"Don't you recognize me?" she said with her mellow laugh.
"Hardly. I did not realize you would be so tall. It is a resurrection. May I say how glad I am!"
His eyes met hers with smiling admiration, then when they were seated his brows contracted.
"Is it true that you're leaving this part for good?"
"I am going to join my brother and family in India."
"But do they want you?"
"How can you be so uncomplimentary! Of course they do!"
He drew a breath.
"I was hoping, for the child's sake—for our sakes—that you would be here a little longer. What am I to do with her? Can you advise me?"
"What do you think about the Macintoshes? Mrs. Macintosh is such a nice woman. She might be inclined to take her, and later on perhaps she would be strong enough to go back to school."
"I can't afford to lose her, but I like Mrs. Macintosh, and if her son would give her an hour or two of lessons every day, it would be the very thing. What a wonderful woman you are for lightening my burdens! I will go to them on my way home and see if they would be willing to do it. I think I shall be away on and off all the summer. There will be no inducement to come down here with you gone."
He stopped and looked at her as Rowena had never seen him look before. She was conscious of the quickened beating of her heart.
Then he compressed his lips.
Rowena said lightly:
"You must be more sociable this coming summer. For your little daughter's sake, you must be; and you will find it better for yourself to mix more with your fellow-creatures. I have come to the conclusion that my enforced seclusion has had its purposes, but it would not be good for me to continue it. A solitary life tends to selfishness; don't you think so?"
"Not in your case," he said warmly; "I have never met with such sympathy and understanding in my life before!" Then abruptly he rose to his feet. "I will go to the Macintoshes now. You will hear from me, if I do not come over to-morrow."
He took his departure. Rowena shook her head when he had gone.
"My dear," she soliloquized to herself, "you're not a young romantic girl! Remember your age and experience. You have had many men friends. Don't expect this particular man to mean anything more than mere platonic friendship. A very good and useful thing in its way!"
The next day came, and the next, but no letter from the laird.
Then at the end of the week Mrs. Macintosh came over and told Rowena that she had promised to give Mysie a home for the summer. And Rowena heard that the laird had gone off suddenly to town. She still waited for his letter, but it did not come, and the next thing was a wire from her brother, asking her to sail at once in the Lesbia, a P. & O. steamer going in a fortnight's time. Mysie went off to Mrs. Macintosh. She felt the parting from Rowena keenly, but, child-like, intended to enjoy her life at the manse. Rowena hastily packed up her things and went up to town. She knew General Macdonald's address there, and one day had talk with him through the telephone.
It was strangely unsatisfactory.
Rowena told him she was going sooner than she had thought, and had left Mysie comfortably settled in the manse. His replies were cold and grave. He wished her a safe journey, and thanked her for all she had done for his little girl.
At the end of the interview, he said:
"I understood your silence, so have not troubled you with any more correspondence."
Rowena was about to inquire what he meant, but they were cut off, and she did not see or hear from him again.
Later she puzzled over his words, then strove to put them from her.
"My Highland life and Highland friends will be only a memory now," she assured herself. "That chapter is closed. I am in another atmosphere altogether."
And she sailed for India with a smiling face and an aching heart.
"All are not taken! There are left behindLiving Beloved's tender looks to bring,And make the daylight still a happy thing,And tender voices to make soft the wind."E. Browning.
"ROWENA, I hope you mean to be kind to him. Remember he has taken all the trouble to travel down from Yorkshire to see us."
"But we did not invite him."
"Well, on board ship I gave him a kind of general invitation, seeing how smitten he was with you."
Rowena's brows contracted. She was silent.
Mrs. Arbuthnot looked at her a little anxiously.
"You know how desolate I and the chicks would be without you. Don't think for a moment that I want to lose you, but I do want you not to miss the happiness of married life, and dear Ted often used to say to me how he hoped you would marry. We thought when your letters were so full of Hugh Macdonald's child, that you would marry him; personally I never found him attractive. He had no sense of humour. And Ted said he couldn't see you tied up with him somehow." A heavy sigh followed, then impulsively Mrs. Arbuthnot turned to her sister-in-law.
"Oh, Rowena, I can't get accustomed to being without Ted! I can't believe he is silent for ever! I think it is cruel taking men so suddenly away; one day in full enjoyment of health and mental powers, the next struck down, and buried before one realizes they are dead! I wish—I wish we had never gone to India, I wish he had never taken that trip into the cholera-infected region! Nothing will ever comfort me! Men and women ought not to die till they lose their individuality. It is cruel, unreasonable. I never shall understand the reason for it."
"Poor Geraldine! It is difficult for you, but let me pass on a sentence a very nice woman gave me long ago. I have never forgotten it: 'Nothing is a puzzle, nothing is a mystery, if you have enough love and trust.'"
"Love and trust in whom?"
"In the One Who holds our lives in His keeping. Ted is not going to be silent for ever. I never felt so certain as I do now that he has stepped into the Kingdom of Heaven. Just before he went on that trip I had such a nice talk with him."
"Oh, I know, I know! He used to tell me that he believed in what you believed, because of your life. And you aren't a long-faced mute, I will say that for you. You comfort me when you talk so, but I'm a worldling. Don't let us talk of our sorrow, let us return to Major Cunliffe. Don't you like him? Oh, I wish you would, for your own sake! He is an old friend of Ted's, and has such a lovely old house in Yorkshire! We stayed there once when his mother was alive."
"He's a nice man," said Rowena slowly; "but I don't think he will ever be anything more than that to me."
"Don't you ever mean to marry?"
Rowena laughed.
"Nobody axed me, sir," she said.
"Now that's a fib. You had three out in India who were your devoted admirers."
"I feel like a kitchen-maid when you talk so," said Rowena.
She was sitting over the fire with her sister-in-law in a small house in a Surrey village. They had not long returned from India. Colonel Arbuthnot had been carried off by an epidemic of cholera about five months after Rowena had joined them out there. As soon as she was able, his widow returned to England, and Rowena accompanied her. An old friend of Colonel Arbuthnot's, Sir Henry Hazelwood, had offered her a pretty cottage in the village of which he was squire; for young Mrs. Arbuthnot had found it necessary to economize as much as possible. Her husband before his death was finding himself in difficulties, and had arranged to give up his Scotch lodge, much to his sister's regret. They had now just settled in the cottage, and the young widow was striving to take up life again for the sake of her little ones.
Rowena, of course, was the mainstay in the house. Her cheery personality kept them all going, and she was ready to turn her hand to anything, from painting a gate to repairing a lock; she had just started poultry, and they were thinking of having a little rough pony and trap, for the market town was a good three miles away.
It was a cold afternoon in March. Outside it was cheerless and grey. Inside, though simplicity reigned throughout the cottage, the little drawing-room was a picture of cheery comfort. Mrs. Arbuthnot was seated on a comfortable Chesterfield couch by the fire, her sewing in her hand.
Rowena was in a lounge chair opposite her, knitting away at a boy's sock.
