Two circumstances enabled me to carry out my resolution without difficulty. Mr. Marsden and Mr. Winn had started on one of their usual expeditions before I was down in the morning, and the post brought me a letter from Mary Baxendell, in which she implored me to spend the rest of my holidays at High Lea.
"We are at home," she wrote, "ten days sooner than was at first arranged. At least, my mother and I are here, and feeling rather dull, as my father is still away. If you will come to us, darling Miss Anstey, I shall be quite reconciled to our shortened tour. Do not trouble to write—come."
Go I did, and on that very day. I told Mrs. Jennings that a friend wanted me, and must set out with as little delay as possible; that I was not going straight to Hillstowe, but should be there in due time to resume my teaching. I soon packed my belongings, which were placed in the farmer's trap amid many regrets and hopes that I would go to Roundtree Farm next summer. Then, having more than satisfied my kind landlady, I turned my back on Hailsby-le-Beck, and thus passed that fourth milestone out of the six I wish specially to remember.
MARY BAXENDELL gave me a delightful welcome. She clung round my neck, kissed me, called me the best of darlings for coming so quickly, and then danced off to tell her mother of my arrival.
Mrs. Baxendell, less demonstrative, was no less kind, and the remainder of my holidays sped very happily, in spite of memories of the kitchen at Roundtree Farm, and those who gathered round its hearth.
Stop! I must be true. Was I quite happy? Did I rejoice in the thought that Mr. Marsden would have no means of tracing me if he wished to do so, and that under the circumstances I should soon be forgotten? Again, I must own that my happiness was not quite without alloy, and I wondered whether, if he cared so much for me, I had a right to risk his as well as my own.
I was half tempted to send a line to Mrs. Jennings, "just to inform her of my arrival," I said to myself, and then I scouted the idea. If I had written, my letter would have been for no such purpose, but from a cowardly regret for having run away, and to give Mr. Marsden a chance of following and finding me. In my own mind I pictured the scene at the farm, when Mrs. Jennings delivered my farewell messages to them. I could imagine Mr. Marsden's dismay and his friend's sympathy, which would be half congratulatory. I seemed to hear inquiries after my destination, and Mrs. Jennings' reply that she did not know it. Then there would be a hunt for the letter I had written when seeking accommodation; but that would be vain, as I had myself twisted it up as a pipe-lighter for Mr. Jennings.
There was little writing done at the farm. I had really answered my own note, for I had sent an addressed envelope, and told them just to write the word Yes' on a slip of paper if they could take me in, and I had been obeyed to the very letter. There would not be a scrap of writing which would guide Mr. Marsden either to High Lea or Hillstowe Vicarage. To the latter, Mary Baxendell and I returned in company.
The girl was a sweet, sympathetic creature, to whom I spoke with much freedom on most subjects, but, it is needless to say, not on that nearest of all to my heart. I kept it to myself, and it was hard work, because human sympathy at such times is very precious. Only at mornings and nights, as I knelt in my quiet room, with no sound but Dot's gentle breathing to reach my ear, did I open my heart and pray, "Father, I do desire to be numbered amongst those that love and serve Thee. Do Thou make all things to work together for my good, and help me, at all cost to self, to do what is right."
We had trouble at the vicarage that autumn. Good Mr. Barr became seriously ill, and Mrs. Barr was almost worn out with anxiety and nursing. I did my utmost to relieve her, but there were so many things in which only a wife or an elder nurse could be of use. I grieved to see her so overwrought. I knew what a terrible difference this illness would make on the wrong side in the income, all too little for the brightest days. Friends were kind, and many helps came from generous hands, but more were needed. I was afraid Mrs. Barr would break down, and then what would become of the vicar and the children?
He began to mend at last, and then the patient wife's strength gave way to some extent. I well remember her making a great effort to get outside Mr. Barr's room door, and then sinking down in a faint on the landing. She had made it to save him the shock of seeing her fall. My heart ached for them all, and for the first time I grieved over my own poverty. Mrs. Barr said rest would put her all right again, but rest seemed as unattainable as many other things for the mother at Hillstowe Vicarage, though she took care that nothing should disturb her husband's quiet. "His life means the children's bread," she said. "It is of far more consequence than mine."
To us who looked on, and mourned that we could do no more or better, it was hard to tell which life was more precious to all concerned.
The vicar was gaining strength and talking of beginning his pastoral work again, though the doctor protested against it, and said Mr. Barr must go away for a time first.
The vicar's doctor was not the only medical man who orders the unattainable for his patients, and knows he is doing it. But at this time, friends came forward and presented a well-lined purse to Mr. Barr, together with loving allusions to his past labours and hearty wishes for his future health.
Then poor Mrs. Barr's face brightened, a temporary curate was engaged, husband and wife went to Devonshire for a month, and returned a fortnight before Christmas, with renewed strength and thankful hearts.
They say that troubles never come-singly, and it happens now and then that the rule holds good with regard to blessings. A couple of years before that, the bishop had held a confirmation at Hillstowe, and, as his custom was, had preferred the simple hospitality of the vicar to that of a wealthy neighbour.
Mr. and Mrs. Barr had not entertained their right reverend guest with stories of difficulties and trials, or complained of their many olive branches and few pounds per annum, or shown him long faces.
On the contrary, they had just been their good, true selves, and had made him as comfortable as possible, without going out of their way.
The bishop had departed with pleasant words of farewell and thanks for Mr. and Mrs. Barr's hospitality; and there, as was thought, the matter ended.
It did not, however. The bishop remembered Hillstowe, made his calculations, and wished, vainly for the time, that he could give Mr. Barr a better living.
Then he heard of his illness and recovery, and then, too, came the bishop's opportunity. Immediately after the vicar's return, a letter arrived in the diocesan's own handwriting, offering him a living, worth eight hundred a year, in another county.
There was joy and sorrow, both in-doors and out, at the news. Joy for the vicar's sake, sorrow that he would be lost as the pastor of Hillstowe. I was nearly wild with delight. I did not know at first that this change would mean separation from the Barrs.
So it proved, however. The beautiful little rectory to which they must remove with the new year had been built by a childless predecessor, and would be too small to hold the troop of juvenile Barrs, to say nothing or Mary Baxendell. Moreover, the Baxendells would not spare Mary to go any distance from High Lea.
Until the rectory could be enlarged, it was settled that the elder girls should go to a boarding-school, and the twin boys should attend a good day-school, which was within an easy distance of their future home.
My occupation was gone. My pupils were about to be scattered, I was to lose the precious little one that called herself Miss Anstey's baby, and whose curly head had so often rested on my breast in sleep, and enriched me by her sweet presence!
I should lose the companionship of Mrs. Barr too, and more. I must begin to look round for some other work to do, some roof beneath which there would be room for Lois Anstey.
I was very down-hearted, not because I had to work for my bread, but for fear I might not find the work to do, and at the thought of going out again into the wide world and all amongst strangers. It was in vain I took myself to task for selfishness. I did rejoice in the good which had come to these dear friends, but how could I wholly forget that the message which brought new life to them was almost like death to me?
