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CROSSES.
AFTER this Christina went home, and Ada gradually resumed her old ways, so far as they could be taken up without the one who had been the moving spring of the house. There were times when she felt the misery of being motherless was almost more than she could bear; times when everything went wrong; when the children were cross, and there was no one to settle the quarrels; when Nellie wished things done which she considered unreasonable; when Arthur was wretched, and she could offer no comfort; when Tom was suffering, and there was no one to appeal to about him.
At these times Ada would chafe bitterly against the cruel blow which had ruined her happiness, and she would add to the general discomfort by going about with a cloud on her face, and irritation in her whole manner.
Such days as these were hard to bear. Nellie at times well-nigh fainted under their difficulty. But when things seemed at the worst, words would come back to her, and the blessed Spirit would remind her: "When my heart was overwhelmed within me, then Thou knewest my path;" and the thought that God knew, and was ready to help, was sure consolation, and Nellie took courage again.
"There cannot be a need greater than He can supply, dear," her father said to her one day, when he found her mending a great heap of stockings, and looking lonely and desolate.
She could only kiss his kind face, and go on with her work, blinded with tears. Her dear, unselfish father!
But where Nellie could submit, and rest on the assurance of everlasting love, Ada had to fight a hard battle, inch by inch; and in the struggle, she grew older fast, and felt as if the days were years.
About a fortnight after Wilmot Elliot's first call, he came again.
This time it was in the evening, when they were all sitting together in the drawing room. Arthur was reading aloud, and Dr. Arundel rested in his armchair listening, or perhaps not listening, with his eyes closed.
When Wilmot was asked in, Dr. Arundel roused himself, and entered into a pleasant conversation with the young fellow, and Nellie learnt more about his avocations and doings in that hour's talk, than she had done all the while she was at Shellford. More in that way, but not so much in other ways, she thought.
Presently the conversation turned on the narrow escape they had all had at the picnic, and Wilmot explained to them many things which Nellie had never yet had the heart to tell them. Arthur was delighted to hear it all, and the circle gathered round their visitor, eagerly asking questions.
"Hope told me," said Wilmot, "that it would have been but a sorry affair without Miss Arundel."
He looked across to where Nellie sat, so quiet and gentle, stitching away at her work.
"That's always what our Nellie is!" exclaimed Arthur. "The best little woman in the world."
"Hush, Arthur," said Nellie, looking pained; "you know you always think too well of me."
"Do I, though?" he answered. "What should we do without you, I should like to know?"
"You have not need to think," said Nellie, "as here I am."
Wilmot soon after this said he thought he had better go. He was pressed to stay to supper, but replied that, if they would allow him, he would come another day and do that.
"It is most delightful to be admitted into a family circle," he added, as he shook hands with Dr. Arundel; "I have so few friends in London."
"We shall be pleased to see you whenever you can look in," answered Dr. Arundel, feeling what a pleasant change it had been from his sad thoughts, and thinking also what a nice friend Wilmot would be for Arthur.
On the following Sunday, as Nellie, Arthur, and the little girls returned from church in the evening, Wilmot joined them, having been to their service.
"I wanted to see you for a few minutes," he said, coming close to Nellie's side and speaking in a slightly lowered tone.
"Did you?" asked Nellie.
"Yes; I was a little disappointed the other night when I came. You said you would be glad to see me."
"I said—," answered Nellie, hesitating.
"I remember every word. But you implied you would be glad to see me."
Nellie was silent. Oh, what a hard struggle it was not to answer in commonplace phrase that she was glad! But her innate truthfulness refused, and she said nothing.
Arthur, noticing that Mr. Elliot seemed to have something to say to Nellie, joined his little sisters, and Wilmot went on—
"You know we were to be friends."
"I hope we shall be," she answered gently.
"Then you must be kind to me," he said.
She made no answer to this, and Netta ran up and told her it was beginning to rain.
"I have felt the drops," said Nellie. "We must hurry home."
"I must say good-bye for to-day then," said Wilmot.
"Good-bye," said Nellie, holding out her hand.
"I shall come soon," he said; "for I cannot keep away."
Nellie raised her eyes at last and met his. "You must not be offended," she said very low; "but I am very busy at home, and my dear father has only me."
He looked at her suddenly, and then pressing her hand warmly, turned away.
"That's nonsense," he said to himself as he walked homewards, "perfect nonsense. I'm not going to be forgotten because she is busy at home!"
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AN UNEXPECTED ANSWER.
BUT those few quiet words meant a great deal to Nellie, and Wilmot felt they did, though he angrily refused to believe them. He allowed a whole month to elapse before he again went to see the Arundels, believing, in a kind of blind way, that Nellie would be all the more glad to welcome him. Poor little Nellie!
At last he gave himself leave to go and see her again.
He took a great deal of pains about this visit. He invited Maude up from Devonshire for a fortnight's stay in his bachelor lodgings, in order that he might have the excuse of her presence for more frequent visits than he could otherwise have proposed.
The day before she was expected, Wilmot took himself with a somewhat beating heart to the house in the square, and full of pleasant anticipations, walked along planning the various excursions he would take Maude, and speculating in how many of these he could persuade Nellie to join.
At last the steps of No. 8 were reached, and Wilmot walked up them, delighted to think that the time he had set himself was at last over. He knocked, and when a servant, a stranger to him, opened the door, he asked the usual question, "Is Dr. Arundel at home?" thinking that it did not very much matter what the answer might be.