"I suppose I must feel snubbed," said Mrs. Arbuthnot with rather a sad little smile. "I will drop the subject. And I am sure, as I said before, it would be my own loss if you left me. Aren't you afraid we shall find this place most painfully dull?"
"No," said Rowena brightly; "why should we? It's a lovely part of the world. Think of the woods and meadows for your pale-faced children. How many picnics we shall have this summer! And Sir Henry and his wife are always wanting us to join their social gatherings. Of course, you don't feel inclined to do so yet, but you will by and by. Ted would not like you to shut yourself up. And I think we're very lucky in our parson. I like him extremely. I have a great admiration for his eldest daughter, mothering the parish as she does, in addition to mothering her small brothers."
"Oh, Mr. Waring is all right enough! He's a gentleman and a scholar, and you and he have a good deal in common. I suppose India spoils one, and nothing will ever be the same to me without Ted—I hate a house without a man! It is like a cart without the horse, a train without an engine."
"Well, now turn your attention upon Major Cunliffe. I see him walking up the path."
A moment after, a tall handsome man was shaking hands with them both. But it was easy to see which of the women was the object of his visit.
Rowena leant back in her chair with easy friendliness. Not a blush on her cheek, or quiver of her eyelash, told that she was in the least impressed by his personality.
"We heard you were coming to the Hall," she said, looking at him with the usual twinkle in her eyes; "but we did not expect to see you quite so soon. You only arrived yesterday evening, did you not? Sir Henry called here just before he drove to the station to meet you."
"My inclination was to come round immediately after breakfast," Major Cunliffe replied promptly; "but Lady Hazelwood insisted upon inspecting her pet rock-garden, and she kept me there the greater part of the morning. I do not like people with hobbies. They ride them so hard."
"I think if a woman has no children it's a good thing to have a hobby," said Mrs. Arbuthnot, "especially in the country. The Hazelwoods are hardly ever in town. He's a born farmer. Don't you remember how he used to yarn in India about his shorthorns and pigs?"
"By Jove, yes. And we called him 'Mangels' in the mess. What a ripping little house you have here. How are the youngsters?"
"You remind me of my duties," said Mrs. Arbuthnot. "I promised to go up to them to-day when nursery tea was on. I shan't be long."
She slipped quietly out of the room.
Instinctively Major Cunliffe drew his chair a little nearer Rowena.
She looked up at him with her frank smile.
"Geraldine's hobby is her children, and they have comforted her a lot."
"Poor Mrs. Arbuthnot, she must be feeling rotten. But she's awfully sensible—she knew I wanted to see you alone, so she's bolted. Now, please don't put on that careless bored expression. I mean to have it out with you, and now is my chance. You kept me from speaking on board ship—circumstances always seemed to favour you. I shan't forget that ass of a Captain in a hurry, but you must listen now. I beseech you to be kind. You know I just adore you, and can't live without you."
"I don't know anything of the sort," Rowena replied very calmly and sweetly. "I know you were a most kind friend to us on board, and I always had a liking for you, because you were so fond of—my poor brother." Her voice faltered. He broke in quickly:
"Yes—I felt you had a liking for me—one can tell it—and now I want something more. Don't say you can't give it to me."
She looked at him gravely, and shook her head.
"I'm afraid it is no use, Major Cunliffe. I hate to give pain. You can never say I have encouraged you. I honestly think I shall never marry."
"It will be a sinful shame if you don't," said the Major hotly; "and I'm positive you and I would pull together A 1. Do just think of it—I'll wait a bit longer if you like. Why on earth should you be so detached? I suppose I'm not up to your level."
"Oh, please, please don't make me out such a brute."
There was real feeling in Rowena's voice. She went on a little unsteadily:
"I tried to make you see on board that I could never be anything but a friend. I was afraid of this. You would make anyone a good husband, Major Cunliffe; you are so unselfish, so tender as far as women and children are concerned. But I will be frank with you. My heart is not mine to give away. We women are foolish creatures; and I am the most foolish of my sex—I can say no more."
"You love some one else."
He murmured the words, but blank dismay was in his eyes—Rowena was absolutely, silent, then she put out her hand.
"Shake hands, and bear me no ill will. I shall live and die a single woman. Of that I feel sure, but life is full of interest to single women, and we do value friendship. May I think that I can still have yours, even if our paths in life lie apart. I wish I could give you the answer you want, but I cannot."
Major Cunliffe looked at her in a dazed sort of way. Then he wheeled round towards the window, and stood looking out with his back to her trying to bear his disappointment courageously.
Rowena sat with clasped hands and dejected mien. She was very tender-hearted, and could not bear to give pain. In a few minutes he turned to her.
"Well—you seem sure of your own mind. I will say no more. It's no good prolonging our interview. Say good-bye to Mrs. Arbuthnot. I feel I can't face her—and if ever you do happen to think differently, I hope you'll let me know."
He wrung her hand, and stumbled out of the room. Rowena watched him striding down the little path to the gate with tears in her eyes.
"I hope we shall not be meeting any more of them here," she murmured to herself. "And now I shall have to smooth down Geraldine's ruffled feathers." That was soon done. Mrs. Arbuthnot was too truly fond of her sister-in-law to wish her to marry a man she did not care for; but she was disappointed, and it needed all Rowena's brightness to bring smiles to her face again.
Fortunately another visitor called that afternoon.
Mrs. Arbuthnot loved society, and for the time she forgot Major Cunliffe's dismissal.
This visitor was a wealthy widow who lived alone in a big house about three miles off.
Her husband belonged to the county, and had died many years previously.
Mrs. Burke was very popular with her neighbours, but the Hazelwoods had told Rowena that she was a little too rapid and go ahead for them.
"She is never quiet; the life she leads would wear me out in a month," gentle Lady Hazelwood said. "She has a house in Park Lane, and is hospitality itself, and very kindhearted. Young people adore her, for she gives them such a good time. Even in this quiet place, she keeps the ball of gaiety rolling. She has plenty of money, and spends it on amusements for herself and her guests."
Mrs. Burke was a handsome woman about fifty. As Rowena watched her talking to her sister-in-law, she felt a sudden liking for her.
"Oh, you mustn't be dull or unhappy," she was saying; "you will have nice neighbours, and I always have house-parties during the summer. There will be plenty going on soon. Come over and see me before my visitors arrive, if you like. I am alone now, and it would be a charity to take pity on me. The only time I get the blues is when I have nobody to talk to."
"Have you a dog?" asked Rowena. "I had a winter of solitude up in the Highlands and found my little 'Shags' a great comfort when I wanted to deliver my soul!"
Mrs. Burke turned quickly to her.
"I never make friends with my dogs. I have no time. It takes me all my time to live. I tried companions, but oh! how they bored me! They were either a mild echo of myself, or tried to manage me. Will you waive ceremony and come to lunch with me next Wednesday? Do—I have quite a good cook, and she does hate wasting her dainties on me. I never know or care what I eat when I'm alone."