It had been previously settled that I was to spend Christmas with the Baxendells. I had half hoped that they might engage me as governess to Mary, but I found that Mr. Baxendell shrank from the idea of having a governess in the house. He seemed to think it would spoil its privacy, and prove a restraint to him and his wife.
Mrs. Baxendell would have liked to engage me. Mary pleaded for this with her father. But though he rarely denied his pet anything, he would not yield in this matter.
"My wife and I are a Darby and Joan couple," said Mr. Baxendell. "We are quiet, too, in our ways, and we would never condemn a young girl to the loneliness of a separate room, because we so often find two to be company enough. Mary, our own child, hardly counts as a third in the same sense."
I could not plead for a corner, or say that I should be contented with solitude at High Lea; and so it was settled that music and other teachers should come from a neighbouring town to give Mary periodical lessons and complete her education at home.
The girl displayed more temper about this matter than I had seen in her before.
"As if I should ever do a morsel of good all by myself!" she said. "It is horrid to think of solitary lessons, and I know my teachers will get no credit out of me. I would rather have you than a whole townful of other people. I know I shall hate the very sight of them."
She broke into a passion of tears, and I was obliged to look stern and say, "You will make your parents feel that I have taught you badly, Mary, if you rebel against their wishes, just because they do not agree with your own. Besides, they will not care to have me as a Christmas guest if my presence is to stir up a spirit of opposition in their only child."
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"Oh, dear! Miss Anstey," replied Mary, with a helpless gesture; "then I know not what to do. I must not vex my father and mother, though I so badly want you to stay at High Lea."
Then, after a moment's abstraction, "I do wish my cousin Lawrence would marry you. He is very nice, and just the right age—twenty-five."
What could I do but laugh at this absurd speech?
"You dear, foolish child," I said, "you must have made up your mind to drive me from High Lea. If you wish to keep me for a little while, never allude again to my remaining beyond the holidays; and, above all, never couple my name with that of Mr. Lawrence, or any other gentleman. It would grieve me sadly; and, more than that, I should run away of my own accord."
"I would not grieve you for the world," said the child, covering my face with kisses. Mary Baxendell was now fifteen, and a very child in frankness and innocence, though in some respects older than her age.
I said to her now, "A year ago, when it pleased God that I should be left fatherless, I prayed to Him to direct me, and I did not ask in vain. I have had a great deal of happiness during the year, and I have more friends than I possessed twelve months ago, as well as more money in my pocket. I came to Hillstowe with just half-a-crown left. When I said good-bye to the Barrs I had six months' salary to begin the world with again. I am comparatively rich. If I could leave myself in God's hands immediately after my father's death, surely I may trust Him after an enlarged experience of His faithfulness."
"Dear Miss Anstey, I know you are right," said Mary. "But you need never want for money, you know, because my father would give me anything I might ask in that way, though he will not have a resident governess for me. And, I had nearly forgotten, my cousin Lawrence and my aunt are expected before dinner-time."
This announcement concerned me little, and I went leisurely on with my arrangements, only determining that I would not go to the drawing-room until just before the gong was sounded for dinner.
A FEW minutes before dinner-time, Mary Baxendell came for me, and we went down together. In the drawing-room were her father and mother, and an extremely handsome, stately-looking lady, in black velvet, and wearing some fine diamonds. I could not help noticing that her hair was whiter than her face would have led me to expect, for her complexion was fair, and the colour on her cheeks might have been envied by any girl. She looked still more remarkable from the fact that her eyes, eyelashes, and eyebrows were very dark.
"Aunt," said Mary Baxendell, drawing me towards this lady, and doubtless considering that she had special vested rights in her governess, "this is Miss Anstey."
A tall young man, who was looking out at a window, and whose back was towards us as we entered, started as Mary mentioned my name. Almost before the aunt and I had exchanged salutations, Mary cried, "Cousin Lawrence, let me see your face, please."
The young man turned in compliance with this unceremonious request, and in the face thus presented I saw—Mr. Marsden!
Which were playing me false? Eyes or ears? I understood how my bewilderment had been caused when Mary continued—
"Miss Anstey, this is my cousin, Mr. Lawrence Marsden."
I had only heard him called Mr. Marsden at the farm, Mrs. Jennings not being likely to mention his Christian name. He and his friend addressed each other as "Marsden" and "Winn," whilst Mary Baxendell invariably spoke of him as "Cousin Lawrence," and of his mother as "aunt."
Mary opened her eyes very wide when she saw Cousin Lawrence's face light up with pleasure and my own flush crimson as we shook hands, and Mr. Marsden said, "Miss Anstey and I have met before, and I am very glad to meet her again."
For myself, I hardly knew whether to be glad or sorry. I thought of the stately lady in velvet and diamonds with some trepidation; but when I turned my eyes in her direction, I saw that she was smiling benevolently, and that there was absolutely a gleam of half-suppressed amusement discernible about those fine eyes of hers.
There were but the six of us, so Mrs. Marsden paired off with Mr. Baxendell, Lawrence took his aunt, and Mary and I linked arms and went together. I was, however, fated to sit next my acquaintance of the farm, for Mary was placed next her aunt on one side of the table, and I was between Mr. Baxendell and Mr. Marsden.
My younger neighbour was very considerate. He made no allusion to our former meeting, and for this I was grateful. Being such a small party, the talk was general, and I soon felt quite at ease. I even lost my dread of Mrs. Marsden, and could hardly believe that this lady, of whom every one seemed so fond, could possibly be the mother of whom the two friends talked on that moonlight night in the porch at Roundtree Farm. That she doted on her Lawrence there could be no doubt, and in my eyes he had never looked so attractive as when paying those little tender attentions to Mrs. Marsden that every mother delights to receive from a stalwart son.
We had yet two clear days before Christmas, and, to please Mary, Mrs. Baxendell had left the decorations to be prepared under her superintendence.
Of course, my pupil and I worked together, and Mr. Marsden, while pleading want of skill, offered to do his best to assist us.
"I am not sure that your best will be good enough, Lawrence," said Mary; "but we will give you a trial."
Then he humbly suggested that he might save our fingers at the expense of his own, and he cut holly into suitable sprigs, fetched and carried and nailed devices and twisted wreaths until even Mary was fain to praise his willingness, if not his skill.
This was at High Lea, the church work having been done by other hands, and more of them, mostly before we came. While the house decoration was in progress, Mr. Marsden made frequent sly allusions to "green stuff," and brought in many of the expressions Mrs. Jennings was accustomed to use in our hearing at the farm.
Mary innocently attacked her cousin on this subject, and said she wondered where he had picked up such odd expressions, whereupon he demurely suggested that she should ask her favourite referee, Miss Anstey.
"As if she would know!" replied Mary, contemptuously; and Lawrence rejoined, "Miss Anstey is such an encyclopaedia of knowledge according to you, Mary, that I quite thought she knew everything."
