It was a warm September day. The blue sky was without a cloud; the sunbeams glinted through the foliage, beginning to change with the coming autumn, and fell on the smooth velvet lawn at Eagles' Nest. On that same green lawn stood a group of people in gala attire, for this had been a gala day with them. William Stane and Alice Raynor were married that morning. They had now just driven from the gates, around which the white satin shoes lay, and the rice in showers.
It had been Mr. George Atkinson's intention to resign Eagles' Nest at the end of June, almost immediately after he first spoke of doing so. But his intention, like a great many more intentions formed in this uncertain world of ours, was frustrated. The Raynors could not come down so soon to take possession of it. Charles had given notice at once to leave Prestleigh and Preen's; but he was requested, as a favour, not to do so until the second week in August, for the office had a hard task to get through its work before the long vacation. And as Charles had learnt to study other people's interests more than his own, he cheerfully said he would remain. It was a proud moment for him, standing amongst the fellow-clerks who had looked down upon him, when one of those very clerks copied out the deed of gift by which Eagles' Nest was transferred to him by George Atkinson, constituting him from henceforth its rightful owner. Charles, who knew a little of law by this time, proposed to himself to commence reading for the Bar: he had acquired the habit of work and knew its value, and did not wish to be an idle man. But George Atkinson, their true friend and counsellor, spoke against it. The master of Eagles' Nest need be no idle man, he said; rather, if he did his duty faithfully, too busy a one. Better for Charles to learn how to till his land and manage his property, than to plead in a law court; better to constitute himself the active manager of his estate. Charles saw the advice was sound, and meant to follow it.
Neither was Alice ready to leave London as soon as she had expected, for Mrs. Preen's intended departure from home was delayed for some weeks, and she also requested Alice to remain. Alice was nothing loth. She saw William Stane frequently, and Mrs. Preen took a warm interest in the arrangement of her wedding clothes.
But the chief impediment to their departure from Laurel Cottage, the poor home which had sheltered them so long, lay with Mrs. Raynor. Whether the reaction, at finding their miserable troubles at an end and fortune smiling again, told too strongly upon her weakened frame; or whether that headache, which you may remember she complained of the night Edina reached home with the joyful news from Eagles' Nest, was in truth the advance symptom of an illness already attacking her, certain it was that from that night Mrs. Raynor drooped. The headache did not leave her; other symptoms crept on. At the end of a few days: days that Edina had spent at Frank's in attendance on his sick wife: a doctor was called in. He pronounced it to be low fever. Edina left Daisy, who was then out of danger, to return home, where she was now most wanted. For some weeks Mrs. Raynor did not leave her bed. Altogether there had been many hindrances.
It was getting towards the end of August before the day came when they went down to take possession of Eagles' Nest. Mrs. Raynor was better then; almost well; but much reduced, and still needing care.
"This place will bring back your health and spirits in no time, mother," cried Charles, bending towards her, as they drove up to the gates of Eagles' Nest. She was leaning back in the carriage, side by side with Edina, and tears were trickling down her pale cheeks. He took her hand. "You don't speak, mother."
"Charley, I was thanking God. And wondering what we can do to show our thanks to Him in the future. I know that my life will be one long, heartfelt hymn of gratitude."
Charley leaned from the carriage window. Talking to the lodge-keeper was Jetty the carpenter. Standing with them and watching the carriage was a man whom Charles remembered as one Beck; remembered, to his shame, what his own treatment had been of the poor fellow in the days gone by. Good Heavens! that he should have been so insolent, purse-proud, haughty a young upstart! his cheeks reddened now with the recollection. Ungenerous words and deeds generally come flashing back upon us as reminders when we least want them.
Could that be Charles Raynor!—their future master? Jetty and Beck scarcely believed that in the pale, self-contained, gentle-faced man, who looked so much older than his years, they saw the arrogant youth of other days: scarcely believed that the sweet smile, the passing word of greeting, the steadfast look shining from the considerate eyes, could be indeed meant for them. Ah yes, they might cast out fear; it was Charles Raynor. And they saw that the good news whispered to them all by Mr. Atkinson was indeed true: their new master would be as good and faithful a friend to them as he himself had been during these past three years.
"God ever helping me to be so!" aspirated Charles to his own heart. A whole lifetime of experience, spent in prosperity, could not have worked the change wrought in him by this comparatively short period of stern adversity.
