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"You naughty girl!" I said as we withdrew to a safe distance. "But I am glad you can laugh. I feared it might be a trouble to you."
"What—the betrothal of my youthful papa?" she said, laughing. "Well, I'll own up that it did vex me for about fifteen minutes."
"Not longer?" I asked.
"No," she said naïvely, "for I was convinced upon reflection that it was a blessing in disguise. You see, I knew she could not take my place in his heart. He will always love me best."
"Oh!" I said.
"Do you doubt it," she asked with some warmth, "when I am his child—his own Pollie? How can a woman whom he has known but a few weeks, be more to him than me? Why, he did not propose until I gave him permission."
"He asked your permission?" I repeated in amazement.
"Certainly. We talked it over together, and I came to the conclusion that it would be a convenience to both me and poppa. You see, he is not very strong; the fact is, he is getting old, and he wants some one to fuss over him continually, and look after his little comforts. Miss Cottrell loves doing that sort of thing, and I don't. Besides, you know, I am a good deal younger than he is."
"Naturally," I said.
"And our tastes are different," she went on quite seriously, "so I want to live my own life; but it will be a comfort to me to know when I am not with poppa that he is being well looked after and made happy in his own way. And I like Kate Cottrell. I have no fear that she will plague me as a step-mother."
"I should certainly advise her not to interfere with you," I said, laughing. "And so you graciously permitted your father to woo her?"
"Yes; and when he was getting a ring for her, he got me one, too, to mark the occasion," said Paulina, stretching forth a finger for my inspection. "Isn't it a beauty? Poppa is always giving me jewels, though he threatens that a day may come when he will no longer be able to do so. He talks sometimes as if he were afraid of suddenly losing his money; but I don't think that is likely, though all sorts of things happen in business. I should not like him to lose his money. It's nice to have plenty to spend, isn't it?"
"I am sure you find it so," I replied; "for myself, I have never had the experience."
"How dryly you say it!" laughed Paulina. "But now, Nan, tell me—why has the Professor taken himself off, and Jack Upsher? What is the meaning of it? Have you been breaking hearts here during my absence?"
"I don't know what you mean," I said, thankful for the veil of twilight. "Professor Faulkner has gone to the assistance of a friend who is ill. He is taking classes as a locum tenens in some Scotch college."
"Oh, I know—Miss Cottrell told me that," she replied impatiently; "but I guess I can see as far through a brick wall as most people, and I know there's something behind. You can't throw dust in my eyes."
"I have no wish to do so," I said coolly; "there is no occasion that I know of."
"You are an obstinate little mortal, Nan," said Paulina severely; "I hoped you were going to be my friend. I meant to tell you, you might call me 'Pollie.' No one has done so yet except poppa and one other person, though I presume Miss Cottrell thinks she has a right to do so now; indeed she tried it on yesterday."
I nudged Paulina to make her aware that her father and his companion had emerged from the sheltered path and were taking their way to the house. Paulina responded by throwing her arm round my waist and drawing me quickly behind a bush.
"What a couple of old dears they look!" she said irreverently. "I don't want them to see us, for I do not mean to go in yet. It is too lovely."
I assented eagerly. The moon was now visible far beyond the trees and shed its radiance full upon the lawn. The shadow of each tree and bush was sharply defined upon the grass. Bats were beginning to flit on heavy wing across the garden. The light breeze which was sweeping through the trees was not too cool for us. Paulina linked her arm in mine, and we turned towards the path between the apple trees.
The beauty and mystery of the night laid its spell upon us, making:
"Deep silence in the heart,For thought to do her part."
For some minutes neither of us spoke. Then Paulina began to speak in a low, soft voice, very unlike her usual high-pitched tones.
"Nan, do you remember that night before I went away?"
"I remember it well," I said.
"How frightened I was when I knew that I had scarlet fever—how I thought I should die as mamma did?"
"Yes," I murmured. As if I could forget!
"I shall never forget what you said that night and how you prayed with me," she went on. "You don't know how you helped me. I learned to pray that night, Nan."
"Oh, Pollie, dear Pollie," I said, drawing her closer to me, "I am so glad!"
She bent and kissed me ere she spoke again. "I thought of your words when I felt lonely and frightened in the days that followed. I tried to believe that the Lord Jesus was with me, and I asked Him to take me into His keeping. I was too weak and ill to think or pray much; but I rested on the thought that I was in His loving grasp. And presently all my fear went, and I was calm and peaceful as—as a girl would be who had her mother beside her."
"Oh, I am so glad!" I said once more. It seemed almost too wonderful to be true, that God should thus have used me to bring Paulina to Himself. Never had I felt more poor and mean and unworthy, yet never was I more truly thankful.
"And now I want to be a different sort of girl," continued Paulina. "I mean to try to be good for all I am worth, and you must help me, Nan. I am afraid I shall never be a real Christian, though."
"You are surely not going to be a sham one," I said. "You cannot be if Christ has you in His keeping."
"That is true," said Paulina. "Oh, Nan, life seems so much more to me now! I have such new hopes and plans and I am so happy!"
"And I am happy too," I cried.
Indeed I felt as if I could never be troubled again. I could only wonder that I had ever allowed myself to be ruffled by trifles. The things which had so lately disturbed my peace seemed now of slight importance, since there came to me a blessed conviction that my life, and the lives of those I loved, were in the keeping of a God of Love, who would make all things work for our good. What a difference it makes whether one regards one's life as ruled by a hard, blind, inexorable Fate, or as guided by the Hands of Love! My mood at that hour might have found expression in Mrs. Browning's well-known lines:
"And I smiled to think God's greatnessFlowed around our incompleteness,Round our restlessness, His rest."