Whilst the decorations were in progress, Mrs. Marsden saw how much we three young people were together, yet neither interfered nor frowned upon us. On the contrary, there was that humorous expression to be seen on her face at intervals, and I caught her exchanging looks of a highly significant character with her son.
Sometimes I fancied these looks had reference to myself, and then I felt my face grow hot, and wondered if the mother and son could possibly be amusing themselves at my expense. I was angry at the thought almost as soon as it was conceived, and ashamed that it could have been allowed to enter my mind. Before Christmas Day came, however, I felt almost ready to run away a second time from Mr. Marsden. It was so hard to be constantly in this man's company, knowing as I did from his own lips how he once cared for me. And, alas! Knowing that each day he was taking more complete possession of my thoughts and affections. How was this state of things to end? Would he now be just the pleasant friend of another brief holiday, and then go his way and let me go mine, wherever this might lead?
I think I would rather have died than let any human friend look into my heart then, and I kept up bravely whilst in company with others, though no more miserable coward than myself ever moistened a pillow with nightly tears, or dreaded the coming trial of a new day when alone.
On Christmas morning I felt better than I had hoped to do. Every one was so kind. I had prepared some little gift for each of the family, the guests, and servants. They were simple matters, the work of my own hands; and I was truly thankful that no person in that home of wealth humiliated me by the bestowal of anything costly. A little purse, a letter-rack, a paperknife, and an ink-stand were given me by the three Baxendells and Lawrence Marsden.
Mrs. Marsden actually bent her stately head and kissed me, after thanking me for a dainty woollen kerchief of my own work and design. Then she added, "I have something for you, my dear, if you care to accept it. Do not estimate its value by its size, for it is rather a ponderous article, and might be in everybody's way, if I gave it just now. You shall see it this evening. I have found a similar article valuable, and I hope you may, too."
I thanked Mrs. Marsden for her kind intentions, and then we all went to church and knelt together at the Lord's table. This sweet service did me more good than can be told, and after joining in it, I was enabled to shut out determinedly all memories and thoughts that would have interfered with the joyous celebration of Christmas in the household. I returned to High Lea looking and feeling happy, in a renewed sense of God's great love in Christ Jesus, and of His unchanging faithfulness.
There was much to occupy my attention. Children came for gifts, neighbours were entertained, and it was only after they all left, that Mrs. Marsden bestowed her Christmas gift, in this wise: she drew me into Mrs. Baxendell's boudoir, a charming little room off the large drawing-room, and bidding me sit by her, said:
"Christmas is the time for a fireside tale, my dear, and I want you to listen patiently whilst I tell one. It is about a mother and son who tenderly loved each other, for the husband and father was gone, and these two were associated alike in thought and work. I suppose all mothers look with a jealous eye at their lads, even when there are several, but when there is but one, he is all in all to a widowed parent."
"Well, this mother's great anxiety was that her son, when he grew to man's estate, should mate worthily, and perhaps she watched him too closely if his eyes wandered in the direction of any girl with whom he was in company. Perhaps, too, her very eagerness for his well-being was a little selfish, and stood in the way of his comfort. Only she did not know this at first."
"Again and again the mother interfered, less by word than with a sort of management by which she contrived to carry him away from neighbourhoods which she thought dangerous. But I daresay the young man smiled as he yielded, knowing that he was heart-whole, and that the change mattered little to him."
"You must not think that the mother wanted a rich or titled wife for her son. He had wealth enough for both. But she dreaded the thought of his being married for the sake of it, and not from the true love and esteem which alone can make marriage happy."
"She saw, too—more's the pity that such should ever be—that girls showed themselves eager to attract the young man's notice, and practised little airs and graces, and threw themselves in his way, even mothers openly lending themselves to such scheming."
"The young man saw these things too. He was not blind, and he kept aloof and never committed himself by word or deed. He was courteous to all, but waited until he should see the girl whom he might endow, not with his worldly goods alone, but with the richer gift of a whole, true, pure heart—such a girl as he could reverently take to his own heart and home, as a most precious gift from God."
"He met this girl by a strange incident, in a far-away spot and at a farmhouse. Do not start, dear child; hear me out. He wished to tell her what was in his heart, but love for the old mother made him determine first to speak to her, and he hoped to go back to the farm carrying her consent and blessing along with his love story, to its object. He was half afraid, too, for you must know that he did not quite understand the old mother with whom he had passed his twenty-five years of life. He thought she might wish him to choose a girl who had riches as well as worth. Whereas, what the mother wanted was a girl of this kind: well-born and educated, pure-minded, modest, requiring to be sought before she was won, bright in temper, unselfish in disposition, brave where courage was needed, and yet thankful, as woman should be, to lean on a strong arm, if it pleased God to give her one in the shape of a good husband. And the mother thought that the girl could not be all these things unless she had the love of God in her heart, and thus shining out in her daily life."
"Money immaterial, she wanted her son to have the fortune in his wife."
"The son saw the girl I told you of, and took great pains to make himself acquainted with her life-history, both before and after she ran away from the farm."
"For she did run away, and certain circumstances enabled him to guess why, but he knew her whereabouts, and bided his time. Dear me! I shall not be able to finish my story," said Mrs. Marsden—for, utterly broken down by emotion, I was sobbing audibly—"in fact, the last chapter has still to be written, and I must offer you my Christmas gift."
Mrs. Marsden opened the door, and Lawrence entered. "Here it, or I should say 'he' is, my dear. I do hope you will take him with a mother's blessing, and when the last chapter of the story is completed, you must turn story-teller, and let me know it."
Mrs. Marsden kissed me affectionately, put my trembling hand in the firm grasp of her son, left the room with less than her usual stateliness, and closed the door behind her.
"Lois, my dear, will you accept the mother's Christmas gift, and will you let me keep the hand she has placed in mine? You are the one love of my whole heart, Lois. Can you give me what I ask, darling, your love in return?" So spoke Lawrence.
No wonder I found it difficult to reply, but I did manage once to look up in his dear, honest face, and to tell him, though with trembling lips, that he was the one love of my life too. And he was content. This Christmas Day was my fifth milestone.
My story has grown to a greater length than I intended, so I will finish it as briefly as possible.
Lawrence told me that after I left the farm, he found out which room I had occupied, through seeing it undergoing the process of scouring and scrubbing, which invariably followed the departure of a visitor. He asked to see the room, in case he should bring another friend to Hailsby-le-Beck, and thus took the bearings of the porch. By putting two and two together, he judged that I must have heard the talk between him and Mr. Winn, and that my flight was the consequence of it.
About my address at Hillstowe, he had no difficulty. People who write little, exercise their memories more than those who do, and both Mr. and Mrs. Jennings remembered the name of the vicarage under whose roof I lived.
Then Lawrence knew that I must be his cousin's teacher, and having talked matters over with his mother, they joined in inquiries about my family and personal history, which satisfied them. The result was the little plot by which we all met at High Lea, and into which Mr. and Mrs. Baxendell had heartily entered, Mary Baxendell being the only member of the family who knew nothing of her aunt's intended Christmas gift.