The answer, however, did matter a great deal to him; for the cook informed him that "the doctor and family were out of town; went yesterday morning."
He could only leave his card, and turn away with such a sense of disappointment as he could not have believed possible.
"It serves me right," he said to himself, as he walked gloomily homewards, "it serves me right; I was just a wretch to leave her in all her sorrow just out of 'pique.' Well, I am sorry, but that won't mend it."
Meanwhile the days had passed but slowly to Nellie and the others, as days of bereavement do pass.
Looking round on the household she was "mothering," she felt that the hot summer weather, added to their sorrow, was telling unfavourably upon little Tom, while Netta and Isabel looked pale and spiritless.
One day, after all had gone to bed, and she and her father were left alone, she came over and knelt down by his side, laying her head on his shoulder.
"Tired, my child?" he said lovingly, putting his arm round her.
"N—o, dear papa," she answered sighing, "I have only been thinking."
How deeply he sighed in his turn; but presently said, "Well, dear?"
"I have thought Tom looks poorly, papa?"
"Yes, dear, it is nor to be wondered at."
"No; but you will not think I am restless if I say that, perhaps, a little change might help us all, dear papa, if it could be managed?"
"You shall go by all means, my dears."
"Not without you; oh, we could not."
"Christina perhaps would go with you."
"Oh, not that! But you, dear papa, want a change most of all; oh, you must go too, if we do."
He seemed to be considering, and presently observed, "I was to have taken her, Nellie, just at this time."
"I know," said Nellie, nestling her head closer to him.
"Well, dear—" he said with a long breath, "we will think it over. I do not wish to shut myself up, and if it would do you all good, I am willing to try it."
"Arthur looks so dull and forlorn. It is the first year for so long, that we have not gone away at this time."
"Yes, dear, so it is; we will arrange it. You think of what place you would like, and I will write about apartments."
So Nellie, Ada, and Arthur put their heads together, and decided on the Isle of Wight, if papa approved; and the following evening, when the little ones were gone to bed, they anxiously laid their plans before their father.
"We think, papa," said Nellie, "that Mary and the little ones had better be settled in at Shanklin, and then we will take you," she said, smiling lovingly at him, "excursions to different places; and perhaps we might even stop a night or two at the nicest, because, you know, it is so near, that Mary could send for us if she wanted anything."
"So that's it, is it?" said Dr. Arundel. "That's what I get by telling you to settle what you like."
He seemed pleased, however, with their plan, and very soon everything was arranged, and they actually had carried off their father for a holiday.
Nellie did not ask Christina, feeling that her father would be able to unbend more alone; and so it proved.
He left his practice in good hands, and when once they were at the sea, he would sit on the beach at first, hour after hour, by little Tom's carriage, reading a book which Nellie's thoughtfulness had provided, and doing very little; sometimes talking to Tom about the loved mother, and in the peace and quietness feeling nearer to her than he could do in the whirl of London.
Nellie watched over him as she would over a sick child. Without seeming to be taking any notice, she would manage to establish the pair who were so suited to each other, in some warm and quiet nook, and then she would draw off the younger ones, the nurse, and Simmons, for a long ramble.
Ada and Arthur generally were full of plans for themselves, which would include her if she could spare time; but generally she went quietly homewards to fulfil her housekeeping duties; and when these were done, she would take her work or mending into the verandah which faced the sea, the low hedge of the little garden having nothing but a path to separate it from high water, and with a sound of the waves in her ears she would sit and think—not only think, but pray.
Many, many tears fell over that work; tears of memory, tears for lost opportunities, tears for the depression of the trials which fell so heavily on her young heart, tears for the future, which all at once had become so blank and cold to her.
But while she wept, she would pray; and as surely as she prayed would the Comforter be sent, as He was promised, and peace would steal over her troubled heart.
So she would sit, and the song of the sea blended with other songs in her heart. Her father had once said to her, "When you have nothing else to do, it is a very good plan to count up your mercies." So sometimes she would try to remember them all, and the hours which had begun in sadness would often end in praise, and she would rise up to go to meet her father with a peaceful face, which had cast its burden on the Lord.
She would traverse the piece of path which ran along the edge of the sea, then cross the beach, and in about five or six minutes would come to her dear ones.
Tom would look up to her and say, "We have been so happy, Nellie."
And her father would raise his face, with the deep lines of sorrow smoothed out for a while, and would place his book and his little Bible in his pocket, while he would say, with a sigh of content—
"I am glad we came, Nellie."
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A LETTER.
TWO or three months passed away. Ada and Arthur returned to school, a morning governess was engaged to teach Tom and the little girls in the nursery, while Nellie carried on the management of the household faithfully and steadily, as nearly as she could like their mamma would have done.
It was not all smooth, and many difficulties Nellie had to bear alone, and many she had to tell her father, and get his advice.
Mary, the nurse, was a great help to her, and behaved kindly and wisely to the young mistress. Simmons was so good a servant, that the sudden change made no difference to her in her dutifulness; but the cook, listening to a foolish, mischief-making friend, began to grumble that "Miss Nellie expected more than mistress had."
Nellie was sure this was not the case, and was much cast down that she could not manage it without worrying her papa; but she and Arthur talked it over, and they decided it would be better to mention it to Dr. Arundel.