Paulina and I did not utter many words as we paced the path together. Our hearts were too full of deep emotion. That sacred confidence cemented between us a lasting friendship. We lost all sense of time as we wandered to and fro, now in the clear moonlight and now in the shade of the trees, till at last Aunt Patty's voice was heard from the farther end of the lawn.
"Girls—girls I Where are you? It is time to close the house. Do you mean to spend the night in the garden? Nan, you forget that Paulina is an invalid."
"That I am not!" cried Paulina stoutly, and, laughing, we ran indoors.
"WHEN will Professor Faulkner be here, Mrs. Lucas?" Paulina asked the next morning at breakfast. "I am longing to see him again," she added calmly.
"I am sorry I cannot tell you," Aunt Patty replied. "He would be flattered if he knew how his presence was desired."
"Don't tell him then," said Paulina. "I would not for the world flatter him or any man. Masculine self-conceit never needs any bolstering up."
"There are exceptions, dear," said Miss Cottrell, with a soft glance at the self-complacent visage of her Josiah.
"If you mean my poppa," said Miss Dicks unflinchingly, "he's about the best example I know of a perfectly self-satisfied man."
"Ha, ha!" laughed the individual in question. "Not bad, that! She hits straight, does Pollie. But why shouldn't I be pleased with myself? I've done well in my time. I began with a dollar and now I'm worth—"
He checked himself suddenly. His eyes were on the post-bag Jenny was bringing into the room. I saw a dull, red flush rise suddenly to his forehead and then recede as quickly, leaving his countenance of a more unhealthy pallor than usual, while he watched Aunt Patty, who was unlocking the bag preparatory to distributing the letters.
Two letters were handed to Mr. Dicks. Over one, in a business-like blue envelope, I saw his hand close tightly for a moment. Then he thrust it into his coat-pocket and tried to go on with his breakfast. But his interest in it was gone. Hastily swallowing his coffee, he asked Aunt Patty to excuse him, and went out, followed by the anxious glance of his fiancé.
"Nan," said Paulina, the next moment, "don't you wish that Professor Faulkner would come back?"
"I! Oh, I don't know," I faltered, growing red and devoutly wishing that Paulina had not such an unruly tongue. It struck me afterwards that she had perhaps said the first thing that occurred to her in order to prevent Miss Cottrell's remarking on her father's sudden departure from the table. If so, she succeeded in creating a diversion, for in my confusion I turned to help myself to salt so awkwardly that I upset the tiny salt-cellar and brought upon myself an indignant expostulation from Miss Cottrell.
"How could you be so careless? Don't you know it is most unlucky to spill salt?"
"But I don't believe in ill-luck," I said. "I am not at all afraid of the consequences of this action. See, nothing is broken; I put back the salt and it is as it was before."
"It is all very well to say that," returned Miss Cottrell, "but you may have brought ill-luck on the rest of us."
"Nan, Nan," cried Paulina, assuming a tragic air, "if we are all burned in our beds to-night, I will never forgive you!"
Then we entered upon a general discussion of local superstitions, and I hoped that my maladroitness was forgotten.
Nothing ever escaped Paulina's observation. As we rose from the table she drew me towards the garden, mischief in her eyes; but the sight of the chaise standing before the hall door arrested her attention.
"Who is going off by the early train?" she asked.
"I am, Pollie," said her father, coming quickly down the stairs. "I have to go up to town on a little matter of business which cannot be delayed."
"What—the first morning!" cried Paulina. "You need not talk of my rushing about. But, if you must go, I'll drive you. Where's a hat?"
"Here," I said. "And you had better put on this—" bringing forward a dust-coat.
"All right," said Paulina; "now some gloves."
She was ready and had taken the reins almost before Miss Cottrell awoke to the fact that her beloved was departing.
"Why didn't you tell me?" she asked reproachfully.
"I could have gone to the station too; now there is not time, I suppose?"
"No," he said decisively. "I shall only catch the train by the skin of my teeth. Good-bye."
"When will you be back?" she asked, as he stepped into the chaise.
"Oh, in time for dinner," he answered, and off they drove, while Miss Cottrell stood looking blankly after them.
I proposed to her that we should presently walk towards Chelmsford to meet Paulina and return with her in the chaise, but the suggestion was not agreeable to her. She would rather, she said, spend the morning in working on her garden plot. She moved away with so sombre a face that I much feared that she would water her flowers with her tears. The "labour she delighted in" afforded her consolation, for she appeared serene as usual when we met at luncheon and spoke cheerfully of driving into Chelmsford to meet Mr. Dicks.
Meanwhile Paulina had come back, having much enjoyed her drive into town. She invaded my room, apparently bent on teasing me.
"Now, Nan," she said, laying rude hands on my work, "drop that needle, if you please, and take the stool of repentance. You've got to make a confession. What have you been about while I've been away?"
"Oh, all sorts of things," I said calmly. "I spent some days at Hobbes's cottage, and I've been home, you know."
"Of course I know you've been home; but I want to know why you went home the second time in so sudden a fashion, to say nothing of your Cousin Agneta's unannounced departure. Do you suppose no one has told me how you escaped from the garden party and 'scorched' into town to catch a train, to the astonishment of all our respectable neighbours! Evidently your conduct so appalled Professor Faulkner that he had to go off to a distance to recover from the shock."
"Oh, Pollie!" I cried, unable to help laughing, though her words touched a sore spot in my consciousness. "How you do talk! Who has been telling you all this? Miss Cottrell, I suppose."