Mrs. Arbuthnot accepted the invitation, but when the day came, her little girl was not well, and she would not leave her. She insisted upon Rowena going, and begged her to enjoy herself.
"There is so little going on here, that I am quite glad of a sociable neighbour, and I shall look forward to your account of her when you return. You always see the amusing side of everybody!"
Rowena walked off. She thought nothing of the three miles, and enjoyed every step of her way. She found that Mrs. Burke was not alone; two girls, by name Violet and Diana Dunstan, were lunching with her, and the talk was chiefly on hunting, and the last meet which was taking place the following week. The girls went off directly after lunch, but Mrs. Burke pressed Rowena to stay, and took her into a very cosy little morning-room.
"I'm very fond of Vi and Di, as they are called, but one soon gets to the end of them, and I haven't got to the beginning of you yet."
"I shan't take much knowing," said Rowena easily. "I am pretty well what I look. An ordinary sort of every-day person."
"You are neither one nor the other," replied Mrs. Burke promptly. "Now I have powers of observation, and you're a reader; that I know from the way you scanned my bookshelves when you came in here."
"Well, yes, I am. My truant eyes betrayed me."
"You'll find nothing but novels, and books of travel and adventure," said Mrs. Burke. "I cannot understand poetry, and history is most unsatisfactory. Theology and all the other ologies are too stiff and dry. I have no time for thinking. Like the Americans, I like to make things hum. And people interest me more than anything else in the world. Would you like to hear about your neighbours?"
"Very much," was Rowena's response.
"Well, to begin with, Vi and Di, they live with their brother, who only came into his property two years ago. It came to him through an uncle. They lived up in the north, and are thorough sportswomen—up to any larks, and make the hair of old-fashioned folk about here stand on end at their pranks. Their brother Bob is a good sort, but a little rough. You know the Hazelwoods, they're a model squire and wife, and are nothing if not correct. Eight miles distant are the Easterbrooks: he's a new-made peer, and everything about them is new—their house, their garments, their furniture, and their manners. There are two old Miss Humbers of whom I'm rather fond, they pretend they are old-fashioned and out of date, but they love to be shocked, and I and my friends do it pretty often. They have one of the loveliest gardens in the country, and of course their gardener is an autocratic tyrant. Then there is a bachelor establishment about four miles off. Two brothers, both been in the army and retired—one a general, the other a colonel. They live together; one hunts and shoots, the other gardens, and has a pet aviary. Their name is Sheringham. The parsons and doctors never interest me in the least, nor do their families, and most of my friends come down to me from town. I may as well tell you that I was a parson's daughter myself and lived in the Cotswolds before I married. I know too much about parsons and their kind to have much to do with them now."
She compressed her lips rather bitterly, then laughed. "My motto is 'keep the world rolling with smiles'; nobody can say I do otherwise. But, oh dear, I have times when I long for a secretary or companion to take some of my duties from me. Just look here!" She opened a bureau, which seemed almost bursting with letters and papers. "That's a week's correspondence, and I haven't touched it yet. I sometimes want to burn the contents of my postbag before I look it through. I get such thousands of begging letters, and my friends are always worrying me with their wants!"
"That is one of the penalties of wealth," said Rowena. "You can't escape its responsibilities."
"Don't you hate that word responsibility? I try to be as irresponsible as I can. And if you're clever, you can always shift your burdens on to other's shoulders. Now I've talked about myself enough. Tell me what your line is. You're neither a prude, nor a rollicker."
"I don't think I have ever set to work to dissect myself," said Rowena, amused. "I'm interested at present in my sister-in-law and her family, and in making two shillings go as far as five. We have never been used to economy before, at least she has not, and it takes a bit of doing. And just now I'm on the look-out for a rough pony and trap in which we can jog about the lanes, and enjoy the country."
"I know the very thing for you. A farmer wants to sell one: his wife used to drive about in it, for she was lame, and now she is dead, poor thing!"
In discussing a possible bargain, personal topics were dropped. Rowena returned home well pleased with her neighbour, but she said to her sister-in-law:
"She's a jolly easy-going soul, and kindness and good nature personified, but she's hiding away from something in spite of all her careless abandon of talk: I should like to know her better."
In a short time Mrs. Arbuthnot had contentedly settled down to their quiet life. Rowena got her trap and pony, and trundled about the sweet-smelling lanes with the children inside it.
Before long they were on pleasant terms of intimacy with their neighbours, but to Rowena Mrs. Burke was the most interesting personality of them all.
She was always entertaining; and as the summer drew on, private theatricals, tennis parties, and picnics followed each other in quick succession. Her friends from town were not always liked by the county. She had a good many Bohemians, and stray geniuses, who contributed towards the general gaiety with their freakish talent.
Once she arrived at the Green Cottage early in the morning, and besought Rowena to return with her at once.
"I want you to take the place of a girl whose father has just died. So tiresome of him to choose this week to do it in! She's simply unique in running my musical programme for the village concert coming off; she keeps every one in good temper, and plays all the accompaniments. I know you'll do that all right, and I'm sure you'll help to keep the peace. My dear Italian Countess is nearly tearing out the eyes of my best tenor because he said she sang sharp in the duet they have together. To sing sharp is a more deadly crime than to sing flat, I find. Come along just as you are, we must have a rehearsal this morning, for we're all going off to the sea in cars this afternoon, and you know it is only fifteen miles away?"
Rowena went off obligingly. She returned about three in the afternoon, tired, but very interested.
"Oh, Geraldine, she reminds me of those men with a happy family in a cage! Her elements of humanity do not harmonize. Aristocrats and violent radicals, oldish women who have been beauties, and young intolerant girls who laugh at them. I admire her wonderful adaptability, and good temper in dealing with them all. But I wouldn't have such guests in a house of mine for all the wealth in the world! And yet she hasn't a wrinkle on her face, and her energy in 'rolling the ball,' as she expresses it, is superhuman!"
"She's a very tiring old woman," said Mrs. Arbuthnot; "she ought to be content with a quiet life at her age."
Rowena laughed.
"She does not consider she is a day older than she feels, and that is about twenty-three, I should say! But I hope she is not going to come upon me to make up all her guests' deficiencies. I like the simple life, and a little of hers goes a long way!"
"Sometimes," said Mrs. Arbuthnot slowly, "I think that year of solitude in the Highlands was bad for you, Rowena. You ought to love gadding round at your age."
"My age, madam, is past that of giddy youth!" And then Rowena quitted the room, singing as she went:
"I have a smiling face, she saidI have a gist for all I meet,I have a garland for my head,And all its flowers are sweet—"
"Is not making others happy the best happiness?"Amiel.
"MY dear Geraldine, what is the matter? Your face is a yard long. Have you had bad news?"
Mrs. Arbuthnot looked up from her letters and sighed.