George Atkinson stood at the door to receive them. He had not left Eagles' Nest. For a week or so they were to be his guests in it: or he theirs. Some hearty joking and laughter was raised in this the first moment of meeting, as to which it would be, led to by a remark of Mrs. Raynor's: that she hoped he would not find the children—coming on with Alice in another carriage—troublesome guests.
"Nay, the house is yours, you know, not mine: you cannot be my guests," laughed George Atkinson. "How do you say, Miss Raynor?"
"I say we are your guests," answered Edina. "And very glad to be so."
"At least I did not thinkyouwould side against me," said George Atkinson, with pretended resentment. "For this day, let it be so, then. To-morrow I subside into my proper place, and Mrs. Raynor begins her reign.
"I have been wondering how we can ever be sufficiently grateful to God," she whispered with emotion, taking his hand in hers. "I know not how we can ever thankyou."
"Nay, my dear lady, I have done only what was right and just; right and just in His sight, and according to His laws," was George Atkinson's solemn answer. "We must all strive for that, you know, if we would ensure peace at the last. Here comes the other fly with the young ones!—and that curly-headed urchin, gazing at us with his great blue eyes, must be my disappointed little candidate for the Bluecoat School."
The week passed soon; and the wedding morning dawned. And now that was past, and the bridal carriage had driven off; and the white slippers and the rice were thrown, and they had all collected on the lawn in the afternoon sun. The only guests were Frank Raynor and his wife, who had arrived the night before. Street the lawyer and a brother of William Stane's had come for the morning; but had already left again by an afternoon train.
Frank Raynor, aided by the seven thousand pounds made over to him, had taken to the house and practice of a deceased medical man in Mayfair, and was securely established there and doing already fairly well. Mr. Max Brown, who, with his wife, had been spending a week with them, had disposed of the Lambeth practice to another purchaser. Daisy was happy again, and just as pretty and blooming as in the old days at Trennach. Frank, without entering into actual particulars (he did that only to Edina), had disclosed to her enough of that past night's fatal work to account for his interest in, and care of, Mrs. Bell and poor Rosaline. A dozen times at least in the day, Daisy, with much contrition and many repentant tears, would whisper prayers to her husband to be forgiven; saying at the same time she could never forgive herself. Frank would kiss the tears away and tell her to let bygones be bygones; they were beginning life afresh. Rosaline had sailed for her new home and country—was probably by this time nearing its shores. Most earnestly was it to be hoped she would regain happiness there.
Who so proud as Daisy, flitting about the lawn with her three-months' old baby in her arms, resplendent in its white robes! The little thing was named Francis George, and George Atkinson was its godfather. So many interests had claimed their attention that day, that not a minute had yet been found for questions and answers; and it was only now, at the first quiet moment, that Mr. Atkinson was beginning to inquire how Frank was prospering.
"First-rate," said sanguine Frank, his kindly face glowing. "I wish with all my heart every beginner was getting on as well as I."
"And my mother has recovered her amiability," put in Daisy, irreverently, handing the baby over to its nurse, who stood by. "I had quite a long letter from her yesterday morning, Mr. Atkinson, in which she graciously forgives me, and says I shall have my share of the money that my uncle Tom left her last year. That will be at least some thousands of pounds."
"It never rains but it pours, you know," smiled Frank. "Money drops in, now that we don't particularly want it."
"And so," added Daisy, "we mean to set up our brougham. Frank needs one very badly."
"Frank needs it for use and you for show," cried George Atkinson, laughing.
"Yes that is just it," acknowledged Daisy. "I expect I shall not have much of it, though, as his practice increases. When do you take possession of your town house, Mr. Atkinson? You will not be very far from us."
"I go up to it from Eagles' Nest to-morrow," was the reply. "Perhaps not to remain long in it at present. I am not yet able to form my plans."
"Not able to form your plans!" echoed Daisy, in her saucy, engaging way; her bright eyes gazing questioningly into his. "Why, I should have thought you might have laid your plans on the first of January for all the year, having no one to consult but yourself."
"But if I am uncertain—capricious?" returned he, in half-jesting tones.
"Ah, that's a different thing. I should not have thought you that at all. But—pray tell me, Mr. Atkinson! What do the people down here say, now they have found out that it was you, yourself, who lived amongst them three years ago?"
"They say nothing to me. I dare say they conjecture that I had my reasons for it. Or perhaps they think I was only amusing myself," continued George Atkinson, glancing at Edina.
Edina smiled at him in return. All's well that ends well: and that incognito business had turned out very well in the end. To her only had George Atkinson spoken out fully of the motives that swayed him, the impressions he received.