"Never mind who told me. It is for you to tell me the truth, so don't prevaricate," said Paulina solemnly. "You've an honest soul naturally, Nan; don't sin against it. If I am your friend you will tell me all. You need not be afraid to trust me. Although I am such a chatterbox, I never betray the confidence of my friends."
That I could well believe. I had already discovered that, frank and outspoken as Paulina was, her character did not lack an element of reserve. She could keep her own counsel when she chose.
So I yielded to her persuasions, and told her—if not exactly all—yet as much as I could tell any one. I hardly meant to confess so completely, but Pollie's intuitions were wonderful. She understood by half a word. It was as if she could read my heart. Before I realised that I had told her, she knew all. And she was very kind—so kind and yet so amusing! Her banter did not hurt me in the least, because I was so sure of her sympathy. Let me say at once that I never had the least cause to regret giving her my confidence.
"It is wonderful how stupid learned men can be," she remarked, "but if Professor Faulkner can believe our Nan to be a light and foolish girl, he breaks the record. But I can't help giving him credit for some sense. So be of good cheer, Nancy; this will all come right."
Her words cheered me marvellously, though there seemed small chance of any immediate change in the aspect of affairs. Aunt Patty had heard nothing from Mr. Faulkner since my return. He seemed to have forgotten the very existence of "Gay Bowers." We did not forget him. I aired and dusted his room every day. If he came back at any hour he would find all in order there.
In the afternoon Aunt Patty asked me to walk with her to a farmhouse about a couple of miles away. The farmer and his wife were rejoicing over the advent of a son and heir, and my aunt, ever ready to sympathise with either joy or sorrow, was anxious to pay due honour to the little stranger. Paulina declined to accompany us. She said she was not fond of babies. She knew the parents would expect her to hold it, and she was terribly afraid of dropping it or breaking it somehow. Miss Cottrell it was vain to ask, as she would need to start in the wagonette for Chelmsford to meet the train by which Mr. Dicks was expected to return, before the hour at which we should probably get back.
I was not sorry to take a quiet walk with Aunt Patty. The demands which the guests made on us prevented our having much time alone together. Our way lay through fields, and, although the sun shone brightly, we were not oppressed by its heat. We talked of Mr. Dicks and his daughter as we went, and aunt reminded me how much I had disliked these Americans when first they appeared at "Gay Bowers." She said it amused her to see what friends Paulina and I had become. It was strange to recall my first impressions. The Pollie Dicks I now knew seemed so different from the cool, pert, self-sufficient girl, whose American freedom of bearing had excited within me a sense of antagonism.
Our visit passed off pleasantly. We duly admired the baby, who was really a fine specimen of a six weeks' child. We had tea with the happy parents, and spent some time in surveying their garden and homestead ere we turned our steps homewards.
The latter part of our way took us across the fields, often traversed as a short cut by persons walking from Chelmsford.
"We shall not be home long before Mr. Dicks may be expected. He will probably come by the six o'clock train," aunt had just remarked, when, to my astonishment, I perceived Josiah Dicks a little in front of us. He stood leaning against the stile which a turn of the path we were following just brought into view. He was unaware of our approach, and his attitude was so dejected, so suggestive of weakness and suffering, that my first thought was that he had been seized with sudden illness.
"That is never Mr. Dicks!" exclaimed my aunt in surprise. "Why, whatever can have happened?"
Her tones were not loud, but they reached his ear. He drew himself up and turned towards us. His face was so wan and haggard, so utterly changed since the morning, that we both experienced a painful shock.
"Mr. Dicks," said aunt, hastening towards him, "what is the matter? I fear you are ill."
"No, no, not ill," he said vaguely.
"But something has happened," said Aunt Patty.
"How is it you are here alone? Miss Cottrell has driven to the station to meet you."
"I came by the early train," he said; "it was no good staying in town. There was nothing to be done. I guess I've been wandering about these fields for some time." He lifted his hat from his brow with a weary air as he spoke in a voice that was dull and faint.
"Now do tell me what ails you, Mr. Dicks," said my aunt in her most soothing manner; "for that something is wrong I can plainly see."
"Oh, I ail nothing," he said, with a pathetic attempt to recall his usual jaunty air; "it is only that I am a ruined man!"
"Mr. Dicks," exclaimed Aunt Patty, "what can you mean?"
"Just that—I am a ruined man," he repeated in biting accents. "Things have been going wrong in Wall Street for some time. There was bad news yesterday. I had information this morning which made me profoundly uneasy. I went up to town only to find my worst fears confirmed. There is almost a panic on the Stock Exchange, and for me this crash spells ruin."
"Are you sure?" asked Aunt Patty tremulously. "It may not be so bad as you think. There is room for hope."
"As sure as I stand here, madam, I know that I have lost all," was his reply. "Josiah Dicks must begin the world again, and that is not a cheering prospect when one is sixty years of age."
"Indeed, it is not," said Aunt Patty.
Then we stood silent for some moments, thinking many things. It is not easy to offer consolation for such a catastrophe, and my aunt was too wise to attempt it. Mr. Dicks broke the silence, speaking in high dry tones:
"You need not fear, madam, that you will be a loser through my misfortune. I have money enough in hand to pay all my debts and to take me and my daughter back to America."
A quiver ran through Aunt Patty's slight form. It came with a flash of passionate indignation that he should so misjudge her as to deem it necessary to make such a remark.
"You don't surely think so meanly of me as to imagine I care about that!" she exclaimed quickly. "It is for you and Paulina that I am troubled."
"Ah, Paulina!" he groaned. "It is for her sake I feel it. I can't bear to think that my girl will be penniless. I don't mind being poor myself—I've been poor before and I'm used to it; but Pollie has been accustomed to every luxury. I haven't the courage to tell her, and that's the fact."