She and Rowena were at breakfast. It was a lovely morning in June. The windows were open, a sweet brier bush outside was scenting the room with its fragrance.
"Madge is going to be married almost immediately."
"Three cheers for Madge! If I had a sister, and a sister who has been engaged for five years, I should be overjoyed at the event."
"Oh, I am glad for her sake, of course; but I have had four sheets from her showing me how impossible it is for mother to live alone, and imploring me to take the children and make Whitecroft my home."
"A most sensible arrangement. It is a roomy old house, and nearer town than this is. You will be very happy there, my dear!"
"I like a house of my own. I have always had it."
"Yes, but your mother is a dear, gentle, old lady. Madge always ran the house, and you can do the same."
Geraldine sighed again.
"I hate changes, and Madge is going to be married in a fortnight and going straight out to the Cape with Frank, and she wants me to pack up my things and go to mother the end of this month."
"Sir Arthur will let you off the rent of this, and nowadays he will have no trouble in getting another tenant. I would take it on myself if I had enough money."
"But you will be with us, of course."
Mrs. Arbuthnot raised a startled face to her sister-in-law.
Rowena swung herself up on the low window-ledge, and sat there with her hands in her pockets, and her feet swinging to and fro. She whistled softly to herself, but did not speak for a minute, and Mrs. Arbuthnot repeated her words:
"You will come with us? I am not going to part with you."
"My dear Geraldine, leave me out of the question. Your first thought is your mother, and being what she is, and having no other children to look after her, I consider it is your bounden duty to go to her. Make up your mind to it. Whitecroft is a sweet home, and it is your mother's own, and too big for her to live in alone. That point is quite clear, and now when is the wedding, and what are you going to wear?"
The question of clothes brought a smile to Mrs. Arbuthnot's lips. She began to see sunshine again; and after she was thoroughly reconciled to her duty which lay before her, Rowena left her to write her letters, and went off out of the house and along the lanes with swift light steps.
Once she knitted her brows, and murmured:
"It's a game of see-saw. Geraldine will go up, as far as comfort in her surroundings go, and I shall go down. What a darling Ted was to leave me enough to stave off starvation! But it won't give me a home. And I must have a roof over my head. And to think that only a few weeks ago I scoffed in my heart at Mrs. Burke's offer. The bread of dependence is not palatable, but it must be munched and eaten by you, my dear Rowena, and the sooner you settle it the better."
The three miles to Minley Court seemed of no account to Rowena. She was a good walker, and was too deep in thought to notice any details by the way. She found Mrs. Burke in her morning-room, and it was a propitious moment for her request. The impatient lady was seated at her writing-desk; letters and papers were fluttering all round her, and as she turned to greet Rowena, she swept a packet of papers upon the carpet with her elbow.
"Thank goodness, somebody has arrived to distract me from this chaos! Come out upon the terrace, and I will enjoy a cigarette if you will not join me. I have the car coming round in half an hour, I am going to the Fletchers. May I take you with me? They're charming people, and you ought to know them. He's a retired admiral, and she's a daughter of Lord Gallway."
"I'm afraid I must return home quickly. I have come on business this time, and will get to it at once. Do you remember you were good enough to ask me the other day if I would be your companion-secretary, and I told you how impossible it was for me to leave my sister-in-law and her children? Well, circumstances are changed. She is giving up her house and going to live with her mother in Berkshire, and I am not going with her. I couldn't: a mixed household is a mistake, so I am on my own, and able to do what I like. If your offer still holds good, I would like to accept it."
"You will? My dear girl, that's the best bit of news I have had for a long time! I shall be enchanted to have you. I feel inclined to plant you at my desk now, and start you at that infernal—well, we'll say unpleasant—mass of letters and bills. It's an accumulation of a couple of months. I never can overtake it. Why is the art of begging, and dunning, and boring, made so easy to all of us? When will you come to me? To-morrow?"
"Indeed no, but in another week or two."
"I suppose I shall have to wait your time. Now we must settle your salary. Will two hundred pounds suffice? Remember, it will be an arduous post, for I drive every one about me they say. My days are overfull, and I shall expect you to be at my beck and call for a good many hours I am afraid."
Rowena laughed.
"Your salary is munificent, and I am not afraid of work. I shall get a little quiet time to myself in and out. Thank you very much. Then it is settled. I should love to tidy up your papers to-day, but I must be getting back. Will you expect me this day fortnight?"
"You're too good for the post," said Mrs. Burke, putting her hand on her shoulder affectionately. "I shall pretend you're a sort of daughter, but daughters nowadays wouldn't do their mother's dirty work, would they? Oh, I'm delighted to have you. There's something so restful and dependable in your face, and you do enjoy a joke! I hate these stuffy solid folk who open their eyes widely, and think one a lunatic if one indulges in a bit of fun. Good-bye, if you must go, and I'll give you the second best spare room; it's sunny, and bright, like yourself."
Rowena marched home feeling she had burnt her boats, and wondering why she had such pride of heart as to mentally squirm at the thought of her future.
"An empty purse and high head don't harmonize," she said to herself. "I must consider that I'm benefiting one of my fellow-creatures by becoming one of her dependants, and I shall have a chance of getting beneath her outer crust. There's something I don't understand in her composition. She's too sensible to be so frivolous."
When Mrs. Arbuthnot was informed of Rowena's plans, she was very perturbed and vexed.
"I have a great mind to refuse to go to mother. What shall I do without you? It's cruel of you! You're like a bit of Ted left to me—and the house is big enough for you, and mother would be charmed to have you."
"It can't be done," said Rowena firmly. "Ask me to pay you a visit sometimes."
"Oh, if Mrs. Burke gets you into her clutches, she will never let you go! I wish you had never met her. She's like an octopus for drawing all the best into her nets. I cannot see her attractiveness. To me she's thorough bad style, and you'll lead a most rackety life, and will never be able to call a moment your own!"
Rowena could not comfort her. Happily, there was so much to do and arrange that it took away her thoughts from their parting. She arranged to go to her mother before the wedding, and the little house was dismantled and bare within the prescribed fortnight. Rowena was the last to leave it, and when she eventually drove off to Minley Court in the car sent for her with her luggage packed up behind, she felt as if this second rooting up of her life was a very black and gloomy performance. But she arrived at her new home with a cheerful countenance. She found Di and Vi Dunstan with Mrs. Burke.
"We feel so deadly when the hunting is off," said Vi. "Mrs. Burke is our only cheer. We are trying to concoct a few new games for her next garden-party. Come and help us with your wit!"
"You're going to have diggings here, aren't you?" questioned Di. "Good for you. I'd like the job myself."
"Miss Arbuthnot's job is not going to be an easy one," said Mrs. Burke with her jolly laugh. "She's going to supply all my deficiencies, and run me and my household in a more orthodox fashion."
"Oh, dash orthodoxy!" cried Vi. "How I loathe the word, as bad as conventionality and propriety, and all the rest of the prudisms and prisms!"