There was no question about my teaching again. When I left High Lea it was in Mrs. Marsden's company. I stayed with her at Nethercourt during her son's absence, for a previous arrangement took him—much against his will—to the Continent for a couple of months.
In the summer, Lawrence and I met again at Mrs. Baxendell's, then I stayed for some weeks, first with my friend Mrs. Goulding, and lastly with the Barrs, their rectory having been enlarged in the meanwhile.
I was not married until the following autumn, for I wanted Lawrence and his mother to be better acquainted with me before I became connected with them by the closest ties. During the interval, I paid many visits, including one to my old nurse at the lodge, and one, in Mrs. Marsden's company, to Roundtree Farm. I do not speak of Lawrence's companionship. It goes without saying that where I was, he was also to be found as often as possible, the maternal wing being extended over me in loving fashion. In this respect, Mrs. Marsden anticipated the relationship, and was as a true mother to me from the day she bestowed her Christmas gift in such a whimsical way.
She always declares that it was my running away from her son that won her heart, and that if I had not shown Lawrence that I must be sought and wooed before I was won, he might not have been so eager to follow.
We were married at Hillstowe Church, Mr. Barr officiating, and Dot, my erewhile baby, acting as the very smallest of a troop of young bridesmaids, led by Mary Baxendell. Mrs. Marsden herself gave me away, on the principle that by so doing she should give public effect to that which she did in private, when she bestowed Lawrence upon me.
I could tell of many subsequent events—of continued friendship with the Barrs, of Mary Baxendell's wedding, five years ago, the bridegroom being Herbert Winn, Lawrence's best man at ours; of the fact that Lady Minshull and I have been on visiting terms for five-and-twenty years, and that dear Mrs. Marsden still lives, and is the most indulgent and handsomest of grandmammas and old ladies. But even these happy particulars do not stand out with the same prominence in my life's story as those I have already told about. And I think most girls will agree with me, that the day of days in my life was that which gave me him who has been the beloved husband of eight-and-twenty years. I reckon that on it, I passed my sixth milestone.
FINISHED AT CHRISTMAS.
A LITTLE love story! This is what I am going to tell.
I hope no one who reads this plain statement of my intentions will be shocked thereat, and close the book as though the subject ought to be tabooed in these pages.
Yet there are people, and good women amongst the number, who so little understand that love, if it be worthy of the name, means beauty and purity, and embraces the very holiest and best in our human nature, that they would banish the word from every story that is written for the young. They would bid an old wife and mother like me lay down her pen and refrain from using it on the sweetest theme that creation can furnish.
Such readers as these would link the idea of love rather with the fallen and sinful state of humanity, forgetting that the first pair of lovers were also the first created of mankind, and were such before sin possessed a name, much less a place in Paradise.
Would the silencing of tongues and the laying down of pens keep young hearts from throbbing, or silence the voice which God Himself has placed in every breast and endowed with eloquence? Far, far better for us older folk to treat the subject with tender reverence, and manifest our loving sympathy with our young ones who are just placing girlish feet on the enchanted ground which we trod in the far-away past.
The subject is, perhaps, the only one which has an interest for people of every nation, age, and condition—which has in it the "touch of Nature that makes the whole world kin." It links the queen and her humblest waiting-damsel. It joins in its mysterious bonds the monarch who can bestow a crown, and the peasant who follows the plough and dreams of the day when he can call a tiny thatched cottage his home, and prepare it as a fitting nest for his village playmate who has just passed him, poising a well-filled pail upon her head. The glimpse of her bright young face and the kindly smile of her brown eyes have put new energy into the toiler, and he resumes his work, albeit a moment before he was watching the lengthening shadows, and longing for the moment when he should unyoke the weary horses and take the homeward way.
No use trying to silence Nature's voice in the breast of the young. It may speak little and shyly. The fair cheek may flush and the head be bent, but thought will be the busier for the very reticence of the tongue. And we old folk, what can we do? If we have nothing but sweet memories of pure joys that were ours in the far-away past, let us at least thank God for these, and give our sympathy to the young. Will not those who have walked in love towards God and each other whilst on earth, look forward to a reunion which shall last whilst eternity endures, with the dear one who has gone before for a little while?
Tell us what kind of life is looked upon as the hardest. Not one of poverty, labour, difficulty, or even of affliction. Poverty and labour are lightened, difficulties smoothed, trials more easily borne with love for a companion. Suffering is almost forgotten when the tender voice of sympathy is heard and the pillow smoothed by affection's hands. Unrest is easier to endure when kind eyes watch beside the sleepless, and become moist with tears because the power to aid falls so far short of the will.
The loveless life is the only really hard life. He who is all Love has shown us that with it we feel rich, but having all beside, we are poor without it.
If parents could but see this, they would realise that they are exercising one of the most delightful of their privileges when sympathising with their children. They live again the days of their own pure young love, in the happiness of their girls and boys.
Once an excellent lady, who was neither wife nor mother, said, "If I could have my way, I would keep every word relating to love out of books and stories for girls."
Ah, dear lady! Then you must take many a passage out of the "Book of books," and begin the excision with the very words of the Creator, "It is not good for man to be alone."
But having indulged in this little introductory preach, I will begin my story.
Mrs. Manning was perplexed. A glance at her comely face was sufficient to show this, for it usually wore such a different expression from the half-puzzled, half-troubled look which now overspread it. Surely worldly matters could not cause the perplexity, for everything around her indicated a fair measure of prosperity, from the handsomely furnished room in which she sat and pondered, to the dainty lace which dropped so softly over her well-shaped wrists.
Mrs. Manning was abundantly satisfied with and thankful for her present position, though during her fifty years of life she had experienced many trials.
Early married, and almost perfectly mated, her first great sorrow came when her husband's death left her a widow, and with five children to care for and start in life. No light charge for a woman to whom anxiety had hitherto been a stranger.
Still, she thought that having experienced such a trial and lived through it, no other blow could inflict a wound worth thinking of; but she had to learn a still harder lesson.
Widows who have children must be brave for their sakes. They must dry the tears, or drive them back and weep only at convenient seasons, and indulge in sweet memories when present work and plans for the future do not demand all their powers. And who does not know that there are sorrows, as well as joys, with which none may intermeddle, not even those of our own households, much less the mere acquaintance or the stranger?
At first, no anxious thought about worldly matters entered into Mrs. Manning's mind. Her husband had been deemed a prosperous man, and she had never been required to count the cost of any reasonable indulgence. His illness had been too short to allow of any conversation on business matters, and when, after his death, these were looked into, all was in order. There was an apparently flourishing concern. There were no debts. Why should not all go on as before?
Just because the clear head was not there to plan, the guiding hand to direct. There was no one to step into that place and keep the well-balanced machinery going. And so the business went down, and it became necessary to wind-up the concern in order to secure a pittance which would just keep mother and children above absolute want.