"Ah! But I think you wrong her by that feeling," said my aunt gently. "Paulina is a brave, good girl. I think you may trust her to bear this trouble bravely. But come now, Mr. Dicks, let us get home. You look thoroughly exhausted. I dare say you've had nothing to eat since you left us this morning."
"I'll allow you're right," he said; "I'd no heart for victuals."
"Then your immediate need is rest and food," said aunt soothingly; "don't try to tell Paulina till after dinner. If she asks questions just tell her you've had a worrying day and there leave it. It will be better for both of you. Indeed I'd let her have her night's rest before I told her the ill news, if I were you."
"Well, there's something in that," he admitted, as he walked by aunt's side, evidently relieved by having made known to her his trouble. I followed, marvelling that he appeared to have forgotten another person to whom his calamity would certainly be of vital interest. His thoughts seemed all of Paulina and what the loss of wealth would mean for her, but, while I felt truly sorry for her, my mind also turned with profound pity to Miss Cottrell. How would she bear the shock of ill news, which would send tumbling into chaos all the splendid aerial palaces she had reared?
We took the nearest way home across the little wood, where I had had that unpleasant interview with Ralph Marshman. As we approached the garden a sight met my eyes which thrilled me like an electric shock, and for a while made me oblivious of the troubles of others. Walking by Paulina's side along the gravel drive in front of the house, and talking earnestly to her, was none other than Alan Faulkner!
AUNT PATTY was as much astonished as I was to see Professor Faulkner calmly walking in the garden as if he had never been away. But before she had time to express her amazement Paulina caught sight of us and shouted gaily:
"Ah, Mrs. Lucas, here is a surprise for you! The truant professor has turned up at last!"
As she and her companion came smilingly to meet us, Paulina looked little prepared to meet misfortune. She was in the brightest mood, and began at once to rally her father on arriving before he was expected and disappointing Miss Cottrell, who had driven into Chelmsford to meet the train by which he usually returned. But I was only vaguely conscious of what Pollie was saying and had no thought at that moment for Mr. Dicks's painful position. The sight of Alan Faulkner threw me into a state of nervous tremor which made me feel positively ill. My heart throbbed painfully, my limbs trembled beneath me, and I felt an absurd longing to run away and hide somewhere.
"You will forgive me for presenting myself in this unexpected fashion?" Alan Faulkner was saying as he shook hands with my aunt. "I found myself free to travel south sooner than I had hoped, and, though I did write, my letter must have missed the post; at any rate, I have arrived before it."
"It is doubtless lying in the Chelmsford post-office," said Aunt Patty; "no one has been there to get letters this afternoon; but it does not matter in the least, Mr. Faulkner—I am only too glad to see you. Your room is quite ready for you, is it not, Nan?"
"Oh, yes," I responded in a high, clear voice, that surprised myself. "'Aye ready' is our motto at 'Gay Bowers.' How are you, Mr. Faulkner?"
I purposely made my greeting as cool and careless as possible; but he shook hands with me very heartily, and there was a look in his eyes that arrested mine and held them fascinated for a long moment. That look assured me that all his old friendliness had revived, and I read more in it—something that I could not well define. My gaze dropped beneath his and I turned quickly away; but my heaviness of heart was gone.
"You look very tired, poppa," I heard Paulina say. "That wretched business has given you a headache, I know. Why would you go to town to-day? I don't believe your going made a bit of difference to the business after all."
"You are right, Pollie," her father replied in a melancholy tone; "it certainly did not."
"Ah! I knew it!" said Paulina triumphantly. "I told you so, if you remember, but you would not listen to me."
"However mistaken your father has been, my dear, you must not scold him now," interposed Aunt Patty, "he is too tired. The City of London is not a desirable place on a broiling summer day. Let him rest in peace till he has had his dinner—it should be ready in less than half-an-hour. You will be glad of it, too, Mr. Faulkner."
"Oh, as for that," he replied, "I came up from Scotland by the night train, and so had time for a comfortable luncheon ere I left town. Moreover, Miss Dicks has refreshed me since my arrival with a cup of tea, of which I was very glad after walking from the station."
I looked at Paulina. Her eyes were smiling with mischief as she glanced at me.
"By the by," continued Alan Faulkner, turning to Mr. Dicks, "you must have come by the same train as I. Where did you get to that I saw nothing of you?"
Mr. Dicks's colour rose as he answered with some confusion that he "guessed" he was in the back of the train, and he had loitered in the fields on the way home. The next moment a diversion was created by the arrival of the wagonette, with Miss Cottrell sitting within, forlorn and agitated. Her surprise and excitement when she perceived that her betrothed had arrived before her was ludicrous. Descending hastily from the vehicle, she overwhelmed him with more questions than he could possibly answer.
I saw Alan Faulkner's eyes gleam with amusement as he watched them, and I felt sure that Paulina had told him of the relationship into which these two had entered. Poor Miss Cottrell! How would she bear the disappointment which fate had in store for her? I tried to feel as sorry for her as I should, but my heart was dancing with joy as I ran upstairs. What selfish wretches we are! How little we feel the sorrows of others when our own happiness seems secure!
"Nan," cried Paulina, thrusting her head just inside my door and looking the incarnation of mischief, "I had such a nice talk with the Professor before you came home. Only think of my having to entertain him for more than an hour! But we neither of us found the time long, I can assure you."
I laughed and said I thought it a pity we had not stayed away a little longer. I knew Paulina too well by this time for her attempt at teasing me to have the least effect. I tried to sober myself by thinking of the bad news Paulina must soon learn and how hard it would be for her to face poverty; but I could not feel sad as I arranged my hair in the most becoming way I knew and put on my prettiest blouse. Verily girls are callous mortals.