Rowena had to sit down then and there and discuss seriously whether a game of hare and hounds, in which the hare was to trail the contents of scent sachets or scent bottles behind him, could take place in the grounds of Minley Court.
"We'll have six hares, all men, and ladies must be the hounds, and one might use pepper as his scent, and another onions; and another might scatter rose-leaves behind him—nothing like variety! It will be topping!"
It was difficult for Rowena to show much interest in their childishness, but Mrs. Burke took pity on her. "Come on up to your room, and we'll leave you in peace till tea comes. Vi and Di are quite equal to organizing their own schemes."
So Rowena followed Mrs. Burke up the old staircase along a very broad corridor, until they came to the room prepared for her.
It was, as Mrs. Burke had told her, one of the brightest rooms in the house, and looked, in its dainty dimity coverings, very cool and sweet.
Rowena glanced at the comfortable chairs and couch, and at the charming writing-table in one window.
"My dear Mrs. Burke," she said gaily, "how can I thank you for indulging me so? I hope this luxury will not unfit me for my duties."
"Duty is never mentioned in my house," said Mrs. Burke, putting her hands on both her shoulders and suddenly stooping and giving her a quick warm kiss on her cheek. "We slip along as we like, and pick up what fragments of necessary work we can, just to prevent the house tumbling to pieces. You'll work, and I'll continue to play, but I shan't work you hard, and I warn you that you must suffer gladly continual interruption. To-day you are to be my guest; to-morrow you can tackle my correspondence."
"Thank you, then I'll take this hour before tea to settle my belongings, and congratulate myself upon such a role!"
Mrs. Burke left her. When she joined her young friends again, she said:
"I'm in luck's way at last. I can't think why she has not married!"
"There's time yet," said Di laconically; "there's a reaction set in, now there are no more embryo heroes to be wed. There aren't many sound able men just now, plenty of boys, but they'll keep."
"You always go for a fresh pal like hot bricks!" said Vi. "She isn't a bad sort, this Miss Arbuthnot, but she's hardly one of us. I see something more solid in her face than her first appearance would warrant. Her eyes make you think she's out for larks, but there's a twist to her lips that shows she's a quizzer!"
"I like her," Mrs. Burke asserted stoutly, "and you'll like her too when you know her better."
Rowena was relieved when she came down to tea to find that the Miss Dunstans had taken their departure. She and Mrs. Burke were alone, and they had tea under the rose pergola at the end of the terrace.
"There's one thing I want to ask you," said Rowena presently; "and that is if I may have Sunday to myself? I don't care how hard I work in the week, but I should like to feel free on Sunday."
Mrs. Burke looked at her rather curiously.
"Oh, well," she said, after a minute's silence, "I shan't want you to do any secretarial work on Sunday, but socially it's a day that hangs a bit heavy, and I may want your help with my guests. I have a good many week-end parties, you know."
"Yes. I don't want to sound disobliging, but I still want that day for myself."
"I wish you would explain. Do you want to go right away, or is it a question of principles? Are you a Sabbatarian? Nothing so out of date, I am sure. I go to church occasionally, when it's not too hot, and when I'm not too tired. Very often I keep to my bed till lunch. If my guests bore me I invariably do so."
"I like a quiet Sunday," said Rowena, looking at her with her frank smile. "I suppose I have always been indulged in that way. In India my brother and his wife always went down to the Club, but I retired to my room for the afternoon; they never minded. And of course I shall go to church, I always have done so."
"Oh, you can go to church all day long if you want to," Mrs. Burke said with impatience in her tone; "only don't dictate to me as to how I should keep the Sabbath. I had enough of that when I was young!"
Rowena looked at her sympathetically.
"I expect you were driven with too tight a curb, weren't you? Isn't it a pity when children are made by force of circumstances to hate what should have been their joy?"
"I don't think you will find children look upon church-going as a joy," said Mrs. Burke, with bitterness in her tone. "In one case I have a vivid remembrance of sitting up in church with aching head and back, and with a positive loathing for the unutterably weary prayers, and lengthy sermon. My father was a parson, and when I grew older I had to be at early service at 7.30, Sunday school at ten, service again at eleven, school at three. Evening service at 6.30, and sometimes a choir practice afterwards. I would come into supper after our day of devotion was over, sick in body and soul of it all!"
"If your heart wasn't in it, it must have been torture, I've always had a lax bringing up as regards church, but somehow from a child I enjoyed it. About eighteen months ago I had an accident in the hunting field, and was laid up on my back for a year. I went to my brother's house in the Highlands, and used to hear the church bells across the loch as I lay on my couch and longed that I could go. After a year's privation from church-going, I went out to India, and there we only got a service about once a month when we were in the hills—at other times a church parade lasting about half an hour. Now since we have been back in England I'm thoroughly enjoying my church. I learnt a lot of things when I was lying on my back, and it is a matter of principle with me to have a quiet day on Sunday; I hope you don't like me the less for it."
"I didn't think you were that sort," Mrs. Burke said. Her tone was almost sulky.
"Have we made a mistake? Shall I throw it up, and go away with my sister?"
"Good heavens, no! You shall have your Sundays, but don't let me feel you're carping at us if we can't live up to your level."
"My dear Mrs. Burke, if you saw into my mind you would know that it's the last thing I would do. I'm such a stumbling sort of creature myself, that I feel at the very lowest level of all. One day, when I'm more at home with you, perhaps you'll let me tell you of a bit of my Highland experience. Till then believe me, that I shall never be your critic. I have come here to give you my help, and I honestly will try to do my best in your service."
Mrs. Burke's face cleared.
"All serene then! And now we'll talk of other things. Do you know the Fortescue Bakers? I hear they have just taken a farm house near here. They've bought it, and mean to turn it into a lovely little house. He is an artist you know, and bound to make everything beautiful that lies across his path."
Rowena listened to the local gossip, and pleased Mrs. Burke by her interest and sympathy.
For a wonder Mrs. Burke was alone. She was expecting visitors the next day. After dinner they strolled through the beautifully kept grounds, and Mrs. Burke told Rowena the details of her past life.
"I was, as I told you this afternoon, a parson's daughter, and my father was of the strict evangelical school. We were supposed to live apart from all worldly gaieties. Never allowed to dance, or go to a play, or enjoy ourselves with any young people who did so. And strange to say I was content and even happy in those days. I was the youngest. Two of my sisters married neighbouring curates. One is now a missionary with her husband in China; the other is in Liverpool. I have lost touch with her; we did correspond before my husband's death, but she and her husband thoroughly disapprove of me. My third sister was the one who kept everything going at home, but a bad time came. Our mother, who was always delicate, went down with 'the Flu.' It raged round us. One of my brothers had it with the complication of double pneumonia, and both he and my mother died. Then my sister got it and went into a decline. She was overworked and could not battle with it. I was just seventeen then, so had to take command and run the house and parish. There was never a question of recreation or rest for a parson's daughter. We were wretchedly poor, and the struggle to keep up appearances was awful. My remaining brother was at college, and we fought hard to keep him there. I often wish he had earned his bread in a humbler sort of way, for three years afterwards he died in London—a question of underfeeding and overwork—the same as my poor sister. I can tell you the record of those years sent the iron into my soul. There is no tragedy so great as some of these parsons' lives! Well, to make a long story short, my father died when I was twenty-three, and I was left penniless and homeless."