"I will speak to her if you like," he said, when Nellie had explained it to him; "but it would be far better if you could talk to her yourself."
Nellie knew his advice was always sound, and determined to take it; but she had much misgiving as to whether she should do it properly.
The next morning, when she was downstairs giving orders for the day, the cook, in answer to some slight instruction, said rather uppishly, "It never was so in your ma's time, Miss Nellie!"
Nellie felt her time was come, and with an instant's prayer for strength and wisdom, she looked into the servant's face, and met her eyes calmly.
"Cook," she said gently, though she felt her voice trembled, "I try in everything to follow exactly what dear mamma would wish; but my father says I am to use my judgment, and if I think a thing ought to be done, it is to be done; not because it would have been mamma's wish, but because it is my wish. I am mistress of my father's house now, and the sooner you understand this, the happier we shall be."
Nellie paused, and the cook looked surprised, and then somewhat ashamed.
"You would not like to add to the cares I already find so heavy, by not behaving nicely to me, would you?" Nellie asked.
The cook twisted her apron, and then suddenly burst into tears. "It ain't a bit the same, now she's gone!" she exclaimed.
"Do you not think we must feel that, cook?" asked Nellie, with filling eyes. "Do you think I like being mistress?"
Cook was silent, wiping away her tears and thinking.
"I suppose not, miss," she answered at last.
"Then help me," said Nellie, turning away, "for it is sad work."
"I will, miss," cook answered with a sob; "I never thought."
It was now drawing on towards Christmas.
Wilmot Elliot, after the disappointment of his plans, altered his mind. A softer, humbler feeling came over him with regard to Nellie, and in the visits which he now made from time to time, he tried to show her that he was sorry for his hastiness.
He could not decide to his satisfaction whether Nellie had understood his manner before, or understood the alteration in it now.
She seemed always the same when he came; appeared to have no more to do with him than the rest had, and was just the quiet elder sister, playing the hostess with a calmness which hardly befitted her years.
What had altered her from the somewhat shy and blushing girl he had met at Shellford?
He tried in vain to answer this question. One possibility presented itself, but this he would not entertain as the solution for a moment.
He noticed that she quietly avoided any special conversation with himself, and held herself aloof. As however he had made up his mind that she was not to be won by impetuosity, he took this calmly, hoping that in time she would understand his love.
One day, very near to Christmas, being called by business near Covent Garden, he strolled in among the flowers, thinking of Nellie, and wondering if she would accept some.
He determined to try, and buying a lovely bunch of violets, hastened towards her home.
It was about twelve o'clock, and Simmons was busy upstairs. The cook opened the door to him, and without any preparation asked him into the dining-room, merely saying, "I believe they are in here, sir."
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Nellie started up from the sofa where she had been sitting.
He entered, and Nellie started up from the sofa where she had been sitting, while a letter dropped on to the floor from her lap, and he found that she had been weeping violently.
He stood as dismayed as she was, and then all at once he felt a feeling of deepest tenderness come over him.
"Miss Nellie," he said, taking her hand, and leading her back to the sofa, "I want to comfort you, but I don't know how. What is the matter? Can you bear to tell me?"
Nellie struggled with her tears, and drew away her hand, which he still held.
"Don't take it away," he pleaded; "I want always to be able to comfort you. Oh, Nellie! What is it?"
"I—I think I will go away," she said in a broken voice. "I am not myself; but don't think me unkind. I will come back and see you presently."
He let go her hand, and she hastened from the room.
She ran up to her own chamber, and, locking the door, put both her hands to her head in a bewildered way.
"It has come at last," she said trembling. "Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do?"
She threw herself on her knees, and buried her face in her hands. "He loves me," she whispered; "and I must not—must not—must not let him! Oh, what shall I do?"
Then she lifted her aching heart to Him who knew all its sorrow; and once more strengthened in her resolve, she got up, and bathing her swollen eyes, she went slowly downstairs again.
When she re-entered the dining-room, Wilmot came forward and met her, looking anxiously in her face.
"I have had a letter from Walter," she said, speaking calmly. "He sends me very unexpected news—very glad news—and that was what made me cry. He is coming home."
"Your brother in India? I thought it was to be some time. You must be glad!"
"He has been suddenly made a partner, and is to settle in England. It will make such a difference to us all; I can hardly believe it."
"And you were crying for joy? I would like to share the joy, and also the sorrow, Nellie. Will you let me? You cannot mistake what I mean?"
"You must not wish it," she answered, turning deadly pale; "I have wanted you to understand it for so long."
"But why? What do you tell me so for?"
"Because I must; if only you would spare my having to say any more."
"It would be of no use; I must hear what you have to say. But, Nellie, I can't get on without you."
How sweet the words sounded in her ears; but she resolutely shut out the thought, and answered—"They cannot do without me at home. Forgive me, Mr. Elliot; I would not cause you pain if I could possibly help it; but it can never be as you say."
He started up, and stood before her.
"Do you moan it?" he said hoarsely; "really mean what you say? Do you mean to tell me that you will blight my life, and perhaps yours, on a mistaken sense of duty to home?"
"It is not mistaken," she answered, rallying all her firmness. "No one who knows us intimately could advise me to decide otherwise."
"They would miss you," he said, sitting down again by her. "Who could help it? But it cannot be right; it cannot, Nellie."
