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ENDING AND BEGINNING.
DORA went up for her examination at the end of June. For two or three weeks previously she had consented to let her mother take her place in the schoolroom in the afternoon. But that was the only part of her daily work of which she would allow herself to be relieved. Early and late she studied, and, though she would not own it, she was fooling wretchedly ill when the first day of the examination arrived.
The important event over, she did take a short rest, for as soon as the necessity of a constant strain was over, she was too exhausted and languid to do anything. In a few days, however, she was teaching again, both in the morning and afternoon, and though it was suggested that the younger children had better have their holiday then, she strongly objected, saying it would be much pleasanter for everybody concerned if they went on with their lessons till the end of July, when Robert and Katie would also break up.
One very warm evening she went out to do some shopping for her mother, and on her way home met Percy Armstrong. He could not but notice her pale face and listless air, and, after a little general conversation—for being in no hurry to get home he had turned to walk a little distance with her—he discovered that she never cared to eat, that she slept very badly, and that her back was always aching. She told all this hardly knowing that she was telling it, so cleverly did Percy draw her out.
Then he went home, and begged his mother to write to Mrs. Grainger and say that Dr. Fowler ought to be called in at once to see Dora; "for if this kind of thing is permitted to go on," he said, "she will become a confirmed invalid, and then good-bye to all her hopes and schemes for the future."
Mrs. Armstrong lost no time in making Mrs. Grainger acquainted with her son's opinion, and in consequence Dr. Fowler received a note asking him to call at 99, Madeira Street. This he did, and after seeing Dora, he told her she must give up her teaching and studying and take a long rest. He also found that she had a slight curvature of the spine. It was not very serious at present, but if allowed to increase, the mischief might become great, and he told her she must lie on a reclining board for at least three hours every day.
Dora heard her sentence with dismay.
"It can't be so bad as that!" she exclaimed. "Don't say I must lie down all that time."
"Indeed, you must." Then as he saw her look of hopeless despair, he asked, impatiently, "Do you want to be deformed, and in a year or two become a weak, helpless invalid?"
By way of answer she burst into tears. The doctor was touched directly.
"Poor child! There, I don't want to scold you," and he took her hand and kept it gently in his own as he spoke; "but if you have any real regard for your mother, and don't want to bring endless trouble and expense upon her, you must obey my orders. One of my daughters had to spend the best part of a year on her back once. You shall have the loan of her board for as long as you require it. If you could go to the seaside for a month, it would do you all the good in the world. Couldn't it be managed?"
His last words were addressed to Mrs. Grainger, who had been an anxious listener to the conversation between him and Dora.
"Whatever is necessary shall be done," she said, quietly.
"Well, well, I'll tell my man to bring round the board," said the kind-hearted doctor, "and I'll look in again in a few days to see what effect the lying down and the medicine have taken," and bidding them good-bye, he bustled away.
No sooner had he gone than Dora broke down completely. So violent was her weeping that when at length her sobs ceased she was quite exhausted. Perhaps it was because she was too weak to resist, that she suffered herself to be led to her room. Then having darkened the window, her mother sat down by her side, and gently bathed her heated forehead.
"Oh, mother, and this is the end of it!"
They were the first words she had spoken since the doctor had left. Only too well did Mrs. Grainger understand them.
"I should not wonder," she replied softly, "if in the future you will look back to this time and say, very happily, 'That was the beginning of it all.'"
"That could not be. See the trouble I have brought upon you when I only tried to be a help."
"Dora, you would not take the rest Nature demanded, and as her laws bring their own punishment if disobeyed, you must pay the penalty. Be thankful it is no worse."
"Nothing could be worse. Dr. Fowler said he didn't know when I should be able to do my work again."
"I believe good will come out of the evil. In the enforced quietude you will have time for thought, and you will see how, in attempting what is beyond your strength, you have made a fatal mistake. But your head is aching too much to talk now. Try to go to sleep, and presently I will bring you up a cup of tea."
And then as her mother turned to go, the truth flashed upon her. What she had considered unselfishness and noble sacrifice of self, had been utter selfishness and indulgence in self-glorification. The incident connected with Robert returned to her memory. The same thing had underlain every action since her father went. She had certainly taught her brothers and sisters, and with unhoped-for success. But what had been her motive for that work, for toiling so hard at her story-writing, and for going up for the examination? It was not for the good of others. It had been that she might think well of herself and should stand well in the opinion of her friends and relations. It had been for her own self-glory, self-praise, self-satisfaction; for that and nothing more.
And how low an object is self, none knew better than Dora. If she had been more ignorant, her distress would not have been so great. As she lay thinking in the cool, darkened room, she recollected what her mother had said on that evening, many months ago, when they had talked in the quiet sitting room by firelight.