"My sister in Liverpool said I must come to her till I got some sort of employment. Now romance steps in. In spite of my training, and discipline and poverty, I was a bright pretty girl then. I thoroughly believed in my father's steadfast creed that all things worked together for good to those who love God, and that belief served to keep my head above water. Whilst the contents of the Parsonage were being sold, our Squire's wife, Lady Mary Crosby, took pity on me, and insisted that I should come up to the Hall till things were settled. It was there I met my husband. He was Lady Mary's nephew and young and handsome: there were no other girls for him to take notice of, and we fell headlong in love with each other. Lady Mary treated it as a boy and girl flirtation; she never gave Alfred credit for anything serious. When I eventually went to my sister, I considered myself engaged to him. She was horrified. Everyone at the Hall had always been considered 'worldly'; and she tried to show me how impossible and wicked such a union would be. But they say a worm will turn at last. I had had enough of the hard penurious life of the godly. I was young, and felt the blood rising and beating in my veins. Before me was a life of pleasure and luxury. I looked at my sister with her thin cheeks and prematurely wrinkled face, I noted her children, seven in number, were all growing up, and requiring food and clothing which could not be given them. I saw her husband too weak in body to be strong in soul. His preaching was a failure: He was a dispirited disappointed man; an irritable husband and father, a gloomy narrow-minded parson. Oh, I know you think me hard, but looking back, I don't wonder that my youth rebelled against such a fate as my sister's! I felt secure of Alfred's affection, and determined to stick to him. To make a long story short, we wrote to each other and in spite of much opposition from both his family and mine, we finally married, and I have not regretted doing so!"
There was something almost defiant in Mrs. Burke's tone. Rowena was deeply interested.
"How well I seem to see it all!" she said. "But did you discard religion as an old glove when you married?"
"I did. I was nothing, if not sincere in those days. I knew my husband was out to enjoy life, and I meant to enjoy it with him. It had to be one thing or the other with me. I felt that a certain part of me had always been starved, my sister assuring me that it was the worst part of me. But I meant to have my fill of what the world could give me. I threw my ultra-fastidious conscience to the winds. I determined to live as the greater part of the young world lives, for pleasure and amusement, and I have done so ever since. My motto is to have a good time and to help everyone else to have the same."
"And when your husband died?"
"Ah, don't remind me of the black blots in my life! I have had two. I lost our darling little only child at two years old, and then my husband, after only five years of happy married life. He was killed out hunting. But these times come to us all. I forget them or try to do so."
Rowena remembered that only two years previously she had been living the same life as Mrs. Burke; and felt that she could not judge her.
There was a little silence, then Mrs. Burke said with an effort:
"They say every one has a skeleton in the cupboard. Do you know what mine is? It's a certain verse from the Bible that haunts me, and turns up at times to disturb my tranquillity. You see I know my Bible well. We were too much nourished on it ever to forget it, and the verse was a favourite one of my father's; he used to preach on it:
"'Cast not away therefore your confidence which hath greatrecompense of reward!'"
"That comes up at intervals. Of course I have cast my confidence away. I have none in God or Heaven or in any of the unseen things which good people say we ought to have even down here. I have made my choice and must abide by it. There now! To no living being have I ever confessed so much before. What is it about you that makes me talk so?"
"I don't know," said Rowena with her sunshiny smile, "but I know now why you have attracted me. I felt there was something beautiful deep down out of reach."
"Beautiful! Deep down! What do you mean? Haven't I just shown you, as parsons would say, the depravity of the human heart?"
Rowena did not speak for a moment; she was looking away dreamily as if into space. They were pacing up and down an old box-bordered walk, and now for a moment paused at the end of it. The sun was sinking slowly behind a belt of pines silhouetted against the line of the blue distant hills.
"I remember about a year ago," said Rowena slowly, "talking to my brother's Scotch gardener about a certain part of the shrubbery where things grew in the most wonderful thriving way. He said that long ago that bit of ground had been a vegetable plot, and had been well worked. Later on a summer-house had been built upon it, then it had fallen into ruins and the shrubbery planted. He said that deep down under the rubbish cleared away of the summer-house, there was real good soil, and it was making itself felt in spite of the time that had elapsed since it had been worked."
"Now what on earth are you doing? Giving me a parable to read. There's no good soil left in my soul, let me tell you! Come along in, and don't for goodness' sake set my skeleton walking! He is shut up and locked away as a rule."
Rowena said no more.
When "good night" was being said, Mrs. Burke remarked with her jolly laugh:
"One day I shall demand an account of your depths, and you will have to give it to me. But I warn you in my house, you will have to frivol whether you like it or not."
"Heart buried in the rubbish of the world—The world—that gulf of Souls—immortal Souls."Young.
IT was a strange life into which Rowena had slipped. Anyone else who held the same views that she did would have found it impossible. But Rowena had always a wonderful adaptability to her circumstances. And she had a supreme faith and hope in the best of people, which is often hidden from those who only look on the surface. Those in her company were strangely conscious of this. They knew that if she did not agree with them, she would not harshly judge them, and that she always believed in the best of them, not the worst. Vi and Di in their reckless youth were inclined to look upon her with hostility at first. Before long she was in their full confidence. Vi confided in her continual and varied love affairs, Di, confessed her many debts and her subterfuges for escaping payment. They turned to her when Mrs. Burke did not please them. More than once she had to act as peacemaker, for she soon discovered that there were certain days and occasions when Mrs. Burke's spirits collapsed, and she was irritable and captious with all around her.
Rowena tackled her sheaves of unanswered letters, and all her business with indomitable patience. As a rule she never left the library from breakfast to luncheon. In the afternoons she was at Mrs. Burke's disposal, and that lady had generally need of her, but her Sundays were her own. Rowena appeared at meal times, but often in the afternoons would take some biscuits in her pocket, and her small tea kettle, and would go out into the woods with her books, have her tea there, and not come in till evening service. She rarely missed the morning and evening services in the little country church. In the morning, she took a class at the Sunday School. Her Sundays refreshed and strengthened her for the week. Minley Court had not a restful atmosphere.
There was a continual stream of visitors, and perpetual entertainments for them.
There were a certain number of steady Bridge players, but Mrs. Burke herself would not play much.
"I hate sitting still," she said. "I like to be on the move."