"You must not call me Nellie," she said, rising; "I must say good-bye. If you could guess the pain I feel, you would say no more; but forgive me, and leave me."
"It is impossible," said the young man, turning bitterly away. "I'll leave you, if you wish it, and I will speak to your father; but to give you up utterly, I can't do it."
Nellie stood still, while he went to the window and looked out. At last he came back and asked—
"Do you love me, Nellie, as I love you?"
Her colour flushed suddenly into her face and died out again. She was silent, but she moved away from him.
He waited too; and then altering again from his passionate reproach, he said softly—
"I will wait for you, my Nellie, till you can be ready. I will wait any time you name."
"I am not 'your Nellie,'" she answered, "and you must not wait. Good-bye; I can bear no more."
She turned to the door, but he came up to her once more and stood between her and it.
"I will not oblige you to leave the room," he said bitterly; "I will go. Good-bye."
And in another moment, the front door slammed heavily, and he was gone.
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GUESSING.
GONE! Nellie would have given everything she possessed, in those first moments, to recall her lover. Her lover no longer—cut off from her by her own definite act.
She stood where he had left her, unable to shape any distinct thought, hardly knowing what she was doing.
Then her eyes fell upon the bunch of violets. She took them up off the table and looked at them a long time. "They were for me," she thought, "but I do not think I ought to have them now."
She slowly began to put the room straight. "Ada will be home soon," she said, glancing at the clock.
When all was done, and the table cleared, with the exception of the violets, she paused; then rang the bell and stood waiting.
"I want some water for these, Simmons," she said.
Simmons went to fetch it, and Nellie placed them in the vase, and then, leaving them on the sideboard, went upstairs to her room.
She felt stunned. Things had not turned out as she had expected. Knowing something of Wilmot's character, she had prepared herself for a struggle; but that he should leave her in anger was almost more than she could endure. She sat down on the ottoman at the foot of her bed, the misery of having hurt him crushing her young heart.
Oh that she could have gone to bed, she thought, there to weep out her sorrow unseen!
This was impossible; the whole house would be dismayed. No, she must bear it. After all, she had passed through the worst of this decision of hers months ago. When she made that solemn promise to her dying step-mother, had she not felt the shadow of it creeping over her? When her father had claimed her entire devotion, had she not known what it must cost?
"Nellie, not dressed for dinner! The first bell has rung," said Ada, coming in hastily, and throwing her things on the bed.
"Why, Nellie, are you not well, dear?" she added, looking at her sister.
"Only a sort of headache," answered Nellie, putting her hand to her forehead as if she were dazed.
"I'm so sorry," answered Ada, hurrying on with her preparations; "perhaps it will be better for some dinner?"
"Perhaps it will," she answered.
"I say, Nellie, who brought or sent those lovely violets? I never saw such a bunch."
"Mr. Elliot."
"Wilmot! Who for?"
"He did not say; he left them there."
"For you, of course. I believe, Nellie, he's getting fond of you."
"Oh, hush, Ada, dear."
"Well, I know you don't like those jokes, but one must sometimes, eh, Nellie?"
She looked archly up in the troubled face.
"You're a dear old sister," she added, kissing her, "and I'm a tease."
"Please don't say anything like that downstairs, Ada."
"I won't, you may be sure."
She ran off, and Nellie followed, as the second bell sounded.
The violets, to say nothing of this homecoming of Walter's, were a diversion from Nellie's headache, and her pale, sorrowful face passed unnoticed.
Dr. Arundel was truly delighted with the news which that morning's post had brought, and looked cheered at the thought of having his dear son so much sooner than had been anticipated. Thus the dinner passed in cheerful talk, and Nellie joined with the rest in surmising how soon he would come, and in all the questions which after all could have no answer.
When Ada returned from afternoon school, she ran upstairs to Nellie, and found her in the drawing room reading aloud to Tom and the little girls.
"Is your head too bad to come to Hampstead?" she asked eagerly. "Papa is waiting outside. He has a patient near there, and he says the carriage shall drive us there, and fetch him on its way back."
With this lucid explanation she paused, out of breath.
Nellie looked a little bewildered.
"Come, make haste; you can have five minutes. Put on your hat, and let's be off. I do long to know what Christina says to our news."
Nellie looked doubtfully towards Tom.
"Yes, go, Nellie," he answered. "I shall be all right."
"Might we have the little tea-things, and have Tom all to ourselves, Nellie?" asked Isabel, imploringly.
"Yes," said Ada, "you can. I shall give you leave. Go along, 'Mrs. Ready-to-Halt,' and be 'ready to go.'"
The children laughed; and as Nellie went away, Ada put a small table close by Tom, and told the little girls to have tea early.
She fished mysteriously into her pocket, and drew forth her purse, and looking quizzically into it, pretended it was empty.
"No go," she said, throwing it up in the air; "I declare there isn't a farden' in it."
Tom laughed. "Perhaps not," he said.
Ada opened it again, and after some more fun produced sixpence. "It's my very last," she said, pretending to cry; "but I'll give it to my starving relatives."
"Oh, Ada, we don't want it!" exclaimed Dolly, looking sober. "What do you mean?"
"I mean," said Ada, smiling, "that you should get sixpennyworth of buns—halfpenny buns—and enjoy yourselves."