No one watching the party that gathered round the table a little later could have suspected that there was trouble in the air. Mr. Dicks was certainly more quiet than usual, but his daughter and his fiancé talked so much that his silence was not remarked. Miss Cottrell had recovered from her perturbation, and she made us laugh by a vivid and droll description of her various misgivings and emotions when she discovered that the train had not brought Josiah Dicks.
Alan Faulkner did not say a great deal, but all that he said was worth hearing, and he evinced such genuine satisfaction at being amongst us once more—"at home," as he once expressed it to Aunt Patty's great delight—that we all felt complimented.
When we rose from the table we all with one consent strolled into the garden. It was not yet dusk, but the days were already shortening and there was not sufficient light to make it worth while to begin a game. Mr. Dicks, with his head thrust back and his hands in the pockets of his coat, stalked off gloomily alone towards the apple trees. Miss Cottrell, evidently surprised that she had received no invitation to join him, stood hesitating on the edge of the lawn. After glancing with a timid air, first to the right and then to the left, to see if any one were observing her, she presently strolled after him.
"I am going for a walk," said Paulina, opening the side gate which led into the meadow across which lay the field path to Greentree Park. "Come, Nan. Oh, do you want to come too, Professor Faulkner?"
"If I may be permitted!" he said.
"Oh, well, we'll try to put up with you," was her rejoinder.
And we walked slowly along the narrow path beside the hedge. The grass was long and damp and the path was barely wide enough for two, so Mr. Faulkner had to walk behind us. But we only proceeded thus to the end of the field, for there Paulina suddenly remembered that she had forgotten something that she must say to Mrs. Lucas without more delay.
"It won't take me long to run back," she said; "if you two walk on slowly, I dare say I shall overtake you by and by."
I proposed that we should turn back too; but it appeared that Mr. Faulkner wanted to take a look into the park. He had not seen it since the garden party was in contemplation, he said; and the reference brought the blood into my cheeks.
So we strolled on along the quiet path, and he began telling me about his future prospects. He had been summoned to Edinburgh to fill the place of a friend, a college professor who was laid aside by illness. He had remained there till the term ended. Meanwhile the former professor had resigned his chair, finding that his health would not permit him to continue to perform its duties, and Alan Faulkner had learned on good authority that the post would probably be offered to himself.
"Will you take it?" I asked.
"I think so—indeed, I should be thankful to accept it," he said. "The work is just what I love. It would be a grand opportunity for me. And in Edinburgh, too! Ah, Miss Nan, you do not know what the very name of Edinburgh means to a Scotsman."
"I can imagine that it is very dear," I said, conscious as I spoke of a curious, heartsick sensation of being left out in the cold. He had seemed so happy with us at "Gay Bowers." Had he all the while been yearning for Scotland?
"You will soon be leaving us then, I suppose?" was my next remark.
"Not until the autumn," he said. "You may be sure I shall be in no hurry to quit 'Gay Bowers.' I have been so happy there. It has been more of a home to me than any place since I lost my mother."
"But you like Edinburgh better?"
He laughed as he replied:
"Indeed, I do not. Edinburgh is dear to me for its beauty and its associations; but I never had a home there. I studied there for a while before I went to Cambridge."
After that we walked on for some moments in silence. There were so many things I had wanted to say to Alan Faulkner, yet, now I had the opportunity, I felt tongue-tied. I stole a glance at him, and he looked so grave that I began to wonder what he could be thinking about. Then I conceived the idea that I was boring him, and almost wished that Paulina would come back. But presently, he startled me by saying:
"Miss Nan, I have a confession to make, and I want to ask your forgiveness."
"My forgiveness?" I repeated.
"Yes, for I wronged you grievously in my thoughts that day when I presumed to warn you, forsooth, against the fascinations of Ralph Marshman."
"Ah, yes, you did!" I cried eagerly. "It hurt me not a little that you should think he was anything to me."
"I can't forgive myself for being so foolish," he said. "Now that Miss Dicks has enlightened me a little, I see what a stupid blunderer I was. No wonder you were angry with me."
"Oh, Paulina!" I said inwardly. "So this is the result of your long and interesting talk!"
Aloud I said, "It was unreasonable of me to be angry. No doubt it was easy for you to make such a mistake."
"Well, there is some excuse for me," he said, "for when I overtook Marshman that night, after he scrambled over the wall in front of us, and demanded an explanation of his extraordinary conduct, he confessed to me jestingly that he was smitten with Mrs. Lucas's pretty niece, and had committed the trespass with the hope of getting a private talk with her."
"How could he say that? Agneta is not Aunt Patty's niece," I exclaimed, forgetting how much I was revealing.
"Just so," he said with a smile. "Now you see how I was misled; and when you reproached me so indignantly with misjudging another, I never doubted that he had completely beguiled you."
"Oh, but you could not have thought that I blamed you for misjudging him," I protested. "Of course, I was indignant at your deeming me likely to be attracted by such a man."
"But I did think that," he said. "I confess to the most crass stupidity, and I humbly beg your forgiveness. It may soften your just resentment to know that I have not gone unpunished. I have suffered intensely from that mistake. It threw a shadow over all my life."
"And when you saw me on the platform at Liverpool Street on that afternoon when I ought to have been at the garden party—what did you think then?" I demanded. "Some dreadful thing, of course."
"Don't ask me! I imagined that you had come to meet Marshman. I had seen him there—I was watching him, indeed. To tell you the truth, I went up to town that day on purpose to get information concerning him, for I meant to save you from deception if it were possible."
