerned.
I found out quite incidentally that Mrs. Jennings had made her male lodgers acquainted with my story so far as she knew it, just as she had told me theirs.
One lovely night I went early to bed, leaving my lattice window open. I lay awake, enjoying the moonlight, which came shimmering through the creeping plants that veiled the window, and the unbroken silence that prevailed.
It was a realisation of that expressive line in Gray's Elegy—
"And all the air a solemn stillness holds."
All at once, I heard Mr. Marsden's voice, and knew that the young men must be sitting in the rustic porch below.
"Yes, Winn," he said, "you are right in saying that this is becoming dangerous ground to me, Miss Anstey has attracted me as no other girl ever did, and all I have heard about her has served to increase the attraction. She is brave-hearted, of a bright, cheery temperament, and, if I am not mistaken, essentially true, modest, and pure-minded."
"I believe she is all these," replied Mr. Winn. "The very fact of her acting as she has done under this roof is a proof of her modesty and straightforwardness. How many girls would have been here, alone as she is, without availing themselves of such opportunities for flirtation as are afforded by the neighbourhood of two idlers such as you and me?"
"I hope a good many. You know my feeling about such things, and that the reverence and love I entertain for my mother make me wish to think well of every woman."
"You may think well of Miss Anstey without making a mistake. Nevertheless, she is a very dangerous character."
"To you, Winn?" asked Mr. Marsden, quickly; but the merry laugh of his friend reassured him at once.
"No, my dear fellow. There is not the slightest fear of our becoming rivals, though the young lady is in herself worth winning. But I would not advise you to try to win her, because I fear she would not meet Mrs. Marsden's views as to a daughter-in-law."
"That is my trouble, Winn. If I stood alone, I would not hesitate. Even now I can hardly feel that I ought to stifle the longings of my own heart, when there is nothing wrong in connection with them. I would speak to Miss Anstey to-morrow, only I know the dear old mother would be heart-broken if she were not at least consulted before a decisive step was taken. She is from home just now. We shall not meet for a week, and Miss Anstey may go from Hailsby before I can see my mother and return. I cannot say to her, 'Please, will you stay here until I go and tell my mother that I have seen a girl I should like to make my wife, and then, if she is willing, I will come back.'"
Mr. Winn laughed heartily. "I should think not, indeed," he said. "And if you ask my advice, I should say, Better run away and do not come back at all."
At this moment the friends rose, left the porch, and strolled away out of hearing.
It seemed dreadfully mean to lie and hear all this; but what could I do? The house was a quaint rambling old place, once inhabited by the owner of the estate, but now given over to the farm. It had ins and outs, and I feel sure the two gentlemen were unaware as to which was my room, as it lay about as far as possible from their chambers. I had never seen them in the porch before, and could only suppose that they had been tempted to linger by the extreme beauty of the night, and without dreaming that amid the stillness the sound of their voices might be borne upwards to other ears.
I hated to play the listener, though what I heard made my heart throb wildly and my face glow with gladness. Had the speakers been females, or even older men, I should have warned them that they were within hearing. As it was, I acted like a coward. I feared that some one might hear me speak to these young men, and place a wrong construction on the nightly communication, for all the other inmates were in bed. So I failed to do right, lest I should be suspected of doing wrong. Afterwards, I thought that I might have closed the window with noise enough to warn them that some one was near, but without letting them know who it was. I took myself to task rather severely about this, but conscience cleared me so far. I really had not thought of the window until too late.
That fair night was the least satisfactory I spent at Roundtree Farm, so far as sleep went. I passed the hours in a whirl of conflicting emotions. I was thankful for the good opinion of two such men as Mr. Marsden and Mr. Winn. Their words proved that they had judged me fairly. But my tell-tale heart was at first in a flutter of joy at the thought that the one who had stolen into it and taken the dearest place, had also given me the same in his.
The joy, however, did not continue unalloyed. Much of it could never leave me. If I were never to see him again, if I were to spend my future life in loneliness, there would still be this memory; a good man thought me worthy of his love, and would have made me his wife, if he could.
I am afraid I began to feel glad that I had not thought of closing the lattice until it was too late.
It seems strange that after such thoughts I should have resolved not to see Mr. Marsden again. He had called me brave. I said to myself, "I will deserve his good opinion. He shall not have to take Mr. Winn's advice, and run away from me. I will run away from him. I will not bring him into a contest with his mother, or sow the seeds of trouble between them. If there is a trial to be borne, I will take the larger share. Besides, Lois Anstey is not quite without pride, or a sense of her own value. I do care for Mr. Marsden, but even he should seek me and take pains to win me; and into no family would I enter unless the mother could hold out motherly arms and bid me welcome as a daughter."