There were moonlight picnics on the river, and at the sea; there were tournaments of croquet, tennis, bowls, and archery, and any other game that was in vogue. There were impromptu plays and charades, and any amount of childish games and romps in which the elders took part quite as enthusiastically as the younger ones. Rowena played accompaniments, organized the games, looked after the comfort of all, and was her easy humorous self amongst a set of people whom she might have condemned and despised. She was soon a general favourite. One poor lady's maid departed suddenly owing to the death of her mother. Rowena met the tearful lady in the corridor bewailing her fate, and went straight into her room, and helped her dress for dinner, even dressing her hair. It was little acts like this that made her popular, and somehow or other Rowena got many an opportunity, which she was eager to seize, of a word upon the human world, and upon the high destiny of each soul that is born.
She never preached; she simply dropped a seed here, and a seed there; and prayed that it might be nurtured and brought to fruitfulness. And as she never spoke of these things in public, the guests were willing to talk to her in the privacy of their bedrooms, or when taking a solitary walk with her. They told her frankly of their troubles and difficulties, and she told them frankly of an infallible remedy for all.
One girl who was thinking of taking up the stage as a profession said to Rowena after they had had a long serious talk together in her bedroom one evening: "You know I've never heard of these things. I've never come across good people. They always keep away from us, and I get my ideas of religion through the Churches which I hardly ever attend. And it never entered my head that I, as an individual unit, shall be held responsible for my influence and life. I don't like the idea at all; but somehow you have made me believe in it. It's most upsetting."
She left after a week's visit, but persisted in starting a correspondence with Rowena, and some time later, told her she was giving up the idea of the stage, as she did not think it would be satisfying.
One day Mrs. Burke and Rowena were driving out when they met the rector and his daughter Maude. He wanted to speak to Mrs. Burke about some parochial matter, and whilst he was speaking to her, Rowena and Maude chatted together. The girl was devoted to Rowena, and carried on a very animated conversation with her. Mrs. Burke glanced at her in surprise, and suddenly turned to her and asked her to come to tennis the following afternoon.
After a little hesitation on the part of her father the invitation was accepted, and they drove on.
"Why that girl is quite pretty," Mrs. Burke said. "I thought she was a little stiff prig. I have only seen her in church, and hurrying in and out of the cottages. I wonder if I should be allowed to give her a good time? Remembering my own poverty-stricken youth, I always pity these parsons' daughters."
"Maude is a very happy girl," said Rowena; "and you can't look upon her father as a tyrant. He gives her all the pleasures he can."
Mrs. Burke nodded her head knowingly:
"We'll see. I shall cultivate her acquaintance."
"Don't bewitch her," Rowena said, laughing: "don't try to make her discontented with her lot."
"Leave me alone, and don't spoil sport."
Rowena had reason to fear Mrs. Burke's influence. She had a way with her of captivating all young girls, and Maude fell an easy prey to her. When she went home from the tennis party, she told her father that Mrs. Burke had been adorable to her, and wanted her to come to dine the following Saturday, when she would have a house-party. "Do let me go, Dad. You like Miss Arbuthnot and she will be there."
"No, my child, not on Saturday. I know the style of Mrs. Burke's week-end parties, and don't want a daughter of mine mixed up in them."
"Oh, I shall be so disappointed. You might let me this once."
The Rector was immovable, and for the first time his bright little daughter left his study with a cloud upon her face, and a feeling of resentment in her heart against her father's will.
Rowena watched with anxiety Mrs. Burke's efforts to capture the girl's affection. She saw how much she loved her popularity, and how she tried to attract the young. Always fearless, Rowena spoke to her one day about it: "Do you really think you will put fresh happiness into Maude's life by making her discontented with her home, and giving her a taste for things out of her sphere?"
"I love to see the young thoughtless. They ought to be."
"It's the crackling of the thorns under the pot," said Rowena. "I often wonder how you can keep it up; you are worthy of higher things!"
"Stuff! Don't lecture me! My life is my own. If I fritter it away, I have only myself to blame."
She continued to waylay Maude. She sent her presents, she took her drives, and the girl's head was becoming turned. Then Rowena determined to interfere. She met Maude in the village one day, on her way to visit a sick woman at a distant farm, and she volunteered to accompany her.
Maude was delighted, but her conversation was entirely upon Minley Court. She asked Rowena who the next guests were going to be, what entertainments were going to be given to them, and said in her enthusiastic way:
"I do think Mrs. Burke so delightful, she's so unselfish, always trying to make people happy! I don't know why Dad does not like her. I suppose it is because she comes to church so seldom. I envy you living with her, the whole house is so jolly, every one seems so happy!"
"My dear child, if you were to ask my opinion, I should say the atmosphere at the Rectory was far happier. Clowns laugh, you know, with breaking hearts. Laughter and noise are no true test of happiness. Don't barter away your substance for a shadow, Maude. Minley Court is a place of shadows and unrealities of paint and camouflage, and Mrs. Burke, for all her jolly gaiety, would give a good deal I believe to have your father's outlook instead of her own. You see I am taking you into my confidence when I talk like this. I am very fond of Mrs. Burke and I'm deeply sorry for her. For she is chasing shadows, and trying to persuade herself that they are the substance."
"She had an unhappy girlhood," said Maude, unconvinced. "She told me all about it."
"Well, you haven't had that, have you?"
"No—no—but sometimes—lately—I feel as if Father is rather strict about some things."
"Of course you would think so, and being much at Minley Court will make you think so—"
"Now, Miss Arbuthnot, you speak as if you disapprove of Minley Court, and yet you are there yourself in the middle of it all, and you seem almost the centre of it. You laugh and talk with every one and seem quite fond of them. Why should it be good for you to be there and bad for me?"
Maude ended her speech by blushing hotly, afraid that she had been too outspoken, but Rowena smiled upon her reassuringly.
"I dare say I may seem inconsistent to you, but I am there for a purpose—and I want to help Mrs. Burke all I can. I know her better than you do, and know that her empty forlorn time will come, when she will see that this time has been all froth and bubble. I want to be with her then, for she will need help. And I do want you not to make the mistake she did when she was a young girl. She threw away her confidence—she knew she did it—she threw away all her hopes and ideals, for the kind of life she is leading now. You can't have both, Maude dear, and what you throw away is sometimes very difficult to get back again. Don't you do as she did, for those who are with her most, know she isn't a happy woman. And I shall never rest till I see her with her discarded treasures once again."
Maude was visibly impressed. She slipped her hand into Rowena's, and squeezed it.
"You are so good. I oughtn't to have spoken so. I see that people like you, and of course you do them good, just as you do me. I always want to be good after leaving you."
"My dear Maude, don't set me up on a pedestal. Do you know that two years ago I was a godless heathen? and then gradually I began to see beauty in things I had scorned before. I don't know how I did it, but I was gently and surely drawn into quite another environment. It sounds mystical, doesn't it? I came to see what a wonderful creed we have as Christians, and I came to know the Founder of our creed. You have grown up in that atmosphere. Don't try to leave it, I beseech you. Now I'm not going to preach any more, tell me about this sick woman."