Years of struggling followed. The widow kept a brave heart, cheered on her children, and the two eldest being boys, these soon began to help, instead of to require assistance.
The worst of the fight was over, when an unexpected ally came forward in the shape of Uncle Edward, her late husband's half-brother. He had always been ready to help, both with his counsel and his purse, and perhaps the more so because the widow never sought the latter kind of assistance.
Uncle Edward was the eldest son of a first marriage, and twenty years the senior of the widow's late husband. Having lost those who were nearest to him, he began to look round amongst his relatives for some who should cheer his lonely fireside, and selected his half-brother's widow and family.
Once more, Mrs. Manning found herself the virtual mistress of a lovely home, and surrounded by all the comforts to which she had been accustomed during her happy married days. Her boys were getting on in the world, and had wives and homes of their own. Her eldest daughter was also married, and though she had not made a good match, as the world estimates marriages, she was happy in her country home, and the true helpmeet of her husband.
Mrs. Manning had felt keenly disappointed when the Rev. Charles Peyton made his appearance and asked for her daughter. But what could she do? The look of happy confidence on his good, true face told her that he did not come to the mother without being pretty well assured of what the daughter would say on the subject. When she put him off for a little while, until she had talked with Mary herself, it was with little hope that the consent now deferred could be finally withheld.
"It would be a great change for you, Mary. Now you have everything provided that heart need desire. And I have always counted on you girls doing so well," said the mother, with a sigh.
Mrs. Manning looked regretfully into Mary's face, flushed with the sweet consciousness of being truly loved by the one whom she would have chosen from all the world.
"Shall I not be doing well, mother?" she asked, very softly. "What higher lot need a woman desire than to be the wife of a good man—one whom she can reverence and look up to?"
"But you will be poor, Mary. And lately you have known nothing of poverty, though you can remember those years of trial when every penny had to be counted. Ah! I thought you would all take warning by that season of adversity! I can hardly bear to look back upon it now."
"I can," said Mary, "and thank God for it. But for having gone through some trouble, how should I be fitted to sympathise with others? That precious time—for it was precious, darling mother, though to you it seems sad as you look back on it—was just my training ground. But for it I should be frightened to share Charles's responsibilities. Mother, dear, do not say No. Charles seems sure of Uncle Edward's consent."
"My dear child, just think how you will live on two hundred a year! How will you make ends meet?"
"Did you ever hear a story of Uncle Edward's, about an old bachelor friend of his, who was inclined to marry?"
"I cannot tell, Mary. Uncle Edward's stories are too frequent for me to know which of them you are alluding to. Go on. I see by your face that the moral of it will be an argument for marrying upon next to nothing a year."
Truly, the rippling smile that crossed the young face was suggestive enough, and Mary lost no time in telling her story.
"He was not quite an old bachelor at the time, but verging on it, and had been very careful and saving. I do not know how much the man had a year, but it was enough to set him considering as to whether what was enough for a single man would suffice for a married one. He tested the matter in this wise. He had a large pie made, and when it was placed on the table, he divided it equally, and surveying one half, said, 'Yes; there would be enough.' Then he cut the halves into quarters, having made the calculation that there might in time be more than two to provide for."
"Very prudent, my dear. What was the result of the second calculation?"
"That it would still do very well; but not contented, he divided the pieces again. Ah, mamma. How shall I tell you? He decided that such a division would not do at all. Placing his arms round the dish, he said, 'Come all to myself,' and from that time relinquished every thought of matrimony."
"Do you call that an argument in favour of your marriage, Mary?" asked the mother, with a hearty laugh.
"Yes, mother; because you have not yet heard the sequel. The man lived a lonely, loveless life; ever adding to his means, saving for those who were but far-away kinsfolk at the best, and whose chief thought was, 'How will the old man's money be divided at last? Into whose lap will the largest share fall, when he can hold it no longer?'"
"He is dead now. He had no kind hand to minister to him in his last days; only paid nurses. No son or daughter to bring their little ones to make his home ring with childish laughter; no wife to mourn for him, or look forward to a meeting in the Better Land. But there are plenty to put on the semblance of grief, and first to squabble over, and then to scatter the money amassed in sheer selfishness, by the man who could not bear the prospect of sharing with others the good things that God had already given him, and determine to work and trust Him for more."
Mrs. Manning's heart was that of a true mother, and she could not look on the sweet girl-face without longing to make the path smooth for her child. But she had set her mind on seeing her girls do well and marry well. She could not endure the thought of all the petty calculations and the incessant contrivances that would be needed by the wife of a poor rector in a country parish. She enumerated, one after another, the probable difficulties which would beset her, and bade her think well before coming to a decision.
When did true love fail to discern a rift in the clouds, or to find at least a promise of sunshine, however heavy the sky might look at the time? The mother's prophecy had no terrors for Mary.
"I have thought," she said, "and I have still so much to learn. But I have never cared for finery, and a worldly life has no attractions for me. I would rather pass my days as the wife of a good man, working with him and for him, than marry well according to the world's estimate. And if I make up my mind to a life of quiet usefulness in God's service, even if it should cost some self-denial, in His strength I shall be sure to succeed. We two, Charles and I, will work together and pray together, for we 'are agreed.'"
No need to tell the issue; and seeing the happiness of her daughter, the mother was fain to be content. Still, in her heart she said, "I must be careful that Katie and Elsie do not follow Mary's example."
WE found Mrs. Manning perplexed, and well she might be. Mary's story seemed likely to repeat itself, and she was, for the moment, feeling dissatisfied with everything and every person.
Her son-in-law had obtained promotion, and now, with an improved income and a greater responsibility, was the rector of a town parish. "Just the man to work it well," was the verdict when he entered upon his new sphere of labour at St. James's, Rathbury. And the wife who had been "as good as a curate," and better than most, according to the verdict of the village folk, now owned that her husband would need other help, if the poor were to be visited, and a much-neglected district satisfactorily worked.
When Mr. Peyton talked of his coming curate, Mrs. Manning took instant alarm. She lived outside the town, and fully three miles from her son-in-law's parish, and she was quite determined that for the future, the junior clergy should be kept at a distance. No amount of excellence should suffice as an excuse for an introduction.
"Remember, Charles, no curates shall come here so long as Katie and Elsie are unmarried. Afterwards. I will manifest my hearty respect for the cloth by a double share of hospitality. But I have one parson, and a very good fellow, as a son-in-law, and I am resolved not to have another, if I can help it."
"Well, mother, I will do my utmost to keep away or scare away all dangerous characters. Nevertheless, I stoutly affirm that you might do worse for Katie and Elsie than my Mary has done by her choice of a country parson. Ask her if she would change, could she undo the past!"
"I know well enough she would not. But you know what a bitter disappointment it would be to me if Katie or Elsie were—"
Mrs. Manning paused, for, after all, however well she and her son-in-law might understand each other, it is rather a difficult thing to look a man in the face and tell him what was on her mind at the moment.