"Oh, jolly!" said Isabel. "You are kind, Ada."
"Sometimes," said Ada, rather grimly, thinking how little self-denial a sixpence was, compared to giving up one's wishes in some other things.
Tom looked interested, and began whispering about laying out the sixpence.
"Are we bound to get halfpenny buns?" asked Netta.
"Anything in the world you like," answered Ada, "with this reservation—that sixpence will buy it."
"Oh, that's all right then! We thought we would have three pennyworth of buns and three pennyworth of parliaments; they go so far, you know, Ada."
Nellie joined them at this moment, and Ada told the little girls not to lose their way in going to the confectioner's; Nellie also instructed Simmons to have an oversight of the drawing room party.
They found their father and Arthur in the carriage waiting for them, and were soon on their way to Christina's.
"Shall you come with us?" asked Ada of her brother.
"Oh, yes. I long to hear all about Walter's plans."
Dr. Arundel left them in the middle of Hampstead, and they then drove up over the heath to Sunnyside.
The young people quickly jumped out, and were admitted before the carriage had time to turn.
Arthur and Ada hastened in, while Nellie followed. Christina had seen the carriage stop, and came out into the hall to meet them.
Ada threw her arms round her, and exclaimed, "Oh, I'm so glad, Christina."
Christina smiled, and disengaging herself, came up to Nellie, and kissed her lovingly.
Nellie glanced in the beautiful face with its calm brightness, a face like no other, she thought. "Dear Christina," was all she ventured to say.
They all went into the drawing room, where they found Christina's aunt, who was looking smiling and happy.
"Delightful, isn't it?" said Arthur to her.
"Indeed it is; so unexpected too," she answered.
"We must talk to you, Miss Arbuthnot," said Arthur, "and let the two friends go and tell their secrets in private."
"Oh!" answered Ada grudgingly. "I wish they'd tell their secrets here; at least tell us all the news."
"So we will," said Christina, taking Nellie's hand, "but we must have a tiny talk first, Ada."
She drew Nellie from the room, and did not speak again till they were shut in her bedroom, where a fire was burning.
Christina seated herself on a sofa by it, and put her arm round Nellie's waist.
"You are not glad about it, darling?" she said inquiringly.
"Oh, Christina!" exclaimed Nellie, "I am. I could hardly be more glad."
Christina looked surprised, and went on, "Then why does my Nellie look so triste?"
"I'll tell you about that, perhaps. I have had a trouble, but now I feel nothing but how glad I am about Walter."
"Tell me about your trouble first, Nellie."
"Not to-day, dear; perhaps never; I do not know. To-day I will only think of you. Have you had a long letter?"
"Not very; he was in too great a hurry to write much."
"Does he say when he is coming?"
"Why yes, Nellie. Did you not know? He hopes to be here for Christmas."
"For Christmas? I had no idea it could be so soon! Oh, Christina!"
"He was to sail a week after this mail started."
Nellie was so overcome by this second piece of news, that she could only burst into tears again.
Christina kissed her, and did all she could to soothe her, but knew not what to say.
"You are quite worn-out," she said tenderly, "and no wonder, with so much to do and think about."
Nellie was worn-out; and when Christina wrapped her up on the sofa, and sat down by her in the firelight, she felt a strange feeling of rest and comfort stealing over her. The past months had been full of sorrow and self-command, and now that she felt it was all over, not even Walter's coming could rouse her out of a kind of blank restfulness, which was partly sorrow and partly relief.
"I shall be better to-morrow," she whispered.
"I am going down to see after the others," said Christina, "and you shall go to sleep."
"Oh, no!"
"I shall expect you to, and I will bring you up a cup of tea when I have poured out for the rest."
She left her, and went down.
"Nellie looks very tired and poorly," she observed to Ada, when she rejoined them.
"She is," said Ada. "She told me she had a headache. Wilmot Elliot was there this, morning, and Walter's letter upset her too."
Christina then explained to them that they only knew half the news, and great was the surprise of the two, to find Walter could have omitted such an important part of it in writing to their father.
"Now, I suppose you'll be married in no time," said Arthur.
"I do not know what 'no time' means," answered Christina.
She felt rather glad to escape from their questions, to go up again to Nellie. She begged her aunt to make them happy, and giving her a loving kiss, and whispering, "I think Nellie needs me," she was leaving the room, when Nurse Margaret entered, carrying little Charlie Wood for a good-night kiss.
Christina set her little tray again on the table, and turned to her new baby boy. "Well, my little man," she exclaimed, taking him proudly in her arms, "so you have come to wish Auntie good-night?"
The frail little fellow smiled with delight, and Christina went to a drawer and gave him a sugarplum, then holding him out towards her aunt, she said, smiling, "Now a kiss for Charlie, Aunt Mary."
Miss Arbuthnot did not seem surprised. In this little family, love reigned, and they treated the little children as cherished lambs in the fold of the Great Shepherd.
"Have you heard of his mother lately?" asked Ada, when Margaret had carried him off.
"Oh, yes!" said Christina. "I hear regularly every week. She is getting on so nicely; she is better in health, and has never touched one drop of spirits or anything since that day. It is worth a lifetime of self-denial to be allowed to save such a one."
"Will she go home yet?"
"For Christmas," answered Christina. "Oh, if you could see her husband's letters! He has not seen her yet, but she writes to him."