"How could you imagine such things!" I cried. "Oh, I don't think I can forgive you."
Then we both laughed; but the next moment he was holding both my hands in his and speaking with great seriousness. I cannot write what he said, though the words are for ever engraved on my heart. They were to the effect that he had suffered so much in thinking me foolish and deluded, because I had become so dear to him, and he had set me in his heart far above every other woman he had ever known.
The memory of that evening will ever be sacred to me. I cannot dwell upon it here. I will only say that when at last we walked back to "Gay Bowers" we were two of the happiest people upon earth. The mists of doubt that had gathered between us were for ever gone, and in their place had come the most perfect understanding. I had promised Alan Faulkner that some day, if my parents gave their consent, I would be his wife.
For the present we guarded the secret of our happiness; but I think Paulina guessed what had come about. She fairly hugged me when we said "good-night," and her manner was so gleeful that it was plain she knew nothing yet of the cloud that overhung her future.
Alone in my room, I did not feel in the least inclined to sleep. Aunt Patty had hurried us upstairs under the impression that every one was very tired. I stepped into my favourite nook on the top of the porch, and, sitting down, gave myself up to the delight of recalling all that had passed between me and Alan. It was pleasant to sit there, for the air was deliciously cool, and sweet with the perfume of flowers. Below, the garden lay fair in the moonlight. At some distance, moving to and fro on the path that ran beneath the boundary wall, were two figures which I knew to be those of Alan and Colonel Hyde, enjoying a smoke before they retired to rest. All was quiet about me when, presently, I was aware of voices coming from the shelter of the porch, above which I sat.
"So, Kate," said the high, nasal accents of Josiah Dicks, "you don't mean to give me up because I've lost my money? I fear you're deciding too hastily, my dear. You must take time to consider what it means. It's not easy being poor."
"I know it will be hard for you and Paulina; but I'm not afraid for myself, and I need no time to make up my mind," said the voice of Miss Cottrell. "I've got enough to live on, and it's all invested on good security. It will be a tight fit for three, but we'll make it do somehow till better times come."
"No, no, Kate," protested Mr. Dicks, "I really can't consent to that. What's yours is your own. I ain't going to sponge on you, if I know it. I meant to give you a happy, comfortable life by making you my wife. I wouldn't have minded spending any money on you; but now I can't give you the kind of home you'd like, and you had best let me go. Josiah Dicks is no catch for any woman now."
"That's how you look at it, but I think differently, and I mean to hold you to your promise to marry me," replied Miss Cottrell. "Now, listen to me, Josiah. I'll own that the thought of your wealth was agreeable to me. I have always made too much of money and position. I liked the idea of having a smart house and smart clothes, and driving in a smart buggy, and all the rest of the things you described; but I did not agree to be your wife just for that. I have been a lonely woman for some years now, and I liked the idea of having a good man for my husband. I wanted some one to love and care for, and I meant to be a good wife to you, and as much of a mother to Paulina as she would let me be. It is a small thing to mention, but I love you, Josiah. I am yours, and all I have is yours, if only you will take it."
"Kate, Kate, you must not talk like that!" exclaimed Mr. Dicks in tones that seemed tremulous with emotion. "You make me ashamed of myself, you do indeed. The truth is, I don't deserve to be loved like that. I'm not a good man. There's been ugly bits in my history I would not choose for you to know. I am puzzled what you can see to care for in me. I'll allow I thought 'twas my money drew you. Well, if anything can make a man good it is to be loved by such a woman as you, and, if you will stick to me, I'll try my hardest to make it worth your while. Josiah Dicks is ready to begin the world again, and, please God, he'll win his way up yet!"
But I heard no more. I sprang from my seat and hastened inside my room, ashamed of myself for having even for so short a time played the part of an eavesdropper. Miss Cottrell's natural eloquence was too enthralling, and my heart at that hour was quick to sympathise with the feeling that moved her. But I should never have believed it of her! How easy it Is to misjudge others! Miss Cottrell's faults were on the surface; beneath were sterling qualities of heart and mind. I found myself wondering whether it was not worth while for Josiah Dicks to lose his wealth in order to discover the treasure he possessed in this woman's love.
I SUPPOSE a girl is never so humble as when she knows that she has won the love of a noble-minded man, far above herself in every way. Certainly I felt very conscious of my own unworthiness on the morning that followed Alan Faulkner's return. Yet I was strangely proud too, but it was of another.
Alan found an early opportunity of saying a few words to Aunt Patty, after which she called me aside and, kissing me tenderly, said how glad she was and how she hoped I should be as happy as she had been with her dear husband. I privately hoped that I should be a great deal happier. It seemed strange to me that she should think for a moment of comparing Alan to Uncle George, with his fidgets and gout and uncertainty of temper. I forgot that he was the husband of her youth, and, presumably, had not suffered from gout when she married him.
When we had talked a little, Aunt Patty asked me if I had seen Paulina since breakfast, and I was shocked to realise that I had hardly given a thought since I rose to the trouble that overhung my friend.
"I saw her father taking her off for a walk," said Aunt Patty, "so I suppose he was going to tell her the bad news. I am glad he kept it to himself last night."
I watched anxiously for Paulina's return. Alan was busy in his room; he was going up to town in the afternoon in order to see father and mother. I turned hot and cold whenever I thought of what mother would think or say when she learned the object of his visit. Of one thing I felt certain: she could not fail to like Alan Faulkner.