Mr. Peyton, however, took her words very good-humouredly, and went away with the laughing remark, "Whoever may be the means of bringing an enemy to besiege your citadel, the blame shall not rest on my head."
So far, so good. The mother dreamed golden dreams for her gifted Katie, and for Elsie, with that lovely face and tender nature. She could hardly think who would be good enough for either, and with the goodness which must, after all, be the chief qualification in a candidate, there must be abundant means, so that no breath of adversity might blight her darlings.
The mother was not worldly enough to make wealth and position the first things.
The man who should ask for one of her girls must be good. But the refined gold of religious and moral excellence must be gilded by the baser metal which the world calls wealth, and generally values at the highest price.
It was three months before our story begins when Mrs. Manning, thus indulging in a daydream, had her vision rudely disturbed by the sound of voices. She lifted her eyes, and there, sauntering along the path, came a group, the first glimpse of which filled her with dismay. The two grey-headed men, with linked arms, and deep in friendly talk, were Uncle Edward and their own clergyman, whose visits were eagerly welcomed by young and old at the Priory, Mrs. Manning's present home.
They were deep in parish matters and plans for the benefit of their neighbours, and all unconscious of the trio behind, made up of Mrs. Manning's fair daughters, and, in her eyes, the most objectionable curate that ever wore the cloth.
Objectionable, not because the cut of the aforesaid cloth indicated any extreme party, but because, as the mother instantly decided, he was one of the handsomest, and externally the most taking individuals that had ever donned it.
The mother groaned in spirit. She had beaten back the enemy in one direction, with the certainty of no second advance from that quarter, and here was Uncle Edward calmly leading on a new attacking party.
"Why did you bring Mr. Gilmour here?" she asked, after an evening during which the gentleman alluded to had made himself exceptionally agreeable.
Uncle Edward opened his kindly eyes to their utmost width.
"Surely you do not know anything bad about him!" he exclaimed, with a look of alarm. "I had no idea you knew him at all."
"I do not. I never saw him before, and I heartily wish he had not come here now."
"Why, my dear? We must see him now and then, for he will be our neighbour. The rector considers himself especially fortunate in having secured such a man. He has distinguished himself at Cambridge, has been three years in orders, bears a high character, and, Harvey tells me, takes a right view of the responsibilities before him. Fastidious as you are, you can find no fault with his manners, and even the girls must own that Nature has favoured him so far as externals go. He is a fine manly fellow, not ashamed of his own profession, but, I do believe, desirous of glorifying the Master in whose service he has enlisted. I was so pleased with the young man that, as I bade him good night, I said, 'Come when you like, you will find a welcome.' And he said, 'I shall be only too glad,' as if he meant it."
No going back from this. No routing an enemy thus supported. Beside, Uncle Edward was the master of the house, and his sister-in-law the graceful stewardess, who assisted him in dispensing hospitality therein. He never, by word or act, hinted at her dependent condition; but she could not shut her eyes to it, or forget her indebtedness to the man whose roof sheltered her and hers.
Three months passed, and Douglass Gilmour had won the good-will of high and low in the parish of St. James's, Rathbury. Even Mrs. Manning was won over to acknowledge that any mother might thank God for such a son, any girl be proud to possess the affection of so good a man.
Looking from the window on this particular afternoon, she caught glimpses of a white dress flitting here and there among the trees. Beside it was a tall figure, "every inch a man," to guide, shield, and support the girl who should trust herself to him as a partner for life. A man and a Christian, bright, earnest, true! And the mother wished she could add "rich," for the sweet, shy face and tender grace of the girl formed so lovely a contrast to the partner of her walk that she owned to herself Nature had seldom formed two more fitted to walk together.
"And that is the worst of it," thought she. "Elsie has such a good excuse for liking Mr. Gilmour. Twenty times more than ever Mary had for choosing Charles Peyton, and yet she found more to say than I could answer."
Another glance out of the window. The wearer of the white dress was sauntering back alone, having parted with her companion. And the mother, looking back through the years, found in the memory of one short day in her own young life a key to the happy light which shed its radiance over the fair face of her youngest darling. Even that memory could not conquer the motherly ambition—she called it prudence—on behalf of her child, and she resolved to have a little talk with Elsie then and there.
"ELSIE, dear, I thought Mr. Gilmour was coming in for a cup of tea, and to say 'Good-bye.' Is he coming?"
"No, mother; he had to do some visiting, and could not stay. He asked me to say Good-bye, and he will endeavour to send you particulars to-morrow about that case he has been inquiring into for you."
"Where did Mr. Gilmour leave you, Elsie?"
"At the gate, mother dear. He asked me to see him safe off the premises."
A little light laugh and a pretty blush followed this reply.
"Elsie, dear, he comes here a great deal."
"Yes, he seems to like us all very much. He is especially fond of—you and Uncle Edward. You ought to be much flattered, for everybody wants to see him often, and everybody cannot, though none of the poor people are ever forgotten in his round."
"But, my dear, do you think you should have gone to the gate with Mr. Gilmour? You are very young, dear child, and very apt to do just what comes into your head."
"Surely that was not wicked. Indeed, if it had been, Mr. Gilmour would never have asked me to do it; he is so good. Even old Miss Chatterton owns that, and is about to send for a niece to pay her a long visit, because she is pre-eminently fitted for a poor clergyman's wife. She can make sixpence go farther than anybody else's shilling, and has had enormous experience in district visiting and the management of a clothing club. Miss Chatterton thinks Mr. Gilmour should have a wife—in case he should be made a bishop, you know, dear."
Elsie's face was brimming over with fun. All the softness had fled, and mischief was now written thereon in prominent characters.
The mother pictured Miss Chatterton's niece as a youthful copy of her aunt, and thought how such a one would mate with Douglass Gilmour. The result was a hearty laugh, and Elsie's triumph.
She liked to appeal to Mrs. Manning's strong sense of humour, and used it for her own ends.
"But, Elsie darling, putting aside Miss Chatterton."
"Most willingly, mother, and her plans for Mr. Gilmour, to which I really believe he would object, if he knew about them."
"Do be serious, Elsie, I want to talk of yourself, not of Miss Chatterton."
Elsie manifested immediate alacrity, and suggested that the change would be an improvement.
"Dear, it is about Mr. Gilmour, also."
"A further improvement, he being so much better than I am and feel I ought to be. He is always trying to influence me for good—I am afraid with but little success so far. You may trust him, mother."
"I do, darling; but I want you to be a wise child, and give no one cause to say a harsh word of you. Remember, the eyes of the parish and congregation are always on a young clergyman. For his Master's sake, as well as for his own, he must give no occasion for fault-finding."
"I know, mother, and so does Mr. Gilmour, and acts upon it."
"Mind you do not let Miss Chatterton have cause to talk about any of your doings, my child. She represents a little world."
"I only wish I could 'let or hinder' Miss Chatterton's tongue from running so fast about everything and everybody. She says it is because she 'feels such an interest in young people.' I wish she would manifest a higher principle instead of so much interest. However, if it will comfort you to know it, Miss Chatterton did not see me at the gate to-day."