She took up the tray again, and left the room.
She found by Nellie's peaceful breathing that she had fallen asleep, and she sat down by her side, glad herself to have a little quiet time to think.
In a few moments, however, Nellie stirred and gave a long sobbing sigh. "I can't, I can't!" she murmured.
Christina laid her hand on her arm, and said gently, "You are dreaming, dear."
Nellie sat up rather frightened, but was soon reassured by Christina's presence and love, and by the pleasant smell of the fragrant cup by her side. They sat in silence for a while, sipping their tea, until at last Christina said:
"You need not tell me a word; I guess it all, Nellie."
"How do you guess?" asked Nellie, frightened that she had betrayed her secret.
"I have known it would be so for ever so long. No one could see you together, at least no one loving you as I do, without knowing how it was."
Nellie laid her head on the kind shoulder and felt it a comfort to cry.
"Do you think I have been right?" she asked presently. "He seemed to feel I was almost wicked."
"Dear Nellie," she answered softly, "I do not see what you could have done else, now."
"I did think it right all along," said Nellie; "but to-day I feel wretched, half fearing that I have acted unfairly to him; and yet I have tried so hard that he should understand without all this."
"I am sure you have; I have seen it when I have been with you. He must have been wilfully blind."
"You see he didn't want to believe I could be in earnest," said Nellie, very low.
"But he should have been willing to wait, Nellie."
"He was," answered she; "but I would not let him. Oh, Christina, you do not think I ought to have let him?"
"I do not know exactly, dear. Your father would tell you best."
"I was wondering whether it would be my duty to tell papa; it would add so to his sorrow; and I could not think of leaving them all now, Christina; it would be very wrong."
"Yes, now; but in a year or two?"
"I felt I ought not to accept in that sort of fashion; it seemed to me very hard on him to keep him waiting indefinitely; and I could not bear for dear papa to have this to think about, when he believes he has got me as his comfort and help."
"Yes; I see it all," answered Christina sadly; "but I feel perplexed, Nellie. I wish you would tell Dr. Arundel."
"I will, if you think I ought; anyway I should have done so after a time; but it can make no difference now," she added; "for he left me in anger, and I told him I would not. Nothing could have been plainer."
"Oh, my Nellie, my Nellie!"
Nellie raised her head. "Don't pity me, Christina; I shall be glad soon. Just now you have caught me tired and stupid; but I shall be better soon. It has been the thought of hurting him which has been the worst."
That evening Nellie told her father in a few words of the offer she had received, and of her refusal.
Dr. Arundel heard her story, holding his arm round her, and hardly glancing at the downcast face.
At last he said, "But, Nellie, my child, I wish you would tell me; should you have refused him, if things had not been as they are at home?"
Nellie hesitated; and then said quickly, "But, papa, how could I leave it all?"
"Not now, I am sure you could not, nor would he wish it so soon; but I think you should have given him some hope, if—if you return his affection, Nellie. If people love each other, they should be willing to wait."
There was a pause, and Nellie bent her head lower. Ought she to have decided differently? Did her father think her wrong too? This was a sad blow.
"But it is all over now, dear papa," she said at last. "I tell you because I thought I ought. I am the only one you have, you know," she added, looking up from the shelter of his arm, and smiling a wan little smile; then bursting into tears, she kissed him, saying brokenly, "I could not, could not, leave you for the world!"
Dr. Arundel sat a long time that night watching the embers of his fire die out.
What tender thoughts twined round that eldest daughter of his who had just left him. "Dear little maiden," he said to himself, "I trust all will come right. I must take an opportunity of having a talk with Elliot; I cannot have her sacrifice herself. I am sorry it has fallen out so. He should have come to me first, under the circumstances. Poor dear Nellie, I hope it will all come right."
image046
WAITING.
CHRISTINA and her aunt promised to spend Christmas day at Dr. Arundel's this year.
Walter's arrival was hourly expected, and it was felt by all that they could not divide their numbers; it was too sad a time for some of them, and the only way was to be all together.
To Dr. Arundel, the dread of the empty day was like a nightmare. Without allowing himself to repine, he yet could not help shrinking when he thought of the day dawning with no wife by his side to make all bright and happy, shedding her love on all around.
"I shall be helped through it," he had once said to himself, and though he knew not how he should be, yet his faith is rewarded; and his son's coming just at the dreaded time, unconsciously turned his thoughts into another channel, and lightened the gloom of his sorrow.
The day of Walter's arrival was a little uncertain, as he had not mentioned in which steamer he should sail. He had, they knew, travelled safely as far as Malta, as he had telegraphed from there, and now they were hourly expecting a second telegram to say he had landed at Southampton. For several days Nellie found herself starting, even when the postman's rap came to the door, thinking it might be the longed-for news, and every one felt excited.
About four o'clock on the afternoon of Christmas Eve, Christina and her aunt arrived, and Nellie conducted Miss Arbuthnot to the spare room, and then took Christina up to her own—a usual custom, for then the girls could talk and feel at ease, which Nellie professed she never did in the spare room.
"Oh, it is nice to have you," said she, as she kissed Christina again, and helped her to take off her things.
"Dear Nellie," Christina answered, "I am so glad to come to you all."
They had not been in the drawing room more than two or three minutes, when a rap did come to the door, and Arthur exclaimed:
"That's no postman! For it is not his time." He started up and ran down into the hall, where the telegram was put into his hand.