I had accomplished most of my morning tasks and was watering my plants on the top of the porch, when I saw Paulina and her father enter the garden. Josiah Dicks looked a much happier man than he had appeared on the previous evening. He had lost, perhaps for ever, his air of elation and self-complacency; but apparently a load had been lifted from his heart since I last saw him. Paulina had a sober air, yet did not appear so cast down as I had expected she would be. She nodded and smiled when she caught sight of me in my observatory, and a few minutes later she was up there beside me.
"Well, Nan," she said, dropping into my chair, "poppa says you know that we have lost all our money and become paupers."
"Not quite that, I think," was my reply, and I could not help smiling at her desperate way of putting it.
"You should not smile, Nan," she said gravely; "it's an awful thing to be poor, isn't it? Every one seems to think so. Still, I suppose it might be worse. Anyway, we have money enough to keep us here till the end of the month, and then take us back to America. And we need not travel as steerage passengers, either."
"Dear Pollie, I am glad you can take it so bravely," I said: "but I knew you would."
"Well, I guess I've had a good time while the money lasted, so I won't grumble now it's gone," she remarked philosophically. "And I'll allow there may be compensations. Poppa can't expect to marry me to a prince now, anyway."
"A prince!" I repeated.
"Well, a duke, then, or some very exalted person," she said calmly. "You must know that poppa is ambitious, and as his wealth increased, so did his ideas of what would be his daughter's fitting destiny."
"And your ideas were different," I suggested, beginning to see a possible explanation of the equanimity with which Paulina was facing their misfortune.
"Just so," she replied: "with your usual sagacity you have hit the point exactly. Poppa and I could never agree with regard to my settlement in life. There were rather serious ructions before we started for Europe. As I say, he wanted me to marry a duke or some one only a few degrees lower in the social scale, and I desired no one but Charlie, and would have been content in a cottage with him."
"Charlie!" I cried. "You mentioned him once before, Pollie, and I guessed you took a deep interest in him. Do tell me who he is!"
"Charlie is my first cousin once removed," said Paulina, "and he occupies no higher position than that of clerk in the stores of a linen company at Indianapolis. But I don't care what he is—he is just Charlie."
"Oh, I understand," I said.
"Of course you do, Nan; you can't help understanding," said Paulina. "And you can easily see how this ill wind may blow me good, for now my dowry has taken to itself wings, no duke will want to make me a duchess. Charles becomes eligible, therefore my cloud has a silver lining."
"Then your father has no dislike to him personally," I said.
"He cannot have, really, though he's been rather ugly in trying to find fault with him," she replied. "Charlie's only fault is that he has poor relations. Poppa is fond of boasting that he began life with a dollar, but he has no very kindly feeling for those who began in a similar way and have not made much of the dollar. But we're all poor relations now, so I hope he will be more sensible. What are you smiling at, Nan?"
I was amused to think how this secret attachment to 'Charlie' had lain behind the open, unblushing flirtations which had startled me till I discovered how harmless they were.
"What a fraud you have been, Paulina!" I remarked. "Do you know that Miss Cottrell credited you with being attracted by Mr. Faulkner."
"No, really! What a joke! Me and the Professor! What an ill-matched couple we should have been!" And Paulina leaned back in her chair and laughed heartily.
"But you know," she continued after a moment, "in spite of her love of research, Miss Cottrell is not gifted with keen penetration. But she is a good creature, and I really believe—"
She stopped, her words arrested by the appearance of a telegraph-boy riding up to the gate on a bicycle.
"Oh, look, Nan—a telegram! For whom, I wonder!"
She leaned over the side of the porch and caught the name of "Dicks" as the boy handed in the telegram. She turned and ran downstairs. A moment later I saw her tearing across the garden in search of her father. I wondered what the message might be, but presently I forgot all about it as my thoughts gathered again around the thrilling interest of my own life.
There was so much to dream about—what father would think, what mother would feel, Olive's sympathetic interest, and the comments Peggy was likely to make—that an hour slipped by without my knowing it. I had taken up some needlework, but I had accomplished very little when I was roused from my reverie by a tap at the door. Almost before I could bid her enter, Paulina burst into the room. Her face was radiant. She threw herself on her knees beside me, hugging me as she said:
"Oh, Nan, Nan, you will never believe what has happened!"
"Ah! The telegram brought good news!" I exclaimed. "Is it all right with the money after all?"
"Oh, nothing to do with the money!" she cried, impatient with the suggestion. "It was a cablegram, Nan—a cablegram from Charlie! He has heard of poppa's loss, and he cables that there is a home for me—and for poppa, too, of course-with him, and he will meet us at New York. And poppa thought—or pretended to think—that Charlie only wanted me because of the money!"
"Then it is a proposal by cablegram," I said. "What a novel idea!"
"Yes, it was clever of Charlie to think of it," Paulina said with sparkling eyes. "Rather extravagant, perhaps, but it did not take many words to make us understand. Oh, Nan, can't you guess how happy I am!"
"Then your father consents?" I said eagerly.
"Rather!" said Paulina. "And he has the grace to own up that he's ashamed of himself, and has never done Charlie justice. We are going to drive into Chelmsford with the Professor after luncheon in order to send a reply to Charlie. Now, Nan, don't imagine that I am so wooden-headed that I can't guess why he is going up to London to-day when he only arrived here yesterday."
"Indeed, Pollie, I am far from thinking you that," I replied in some confusion. "I know that I owe a good deal to your keenness of perception, and you have shown yourself one of the best and truest of friends. I can't tell you how glad I am that this happiness has come to you."
"And I am just as glad that you are going to be happy," she said. "Isn't it wonderful how things come round? I calculate that the next happening will be a wedding at 'Gay Bowers.'"
"Pollie, what do you mean?"