"In proportion to the light that has been given you, so will you be expected to mould your life."
Then she remembered those far more solemn words which, having been once spoken, are spoken for all ages:
"'And that servant which knew his Lord's will and prepared not himself, neither did according to His will, shall be beaten with many stripes.'"
Yes, indeed, that did apply to her. A little reflection, a little serious self-examination, and she would have seen her mistake long ago. Now it was too late. She who had hoped to stand at the head of the list in the fulfilment of the trust received from her father, and in the promise he had asked of all his children, would be last of all. Poor Dora! Within and without all was darkness and despair to her that day.
But the rest and invalid life of the next week did her so much good physically that, at the end of that time, she took a much less gloomy view of the future. In her ample leisure for quiet thought she saw, too, she had no cause to despair. True, that instead of relieving her mother of care, she had brought more trouble upon her; for not only was her present ill-health a great anxiety, but by the persistent following out of her own inclinations, she must have given her constant uneasiness during the past months. But, by God's help, she would profit by the mistake she had made, and for the future, love of others, not of self, should be the motive power to influence her actions.
Meantime it was her duty to try to get well, and she found it a far harder task than she had anticipated.
One evening, about a fortnight after Dr. Fowler's first visit, she was lying on the reclining board in the drawing room, when she heard a rap at the door, and the next moment Percy Armstrong entered. She would have got up to receive him, but he begged her to remain where she was.
"Remember I'm a doctor," he said, "and have due respect for a fellow-doctor's orders." And then he talked so pleasantly that Dora forgot she was feeling wretchedly dull and depressed, and laughed and chatted quite gaily.
"Dora," he said, presently, "I am going to ask you to do me a kindness."
"If I can I will," she replied, for she greatly liked the young doctor, and would have done anything to oblige him. "But you must not forgot I am only a helpless invalid at present."
"All the better, for you'll give my mother the pleasure of looking after you. As you know, she hates to be idle, and is never happy unless she has plenty to do. I am going to send her to Ilfracombe for five or six weeks and I want you to be so good as to go with her and keep her company."
"But—but—" and between surprise, happiness, and a wish to say she couldn't think of letting her friends put themselves to extra expense on her account, she broke down completely.
"Not a word, if you please," said Percy. "I see quite well you are willing to oblige me, and you have only to see that your box is packed, and that you are ready to start at ten o'clock the day after to-morrow. And remember, the pleasure you will have, cannot be greater than my pleasure in being able to give my mother the change of air and scene she needs almost as much as you."
"But mother?" again began Dora.
"She knows, and will be very glad to hear I have had so little trouble in getting you to consent to my scheme."
Dora blushed so painfully that Percy immediately changed the conversation. But he left her very happy, and with the promise that she would be ready to start at the appointed time.
So it happened that Dora spent such a delightful six weeks at the seaside as she had before only imagined to herself in dreams. At first she could do little more than admire the beautiful view of hill, sea, and sky from the windows of their lodgings. But she grew daily stronger, and even the news that she had failed in her examination did not check her improvement. It was just what she might have expected, and certainly what she deserved, she remarked quietly. When at length she went back home, she looked so different that at first glance Phil actually didn't know her.
How rejoiced they all were to see her! The love which she saw in every caress, and smile, and action of her mother and brothers and sisters seemed to Dora, as it most certainly was, her most precious possession. Her return reminded them of another return, which, all being well, would take place in the winter. It was September now, and in the dusky half-hour after tea, when all were present, there was a long talk about that happy time.
From the future they came back to the present. Their father's trust, their promise, and the way in which each had been fulfilled were discussed. They all spoke very openly and freely that evening. Each owned where he or she had failed, and each resolved that the weakness should be guarded against and struggled with for the future. Even Olive and Lottie wont to bed serious and thoughtful, for they could not forgot the words so gravely uttered by their mother: "Even a child is known by his doings."
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REUNITED.
THE remainder of that year saw a steady, persevering effort on the part of all to walk in the path of duty, and be loving, sympathetic, and unselfish one towards the other. It might well give their mother joy to witness the good seed taking root and springing up in her children's hearts, and she prayed daily that they and her husband might all be spared so that the beginning of another year might find them once more a united and happy family.
Not the least of her mercies did she reckon Dora's restoration to health. On returning home she cheerfully obeyed the doctor's directions, and being careful not to overtax her strength, and only to resume her duties as she felt fully able to discharge them, her recovery was more rapid than her mother had dared to hope.