"It is for papa," he said, leaping up the stairs three steps at a time, "but he said we might open it."
"Arrived safely at Southampton. Hope to be with you about eight."
There was a general shout of joy; and Ada hastened to the nursery with the telegram, to tell the little ones.
When Dr. Arundel's latch-key was heard, Arthur was the first to get to the door, and he ran down to him. His father guessed what his eagerness meant, and asked, "Is it come, Arthur?"
"Yes; the news that he is at Southampton."
"Thank God," said Dr. Arundel fervently; and then Arthur suddenly remembered that what had been all joy to him and the others, must be a fresh opening of the wound to his dear father.
Dr. Arundel went into his study, and was closing the door, when he found Arthur following. He came in and stood by his father's side in silence.
Dr. Arundel sat down in his armchair, looking tired and careworn, and Arthur put his hand on his shoulder with an affection which was somewhat rare in the strong boy.
"Papa," he said, "we don't forget what it must be to you, and you will not think in our pleasure at seeing Walter that we don't remember."
"No, my boy, no; I shall not."
Arthur looked in his face silently, and then, kissing his forehead, left him alone.
Alone, yet not alone! And before he rejoined his children, he had cast his burden on the Lord, and, like Hannah of old, "his countenance was no more sad."
"Nellie," said Christina after tea, when they were all assembled in the drawing room, "I have lost one of my children!"
"She does not look very sad," said Arthur, "so I suppose it is all right."
"How?" asked Nellie, but she guessed it must be little Charlie.
"It is all very well for you to laugh," said Christina to Arthur; "but it was a great grief to me, as well as a great joy."
"Do let us hear about it," said Tom.
"I told you that Mrs. Wood was to go home for Christmas. Well, a few days ago I received a note from her husband saying he should come to town to fetch her; for I had already arranged to see Mrs. Wood on her way through London.
"I therefore wrote to him, telling him to meet her at my house, as I should keep her till his arrival. Last Monday was the day fixed for her return, and about twelve o'clock Mr. Wood came to Sunnyside to see me.
"It would be impossible to tell you all he said of thanks to me for my efforts for her; but when he was a little calmed, I went to fetch Charlie. As you know, the little fellow is wonderfully improved since he came, but still looks delicate. His father, however, saw nothing but the improvement, and his joy was overpowering. To clasp the pretty, clean, well-cared-for little morsel in his arms again, was boundless delight.
"Charlie was a wee bit shy, but in a few minutes put his little head against his father's breast, and never offered to leave him again.
"Mr. Wood then asked me to allow him to share the expense of his wife's stay at the Home where she had received such benefit; but I knew their business had suffered much in consequence of her neglect of it, and I begged him to allow me to defray the whole of it, telling him it was freely given 'to the Lord.'
"'May He accept it, then,' he answered, 'and lay it up in heaven for you, for I can never, never repay my debt.'
"While we were sitting, I took the opportunity of saying something which was on my mind, before his wife should come.
"'Mr. Wood,' I said earnestly, 'you will forgive me for asking, but have you banished all intoxicating drinks from your table and house?'
"'Of course I have,' he answered, surprised.
"'Because,' I said, 'people are so forgetful; and I have heard of such sad cases of temptation and fall, from relatives selfishly continuing to take their moderate glass.'
"'You could not think me so cruel,' he said, looking sadly at me.
"'No, no; I only mentioned it.'
"'And now,' he said, 'tell me, what was your reason for abstaining, may I ask?'
"'Certainly,' I answered; 'it was just this. I was reading in my Bible one day, and this verse seemed to haunt me after I closed the book:
'"It is good neither to eat flesh, nor to drink wine, nor anything whereby thy brother stumbleth, or is offended, or is made weak."
"'I pondered it for a long time before I could make up my mind. It was to me a piece of dreadful self-denial not to offer it to my friends as a usual beverage; but when I remembered that thousands in our country had ruined homes and broken hearts through its use, I could hesitate no longer.'
"He grasped my hand. 'But for your self-denial, my life here and hereafter would have been ruined,' he said.
"As he spoke, for we had been so earnestly talking we had not heard the bell, Jane opened the door, and Mrs. Wood was announced.
"She came across the floor looking at me, and apparently going to speak to me first, but her eyes fell upon her husband and baby; and forgetting her former intention, she threw herself upon her knees before them, and, encircling her child with her arms, buried her face in its lap, and sobbed out in a broken voice, 'Oh, Harry, forgive, forgive me!'
"I saw him put his arm round them both with a smothered, 'My dear, I am only too glad,' and then I slipped away.
"When I went back again after half-an-hour, they were sitting side by side, holding each other's hands, and looking, oh, so happy! Charlie had fallen asleep in his father's arms, and his mother had lifted his feet into her lap, and was holding them in her disengaged hand.
"She looked up in my face with a somewhat mournful look replacing the joyful one. 'He will not come to me,' she said; 'he does not know me.'
"Her husband pressed her hand. 'He will know you soon, dear. Soon there will be no one like "mother" to him!'
"She shook her head slightly. 'I deserve it,' she whispered; 'but with God's strength, I will never deserve it again.' Then turning to me she added, 'If it were on my own strength I was building, it would be a poor affair, Miss Arbuthnot; but when it is God's strength, that must be everlasting. Those words of yours have never left me—
'"Able to save to the uttermost."