"Elsie, Elsie, you are incorrigible. You know what I mean. Dear love, do not allow Mr. Gilmour or any one to think you forward."
"He does not, mother," and the soft pink deepened into an indignant flush on Elsie's cheek and brow.
"It is for the man to seek—"
"He does, mother."
"For the girl to let herself be followed and—"
"I do, dear," interrupted Elsie, and mischief had evidently resumed her reign and mastered the feeling which at first threatened rebellion.
The girl laughed merrily after saying the brief monosyllables in a demure tone, and the mother recognised that the replies were only too true. Mr. Gilmour did seek and follow, and Elsie, alas! Allowed herself to be sought and overtaken, there was no doubt about it.
But in another moment the young arms were round the mother's neck, and Elsie whispered, "Trust me, dear, do trust me, and Mr. Gilmour too. You shall owe no sorrow to me, thoughtless as I may seem sometimes. My mother's heart shall never ache through Elsie's doings. There is nothing you need trouble about, believe me."
The girl's head was hidden on Mrs. Manning's shoulder, and the mother clasped her closely, kissing the soft wavy tresses and then the sweet face which she turned lovingly towards her own.
"Darling child," she whispered, "it is only my true anxiety for your happiness which makes me speak. This young man comes so often, and is made almost like a son in the house. Uncle Edward encourages him, and I—well, I cannot help owning how much there is about him which is calculated to win the affection and respect of a true-hearted, pure-minded girl. But even were he to enter into an engagement, years and years might pass before he could marry. I have been a little ambitious for you two girls, perhaps most for you, and I cannot bear to think of your young life being spent in waiting for a future which may be so distant."
"Uncle Edward loves you girls—indeed, to all of you he has been a second father since he brought us out of comparative poverty to this beautiful home. But though he will no doubt provide for you, so far as to keep you above want, that provision will be yours only when he no longer needs it, and I am sure we should hate ourselves were we to calculate on what may come from such a source."
"I hate to hear it named even," said Elsie.
"True, dear; but fancy what it would be to go through—"
Elsie stopped the rest of the sentence with a kiss.
"Mother, dear, do not try to fancy anything. Let us just be happy and thankful in the present, and not trouble ourselves about possibilities. Where is the good of singing—"
"'Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to seeThe distant scene; one step enough for me.'"
"If we go on hesitating and worrying ourselves as to the next?"
"Ah! it is like the young to dance gaily on to the very edge of the precipice, and not concern themselves about what the path leads to, so long as it is strewn with flowers."
"But our path only led to the gate, mother; there was no sign of a precipice beyond, and the path, though bordered with flowers, is by no means strewn with them, but with fine new gravel, extremely trying to Miss Chatterton's favourite corn, she tells me. I am half hoping it may make her visits more angelic—that is, fewer and farther between—than they have been."
Mrs. Manning sighed.
"You know what I mean, Elsie, but the subject is not an easy one for a mother to talk about, especially when a child pretends to misunderstand: I cannot help feeling the danger to you and Katie."
Mrs. Manning had no time to add another word. Very inopportunely, as she thought, the door opened, and a servant announced "Miss Chatterton." Perhaps, for the first time in her life, Elsie was glad of the arrival of that loquacious spinster, though by means of an open French window she escaped into the garden, and did not re-appear until dinner-time.
The girl was not indifferent or heedless as she listened to her mother; on the contrary, every word was engraven on her memory, and she recognised the love and anxious care which had prompted the little talk. Still, out of all that had been said, the sage advice was the least thought about. The very last words of the interrupted sentence were those which really produced a profound impression, and they were, "The danger to you and Katie."
MISS CHATTERTON was duly regaled with five o'clock tea, and having relieved herself of quite a budget of small talk, which she deemed anything but small, went away with the impression that she had never found Mrs. Manning so good a listener. If she had but known how often the mother's mind wandered to the subject uppermost upon it, and how unconscious she was of much that her visitor said, she might not have deemed her comparative silence so complimentary. But most of Miss Chatterton's acquaintances knew that her happiness would be, to a large extent, secured by being permitted to monopolise the greater portion of the conversation; her interest was not confined to young people, but was of an all-embracing character.
Some one lately made the remark in my hearing, "It is a great thing when a person learns to recognise his neighbour's right to an independent existence."
Miss Chatterton had lived to be sixty years old without doing this, but thought her neighbours, each and all, should recognise her right to put her finger into every social pie in Rathbury and its neighbourhood. Her last words on this occasion had struck painfully on Mrs. Manning's ear.
She had been communicating a piece of most interesting intelligence, as she considered it, and was delighted to think that she was the first to do so.
"Mr. Beckett Mitchelson is really coming home to Rathlands. You know all about him, of course. He is the largest landowner hereabouts, and his three years' absence has been greatly felt. It has seemed a shame for a place like Rathlands Park to be shut up, but, all things considered, who could wonder? He had been only six months married, and was out riding with his wife—a lovely creature, not unlike Miss Elsie—when her horse took fright. Mrs. Mitchelson was thrown, pitched on her head, and, though not killed on the spot, she never spoke again. I shall never forget that day. The affair cast a gloom over all Rathbury, and the poor husband was nearly wild with grief. He went away as soon as possible, and has not been near the place since."
"Even the most devoted husband cannot grieve for ever, and three years is a good while. Now Mr. Mitchelson is coming back, and bringing a party of friends with him. Let us hope he may find another fair bride to comfort him. I was just thinking what a chance it would be for one of your charming girls. Only—" and here Miss Chatterton became confidential and particularly distinct—"you must mind that handsome Mr. Gilmour does not steal a march on you. You must wish such charming and accomplished girls to settle well. And really it would be a sad mistake if—"
Mrs. Manning could listen no longer. In her own inmost heart she might be ambitious and build castles for her children to inhabit, but to hear such allusions as these was more than she could endure.
"Excuse me, Miss Chatterton," she said, with heightening colour, "I would rather that you would leave my daughters out of any speculations you may enter into respecting Mr. Mitchelson's future. As to Mr. Gilmour, I can only say that he comes here as my brother-in-law's guest and friend."
"Everybody's friend, I should think, and a most estimable young man. Please do not suppose I wish to underrate Mr. Gilmour. Dear me! I had no idea my call had been such a long one, but time passes so quickly in pleasant society, and between neighbours ceremonious visits are not half so enjoyable as these informal ones, when we do not feel compelled to count minutes."
Then Miss Chatterton bustled away, and Mrs. Manning, self-reproached, because her visitor's talk had touched a jarring chord, and angry that this local gossip should dare to speak about her daughter's chances, hastened to her room to seek relief and comfort in the only sure way.
The "little talk" had been far from satisfactory, and the mother doubted whether it would not have been better to say nothing, and let matters take their course without interference from her.
Yes. There was one good thing connected with that conversation—Elsie's appeal, "Trust me, dear; you shall owe no sorrow to me."