After this little talk, Maude's wave of discontent vanished. She did not very often come up to the Court, and when she did, she saw things at a truer value.
The summer wore away. Mrs. Burke's liking for Rowena did not lessen, and she more than once had serious talks with her. If Rowena expressed disapproval of certain things, she was not angry with her, only pursued her way, laughing at her "squeamishness." But occasionally she modified her schemes to Rowena's requirements.
One afternoon in late September, she and Rowena were enjoying their tea together over a good fire in the big drawing-room. The last of her guests had left the house about an hour before, and Mrs. Burke leant back in her comfortable easy-chair with a sense of relief.
"The last of my visitors," she said. "I shall have a quiet week or two, before we move up to town. I hate a winter in the country, but I always come down here for Christmas. It seems the thing to do."
"I am sure that reason does not weigh with you," said Rowena laughing.
"No, perhaps it does not. I hate conventions."
"Will you want me to come up to town with you?"
"Why, of course I do. How should I get on without you?"
"I could stay down here and caretake for you, and do most of your correspondence without you. You leave me such a free and independent hand in your affairs, that I believe I could carry on, with an occasional inquiry by post."
"You are my companion as well as my secretary. Of course I shall want you in town. Don't tell me you would rather vegetate down here, instead of being in the middle of it all."
"Oh, I would much rather stay here," said Rowena frankly; "but of course I shall be ready to accompany you."
"You are an extraordinary creature—a regular hermit; you seem to care for nothing. And as to money! well, it is a good thing you are not wealthy. It would be wasted upon you."
"Oh would it? I don't think so."
Rowena's expressive eyes glowed as she gazed into the fire.
"Wealth can do so much—I have your command laid upon me that I am not to relieve any of the appeals that come to you by post. I know you have your charity list and it is a big one, but you don't know how I ache sometimes to slip a pound note into an envelope and send it off. There are so many private cases of want and misery that never come before the public at all, and therefore never get relieved."
"It's the worst class that begs through the post," said Mrs. Burke indifferently.
"Some are humbugs, of course; but I would have a shot or two. I often think of your early days. They have a strange fascination for me. If I were you, I think I would go round to the country villages and ferret out for myself some of the real deserving cases amongst the poor clergy."
Mrs. Burke looked at her meditatively.
"There might be some sense in that," she said, then added hurriedly, "but you would want a millionaire's income to give away in that style."
"No," said Rowena, still gazing dreamily before her, "you would only have to set apart a few hundreds for the purpose. You could do a lot, say, if you were to spare £500 out of your income for the poor clergy every year; you would never miss it. Think what it would do for them."
"It would be but a drop in the ocean," said Mrs. Burke. "Take up Crockford's, and see the incomes of the married clergy. I always do say it is iniquitous! I know my father was heavily in debt all his life, and though he could not clothe and feed his family in a decent manner, he was supposed to relieve all the bad cases of poverty in his parish, and keep a rotten old dilapidated church in perfect repair. If you have no rich people in your parish, and the Squire is close fisted, all the expenses fall on the poor parson's shoulders. But don't let us talk of such dismal subjects. I did not tell you that I heard from my sister yesterday. I think we have not written to each other for five years. Her husband is ill, and of course wants to be nursed and nourished and sent to a warmer clime the doctors say. It's one of his lungs. She must be pretty low down to turn to me. There was a time when she refused to touch a farthing of my money."
"Poor thing! How awful not to be able to do what is best for him."
"She shouldn't have married a poor curate. I suppose I shall have to send her a cheque. You must see to it for me. I am wondering what she will do, whether she will take him away herself. There is one blessing, all her children are grown-up and doing for themselves I believe. But she seems to have some of her grandchildren dependent on her. Talks of her darling Nester's boy and girls, who are such a comfort to her. I believe Nester was the girl who married a very hard-worked doctor, and he and she both succumbed to some epidemic raging round them. I did hear about it. Send a cheque for a hundred pounds. That will help."
"I will do it to-morrow morning."
"You look as pleased as if you are going to have it for yourself. Don't you think all my charity cheques will go on the credit side of my life's history? I may be frivolous, but I do feed the hungry and clothe the naked—sometimes."
"Yes, you do," said Rowena gravely.
"I know you size me up in your own mind and judge me. Not in the same pharisaical manner as my sister judges me! My heart prompts me to tell her to send along these grandchildren of hers, and I'll look after them whilst she goes away with her husband. But she would only snub me, and say she wouldn't have them contaminated by my society. Do you think I would do them harm? I know you thought I was spoiling little Maude Waring."
"I wish you would let me go and pay them a visit," said Rowena suddenly. "A hundred pounds will not help them much at a time like this. I could find out just how things were, and then we would talk it over together. If your sister will let you help her, you would like to do it I expect."
"She must be quite elderly by this time," said Mrs. Burke musingly; "she is five years older than I am. Oh, I can't spare you at present. Not till we are thoroughly settled down in town."
Rowena said no more. She felt a strange interest in this sister of Mrs. Burke's, and longed that the two sisters should come closer together.
They went up to town, and some very busy crowded weeks followed. From the first Rowena kept out of the incessant round of gaiety. Mrs. Burke turned night into day, and thought nothing of attending three or four reception and supper parties the same night, sometimes cramming in a theatre as well. To these Rowena did not go. She helped Mrs. Burke when she entertained at home; beyond that she begged to be excused. There were charity entertainments, and bazaars in the afternoon, to which she was dragged. People used Mrs. Burke's house like an hotel, but she never complained; and the younger and giddier the company was, the better she enjoyed herself.
The cheque was sent off to her sister, and Mrs. Burke received a letter of grateful thanks; but it was not till a month later that she allowed Rowena to go up north, and see what further help was required.
She came back and gave Mrs. Burke her report. "I was only just in time to see your sister. What a sweet woman she is!"
"She used to be pretty. I suppose she slanged me pretty thoroughly."
"May I be quite frank and tell you her attitude towards you?"
"Oh yes—don't spare my feelings. I have a thick skin and can bear it."
"She said she realized that she had been hard towards you in those early days; but now that you were getting on in years, she felt sure you must be becoming tired of a life of pleasure, and she would like to be friends with you."
"Afraid of losing my money should I die!" snapped Mrs. Burke. "I am much obliged to her. I hope you stood up for me."
Rowena laughed. "I told her how good you were to me and everybody, and then we talked about the grandchildren. She is taking her husband to Bournemouth. It is too late to save his life I am afraid. He has not the strength for a journey abroad even if the means were forthcoming. She has a daughter living at home now. She is a governess, but is out of a situation and has been helping her mother since her father has been so ill. The grandchildren consist of two girls and a boy. The boy is a handsome little fellow of fifteen, the girls are sixteen and twelve. They ought to be all at school. The elder girl teaches the younger one, and the boy goes to the Grammar School. She is leaving them for the present at home with her daughter. I think you would lose your heart to the trio, they are so bright and so good-looking, but are delicate—want of good food I should say."