"Just that. I guess there will be a wedding here before the end of the month. Miss Cottrell is a brick, Nan. She has made up her mind that she will never desert Mr. Micawber—in other words, she is just as ready to share poppa's poverty as she was to share his wealth, so I presume we'll travel to America as a family party, and Mr. Upsher will tie the knot in Greentree church before we leave."
Here was news indeed! Life at "Gay Bowers" was no longer monotonous. Its current had begun to move swiftly, and was destined to flow still more rapidly ere the summer was over.
Father and mother did not withhold their consent to my engagement. The following day brought them both to "Gay Bowers," to my great delight. I was not surprised, but it afforded me complete satisfaction to see that Alan had won mother's heart. She said she felt it hard that she must part with both her grown-up girls; but, as father had stipulated that I should not be married till I was twenty-one, she would not lose me for some time yet.
After this, our engagement was made public, and seemed to give every one pleasure. People said such kind things of me that I was quite ashamed to think how little they knew me.
Paulina's prediction came true, and we were soon busy preparing for her father's marriage with Miss Cottrell. It took place in our beautiful old church on the thirty-first of July. The happy pair spent a week at Felixstowe and then came back to "Gay Bowers" to fetch Pollie. It was with genuine regret that Aunt Patty and I watched Mr. and Mrs. Dicks and Paulina take their departure. How different were our feelings now from those with which we had received the Americans and Miss Cottrell! The paying guests had become our friends.
"Au revoir!" cried Pollie as they drove away. "We are coming back some day. And, Mr. Faulkner, please don't forget that you are going to bring Nan to Indianapolis some time."
We watched them pass out of our sight with the sadness most partings inevitably bring, for who could say whether we should all meet again?
Two days later, Alan's sisters came to spend their holidays at "Gay Bowers." They were such nice, bright girls that I had no difficulty in making friends of them, and I am thankful to say they seemed to take to me at once. The brother, who was their guardian, was so great a hero in their eyes, that I wonder they thought me good enough for him. It must have been, because they thought he could not make a wrong choice.
Peggy joined us ere August was far advanced, and we became a very lively party. By this time Jack had returned to the vicarage. I had the satisfaction of seeing that Aunt Patty had rightly gauged the depth of his wound. If the news of my engagement to Alan Faulkner hurt him, the blow was one from which he quickly recovered. He and Peggy became good comrades; she wanted to practise sketching during her stay in the country and he helped her to find suitable "bits," and was her attendant squire on many of her expeditions.
I had heard nothing from Agneta since her return to Manchester, but the news of my engagement brought me a kind though rather sad letter from her. She said she thought that I and Professor Faulkner were exactly suited to each other and she was glad I was going to be happy, for I deserved happiness and she supposed she never had. She knew now that she had been utterly deluded when she imagined that Ralph Marshman would make her happy. She wanted me to know that she was convinced of his worthless character and of what an escape she had had. She thanked me for the efforts I had made to save her from her own folly, and she begged me to forgive her for being so ungrateful at the time. She said she was sick of her life at home. She wanted her parents to let her adopt a career of her own and live a more useful life, but her mother refused to entertain the idea for a moment.
"I am trying to be patient," Agneta wrote; "You know you were always preaching patience to me, Nan; and I mean to do some 'solid' reading every day. Do send me a list of books you think I ought to read. I know, although you never said so, that you thought me very ignorant when I was with you. I don't forget either how you once said that I never should be happy as long as I made myself the centre of my life. So I try to be unselfish and to think of other people, but there is really very little I can do for others in the life I lead here. I almost envy girls who have to work for themselves."
I felt very sorry for Agneta as I read her letter, and yet I should have been glad, for, if her words were sincere, they augured for her happier days than she had yet known. For what hope of happiness is there for any one who is shut up in the prison-house of self? It was good for Agneta, as it had been for me and for Paulina, to suffer, if her trouble had led her into a larger, fuller, and more blessed life.
But the story of Aunt Patty's guests, as far as I have known them intimately, must be brought to a close. After all, I did not stay quite twelve months at "Gay Bowers." I went home for Christmas and I did not return. There was no longer any thought of my going up for Matriculation. Even now I regret that I never did so, but mother was bent upon my entering on a course of domestic economy, and the value of that study I am daily proving.
Early in the New Year, Olive was married. It was a very pretty wedding and everything went off charmingly; but her departure for India six weeks later left us all with very sore hearts. Alan was duly appointed to the professorship at Edinburgh, and now my home is in that beautiful old city, for in the following year, at the beginning of the summer vacation, we were married.
I should like to write about that wedding, but Alan thinks I had better not begin. My three sisters, Alan's two, and Cousin Agneta were my bridesmaids. Mr. Upsher assisted at the ceremony, and Jack, such a handsome young soldier, was one of the guests. He still showed himself devoted to Peggy, but I hope he is not seriously attracted by her, for Peggy declares that she is wedded to her art and is quite angry if any one suggests that she may marry. She is now working hard in Paris and promises to develop into a first-rate artist in "black and white."
Agneta made a very pretty bridesmaid and looked as happy as one could wish. I say this on mother's authority, for really I cannot remember how any one looked except Alan. The sun must have been in my eyes all the time, for my recollection of everything is so vague and hazy. So it was wise of Alan to advise me not to attempt to describe our wedding. Soon afterwards we heard of Agneta's engagement, with her parents' approval, to a young medical man, so I dare say she did look happy.
Alan and I always agree that "Gay Bowers" is the most delightful old country house we have ever known. Apparently many are of the same opinion, for aunt seldom has a room to spare in it.
THE END
Richard Clay & Sons, Limited, London and Bungay.