And then the mother went down on her knees, and prayed that her words, if even they had not been wisely spoken, might be overruled for good, and that God would undertake for these, her dear children, in the future as He had done in the past.
Elsie, too, was in her own room, to which she had hurried when she escaped a meeting with Miss Chatterton by means of the convenient window.
Surely no girl's face had ever undergone a greater change in so short a time as had hers. The sweet, shy look, the mischief-loving expression, the one which conveyed a whole wealth of affection as it was turned towards her mother—each and all were gone. Instead of these was one of unnatural thoughtfulness, as if the child were trying to solve some unsatisfactory problem.
"You and Katie." Mrs. Manning had coupled the names, as if they stood in exactly the same position to Mr. Gilmour, and were, as she put it, equally in danger. Could she, Elsie, have made a great mistake? Could she really have done anything unmaidenly? Had she given Douglass Gilmour cause to think she sought him, followed him, or was putting herself more forward than was becoming a pure-minded girl?
Even to imagine the possibility of such a construction made the girl's cheek flush and flame. Yet her mother, her darling, tender, indulgent mother, had thought it necessary to speak to her. She must have done something to call forth words such as had never been addressed to her before. She had laughed at and thought lightly of them at first, but now the memory was a pain.
Elsie looked back over the three happy months of their acquaintance with Douglass Gilmour, and, as she did so, made a severe comparison between his conduct towards herself and Katie. After all, how brotherly he had been to both of them! Each had been enlisted to help in some branch of work; each was accustomed to consult him, and be consulted about it. If he showed a kindness to one, he did the same to the other. And yet it had seemed to Elsie that there was a subtle, indefinable something in Douglass Gilmour's manner towards herself that had never been manifested towards Katie. Or she had thought so. Had she made the terrible mistake of giving what had not been asked for?
Just at this moment, when the girl was catechising herself in the most unsparing fashion, in came Katie, bright and bonny, panting a little with hurrying upstairs to dress for dinner.
"Elsie, you are ready. Give me a little help, like a darling, as you are; for I am late. I met Mr. Gilmour in Rathbury. He had been visiting some poor people in my district this morning, and wanted to give me a hint or two before leaving home for a time. What a good man he is! And how the poor love him! He is quite one of my heroes."
Elsie could have said, "He is my one hero," but she said nothing, only listened, with just a little further sinking of the heart, to the praises which poured from the lips of her sister in no stinted measure. She rendered the little help required by Katie, thinking the while that it was no wonder her sister was enthusiastic; no wonder if she, too, had yielded to the charm of such a noble life, and learned to place him first in her esteem.
They went downstairs together, and Elsie did her best to hide the wounds she had received during the probing process she had gone through.
Begun by her mother, continued by herself, the climax had been reached when she had listened to Katie. Before Elsie reached the dining-room she had made up her mind that these past happy visions were but a baseless fabric after all, and that she had committed a grievous mistake, which she must correct as best she might.
Well, if Douglass Gilmour's affections were given to Katie, and hers to him, she would at least strive to be unselfish. Neither by word nor deed would she betray to others how great a mistake she had made; but she would pray to be made contented and useful too, and, though she was quite sure that the highest happiness was not within her reach, she would strive to be satisfied with what was left her.
At nineteen, if one's happy dreams have been rudely broken in upon, we make up our minds that the future has little left for us, and that we shall never even dream again. There may be comfort in self-sacrifice—a possible life of usefulness; but reconstruct a shattered idol, or place another on the vacant pedestal—never!
IT was understood that he was going when he said "Good-bye" to Elsie at the gate and to Katie at the door of the cottage. He was off to Norway on a fishing expedition, and September would be far on before his return.
How differently Elsie now thought of Norway from what she had done before! A few hours ago the distance had seemed so terrible, and a month so long; now, while every one else laments Mr. Gilmour's absence, and wonders how much of the parochial machinery will be kept running and free from entanglement while he is away, Elsie rejoices at it, or thinks she does.
The master of Rathlands returned to the Park in due course. Uncle Edward—an old friend of the late Mr. Mitchelson, and acquainted with the present one—was amongst the first to call and welcome him back. Under such circumstances the families slid rapidly into intimacy, and there was much going to and fro between the Park and the Priory.
Uncle Edward did not forget to talk to Mr. Mitchelson of his absent favourite, and carefully informed that gentleman of the many schemes for the well-being of the poor and neglected ones of the parish which the young clergyman had already inaugurated.
Mr. Mitchelson listened with deep interest to all these details, then said—
"When I hear what one young man has accomplished, and in so short a time, I take shame to myself when I think of all I might have done in as many years. True, I had a sorrow of no ordinary kind, but after the first smart of the wound was over, I might have found some comfort, and imparted much, if I had set myself to use the means God has given me for the benefit of those who had heavy trials without such alleviations as, in God's goodness, I have been permitted to enjoy."
"It is through the influence of such a man as you describe in Mr. Gilmour that I have been aroused to a sense of my own responsibility, and induced to return here and endeavour, in God's strength, to do my duty in the place to which He has called me."
"You have done well, Mitchelson," said Uncle Edward. "The past may—nay, must be—irreparable. The present is ours to work in, the future to hope for and prepare for. I can only wish you God-speed, and if an old man's head can help a young one's hand, mine, such as it is, may be counted upon."
As the masters of the Park and the Priory became more closely associated, it was quite natural that the rector should make a third in their consultations, and Mr. Gilmour's various helpers in the work of the parish were drawn into the same circle.
Miss Chatterton was in high feather, and went from house to house lauding Mr. Mitchelson's liberality, kindness, and social qualities.
"You find him a delightful neighbour, my dears, do you not?" she asked of Katie and Elsie. "Charmingly unaffected, and instead of giving himself airs or assuming the grand seigneur over Rathbury people, ready to take a hint from anybody. I should think he listened patiently for half an hour this morning whilst I enlightened him as to the want of thrift in that one family."
I fear the two girls' conduct cannot be excused, but, dreading a recapitulation of the said half-hour's talk, with additions and variations, ad lib, they made some inaudible excuse, which even Miss Chatterton's quick ear failed to catch, and hurried away.
Miss Chatterton's face was not quite pleasant to behold as she looked after the retreating figures. "No time to bestow upon an old woman now. I used to think them models of simplicity and good manners, and amongst the few of the chits of to-day who could treat their elders with proper respect. Never mind. We shall see."
As she finished this mental confabulation, Miss Chatterton turned her steps in an opposite direction to that in which the girls had gone, and, nodding her head sagaciously, went her way.
In olden days, the owners of Rathlands had been accustomed to encourage their humble neighbours in their attempts at window gardening, and offered prizes for the best flowers, as well as for vegetables and fruit. Mr. Mitchelson had returned too late for this little show to be held at the usual time, but it was arranged that on the fifteenth of September there was to be an exhibition of the kind. The local gentry would take part in it. The show would be revived, and another year they hoped it would be made a greater success.