And Lancie, though he would always be delicate and never have the use of his poor withered limb, was better than he had been for years. Then it was found that he possessed great ability for drawing, and in the little cripple's heart there had sprung up a hope that, if he studied patiently and perseveringly, he might eventually earn his living as an artist. Other men, with weaker and more deformed bodies than his, had done it, and why not he? This hope, which he kept locked in his own heart, was a source of happiness to Lancie, and took away much that had helped to make him joyless and gloomy.
So time passed on. The Christmas holidays came and went; lessons at home and at school were again begun; and in a few days the ship in which Mr. Grainger had left Sydney was expected to arrive at Southampton.
It was evening; tea had been cleared away, and all excepting Phil, who was building a wonderful house of wooden bricks, and Olive and Lottie, who were making dolls' clothes, were intent either upon books or lessons. Stay though, there was one more exception—Mrs. Grainger was busy at her not unusual occupation of darning stockings, in which work she paused occasionally to hear Lancie repeat the tenses of a French verb.
Two or three of the party remembered afterwards that they had heard the front door bell ring; but nobody was paying any attention to what was going on outside, till suddenly the sound of Mary's voice fell upon their ears. So still was the room, and so eager and excited were her tones, that her words were distinctly audible.
"Why, sir, it is yourself, sure enough. Oh, won't they be glad! But they wasn't expectin' you for a day or two yet."
Then another voice was heard, and at the first sound, a little cry escaped Mrs. Grainger's lips. She rose hurriedly from her seat, and the next moment was in the hall. The children followed her, and then there was a shout, a rush, a crowding round a tall, bearded figure in an overcoat, while exclamations of delight and welcome, kisses, sobbing and laughter, were mixed together in wild confusion.
It was some little time before it was understood that, owing to the favourable weather, the good ship "Seabird" had completed the voyage sooner than was expected, and wishing to give his wife and children a glad surprise, Mr. Grainger had come straight from port without giving notice of his arrival in England. His anticipations of that meeting were not disappointed.
Mary had had her handshake, and, pleased and grateful for the goodwill it betokened, had retired to the kitchen. And while she busied herself in "getting out the tea-things for master," she constantly wiped away her tears at the sounds of rejoicing that reached her.
What an evening that was! Phil got sleepy at last and asked to be put to bed, but all the rest sat up till midnight. They felt they could not tear themselves away from the presence of the dear father who had been absent so long. And how they loved him! Had they ever known how much before that evening, they wondered.
Presently, when the clock gave warning that some of them must begin to think about saying good-night, and after a pause that seemed made because the happiness in that little room had grown almost too great for words, Edgar, in obedience to the wish he read in the faces of his brothers and sisters, became spokesman for them all.
"Father, you left us a trust—a charge," he said; and, having risen from his seat next his mother, he laid his hand gently on her shoulder. "We have not fulfilled it as we ought, as we might have done, but I think we can honestly say we have not been wholly forgetful, and have each done something to prove it."
"I know that, dear boy," was his father's reply. "Your mother's letters told me a great deal; the rest I could fill in for myself. I thank you all for taking such good care of her, and for striving to do your utmost to relieve and help her in every way you could. It was the truest way in which you could show your love for me."
"Father, I didn't; I added to her troubles." The words came from Dora. She said them eagerly, impulsively, as was sometimes her manner. And no sooner had her voice died away than Robert was heard saying sorrowfully,—
"You know what I did. I have been the worst of all."
"My boy, you fell grievously," said Mr. Grainger, gravely but fondly, "but you were sorry, and God forbid that I should ever bring up your sin against you. Be thankful you profited by your bitter experience. Your repentance brought your promise to your memory, and I know you have striven to keep it, for you have struggled with your besetting sins, and are steadily and surely overcoming them. Robert, I do not think we need speak of the past again."
No, there was no need; he felt that, and he looked into his father's face with a smile that was full of trust and full of love.
"And I have tried to keep the promise, father."
"And I."
"And I."
Not one voice was silent, but some were confident and sure, and others were doubtful and hesitating.
"I know you have, each one of you, though some have tried more bravely and thoroughly than the rest. Now let us resolve that from this time we will strive still more earnestly to love our Heavenly Father and to please and serve Him. Then our love for each other will increase and deepen, for he that loveth God will love his brother also. Children, kneel with me, and let us offer hearty thanks to Him who has permitted us all meet together again in safety, and let us, too, ask His blessing upon the future that awaits us."
A heartfelt prayer is never offered in vain, and with that blessing resting upon them, we may be sure the efforts of the again united family were not fruitless. We may be certain, too, that, with the love of God binding them together and strengthening their love for each other, there could be no happier household than that to which we must now say good-bye.
THE END.
——————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————GILBERT AND RIVINGTON, LD., ST. JOHN'S HOUSE, CLERKENWELL ROAD, LONDON.