Edina stood near them in all her finery. She had never been so grand in her life: and perhaps had never looked so well. A lilac-silk dress, and a lovely pink rose in her bosom, nestling amidst white lace. Edina was rich now—asshelooked upon riches. Seven thousand pounds, and all her own! She had held out strenuously against receiving it, pointing out to George Atkinson that it would be wrong and unfair to give it to her, as her aunt Ann had never meant to leave her any money at all. But Edina's arguments and objections proved of no avail. Mr. Atkinson quietly closed his ears, and transferred the money to her, in spite of her protests. The first use Edina made of her cheque-book was to send a hundred pounds to Mr. Pine, that he might distribute it amongst the poor of Trennach.
Like George Atkinson, as he had just avowed, Edina had not formed her plans. She could not decide where her chief residence should be. Mrs. Raynor and Charles naturally pressed her to remain at Eagles' Nest: but she hesitated. A wish to have a home of her own, some little place of her own setting up, was making itself heard in her heart: and she could visit Eagles' Nest from time to time. Should the little homestead be near to them?—or at Trennach? It was this that she could not yet decide. But she must do so very shortly, for she wished to give them her decision on the morrow.
Turning away from the busy talkers, from the excited children; Kate in white, and little Bob, not in a long skirted blue coat and yellow stockings, but in black velvet and knickerbockers; Edina wandered away, her mind full, and sat down on a bench shaded by clustering trees, out of sight and sound of all. The small opening in the trees before her disclosed a glimpse of the far-off scenery—the Kentish hills, with their varying foliage, lying under the calm, pale blue sky.
"I like Trennach," she argued with herself. "I love it, for it was my girlhood's home; and I love those who are in it. I could almost say with Ruth, 'The people there shall be my people, and their God my God.' On the other hand are the claims of Eagles' Nest, and of Frank and Daisy. I love them all. Mary Raynor says she cannot get on unless I am near her; and perhaps the young ones need me too. If I only knew!"
"Knew what?" cried a voice at her elbow—for she had spoken the last sentence aloud.
The interruption came from George Atkinson. He had been about looking for her, and at last had found her. Edina blushed at having allowed her words to be heard: as he sat down beside her.
"I was only wishing I knew whether it would be better for me to settle near London or at Trennach," she answered with a smile. "It was very silly of me to speak aloud."
"Charles Raynor has just informed us that you intend to remain for good at Eagles' Nest."
"Oh no, I do not. I have never said I would; and to-morrow I shall tell them why. I should like to have a little place of my own; ever so little, but my very own. Either at Trennach, or in this neighbourhood: or perhaps—in London."
"Both in this neighbourhood and in London," he interrupted. "And, sometimes sojourning elsewhere: at the seaside or at Trennach. That is what I should recommend."
"You have made me a millionaire in my own estimation, but not quite so rich as that," laughed Edina.
"The houses are ready for you, and waiting."
Some peculiarity in his tone made her heart stand still. He turned and took her hands in his, speaking softly.
"Edina! Don't you know—have you not guessed—that I want you in my houses, my home? Surely you will come to me!—you will not say me nay! I know that it is late, very late, for me to say this to you: but I will try and make you happy as my wife."
Her pulses went rushing on tumultuously. As the words fell on her ear and heart, the truth was suddenly opened to her—she loved him still.
"I am no longer young, George," she whispered, the tears slowly coursing down her cheeks.
"Too young for me, Edina. The world may say so."
"And I—I don't know that others can spare me."
"Yes, they can. Had I been wise I should have secured you in the days so long gone by, Edina. I have never ceased to care for you. Oh, my best friend, my first and only love, say you will come and make the sunshine of my home! Say you will."
"I will," she whispered.
And Mr. George Atkinson drew her to him and sheltered her face on his breast. After all the sadness and vicissitudes of her life, what a haven of rest it felt to Edina!
"There shall be no delay; we cannot afford it. As soon as possible, Edina, I shall take you away. And that seven thousand pounds that you tried hard to fight me over—you can now transfer it to the others, if you like."
"As you will," she breathed. "All as you will from henceforth, George. I have found my home: and my master."
"God bless you, my dear one! May He be ever with us, as now, and keep us both to the end, in this world and in the next."
The birds sang in the branches; the distant hills were fair and smiling; the pale blue sky had never a cloud: all nature spoke of peace. And within their own hearts reigned that holy peace and rest which comes alone from Heaven; the peace that passeth all understanding.