"'He has saved me—saved me from the punishment of my sin hereafter, and saved me from the power of it here. He is, as you said, stronger than Satan.'
"How changed and altered she was in these three or four months! Her husband gazed upon her as if he could not unfasten his eyes. Then he bent over and kissed her.
"'You do not smell any spirits now?' she asked with a little laugh, which ended in a burst of tears.
"Mr. Wood asked me if I could spare Charlie to go back with them. 'His mother feels as if she could not part with him again, and yet I hardly like to take him so suddenly—'
"'You shall have him,' I answered generously, hardly knowing then what it would cost me, to see my little darling carried out of the house in his father's arms in the afternoon.
"I cannot tell you, dears, all they said and did, nor repeat their gratitude. How little had I done, and what an abundant blessing had my gracious Father given me!
"'They that sow in tears shall reap in joy,' He says—
"And I found it true."
* * * * * *
If Christina could have chosen, she would have preferred to meet Walter at Sunnyside, at her own home, with only her aunt's kindly presence to embarrass her. But ever unselfish, she had considered what a sad time this must be to them in the Square, and had yielded to their wish to join them. She could not feel happy to take Walter from them just as he arrived, and knew that his heart must be rather divided if she were at a distance.
As the evening advanced, she sat by little Tom very silent. He seemed to understand her feeling, and held her hand without speaking; but once he whispered, "Mamma would have been so glad of this day, Christina; we can rejoice in thinking of that."
She pressed his hand, and then said very low, so that only he heard it, "It is a strange day, Tom, and I do not know how to rejoice; but I shall feel better perhaps when once he is here."
"Yes, you will," said the little comforter, reassuringly; "and all the more that it would please mamma for you to be really glad."
Dr. Arundel leaned back in his armchair, but was as cheerful as the rest now, and was talking with Arthur and Ada, and telling them stories of arrivals which he had known, and reminding them that nothing was sure in this world.
Netta and Isabel sat near Nellie with their work, but they did not do much; for every cab made them look up, and sometimes go to the window to peep out.
Nellie sat very quiet too. Would Walter ask her this time if she had any secrets? She hoped not; but perhaps he would be too taken up to think of her. Then a pang of jealousy shot across her heart; a pang instantly rebuked and confessed; but the thought filled her eyes with tears. Not the thought that she was no longer first with her beloved brother, but of grief that she could have even regretted it for a moment.
In her pocket lay a letter from Hope Elliot, received that morning, which as yet she had not had an opportunity to show to Christina.
"We cannot think" (the letter said) "what can have come to Wilmot. He writes to tell us that he will be down for Christmas; but that he thinks of going abroad. He will explain his plans to mamma, he says, and obtain her sanction, and then he means to be off at once.""Have you seen him lately, Nellie? And can you tell us what wild scheme he has got in his head? Of course mamma will persuade him out of it, or I hope so; but it is too tiresome to even suppose he will throw up his good prospects here, and go out there on a wild-goose chase.""Before, however, you have time to answer this letter, we shall see him for ourselves, and be able to hear all about it."
Hope then went on to give her another and pleasanter piece of news.
"I have told you about Jack Morland, the young canoeist, whom we have got to know. Well, yesterday, he came to mamma's quite unexpectedly, and made Maude an offer, which she has accepted, and the young people are very happy. Mamma is pleased, for he is a very nice fellow, and we are all full of excitement."
This letter, with its double news, was lying in Nellie's pocket. She felt conscious of it all the time, with a dim impression of a hidden pain. She had told the wedding news in it at once; but the other must be confirmed before she would mention it.
There was a sudden "Hush!" from several of them. Yes, it was a cab at last stopping at the house; then everybody hurried to the door, and crowded down the stairs while Walter was being admitted, Miss Arbuthnot even going to the landing, and Christina and Tom were left alone.
He did not attempt to speak to her, and it was only a moment of intense bustle of arrival in the hall, before a quick light step was heard on the stairs, and Walter was once more with Christina, whom he had so longed to see.
When they could settle down to anything of quiet, after Arthur and he had helped in the carrying up of his heavy packages, all felt the blank in their midst.
Walter looked round the room with a sudden realization of what he had known and expected. His eyes met his father's, and both understood each other's thoughts.
Then Dr. Arundel spoke to them all, gravely and lovingly:
"My dears," he said, "we are all on a journey, travelling homewards. Those we love are only a little way on in front of us; they have reached home. They would have waited for us, but our heavenly Father called them, and told them to pass on first. It can only be a little while before we follow them; and meanwhile the same Father bids us do our work cheerfully, contentedly, hopefully, leaving us this promise always close to us:
"'Lo, I am with you alway, even unto the end of the world.'
"We will thank Him for His goodness in bringing Walter home, and thus cheering our hearts."
When they rose from their knees, he kissed them all round, and telling them he should be with them again presently, went to his study.
That night, when all had retired, Walter sought his father, who told him the history of those last months.
"It is painful to me to speak of it," he said "but I feel relieved; my heart feels lighter than it has done since she left me, for I have not been able to speak much of it all. Nellie, dear girl, has had enough to bear."
"Yes, she looks very thin and tired; but Christina thinks she will recover gradually. I must try to cheer her if I can."
"Poor, dear little Nellie," said her father.