While the squire had been speaking he had watched the faces of his auditors, had noted and apprised the strength of glad surprise, of gratitude, of hope, of disappointment, of disapproval. He could scarcely believe that his offer would be refused, yet he saw how trustfully Brian turned towards Catherine, leaving her to answer, and how brave was the determination in Catherine's eyes.
'Uncle, your offer of help is a very large one, and we both thank you for it; but I cannot, even for Brian's sake, break my word to Uncle Jack, who was the first to offer me a home, and to Agatha, who wants me. Neither could I enter upon a share in the quarrel, taking your part in it, since I believe that, though Uncle Jack may have actedimprudently, he never meant to make Loring turn against you. I think that you might hold out a hand to him. He would be so glad, for he frets over your estrangement, and prays for you every day.'
'My dear niece, even a young and charming woman is not entitled to give advice to her elders. On my part, I advise you not to let mere sentiment stand in the way of your future husband's advancement in life.'
'I could not be so much indebted to you while I blame you in my heart. Oh, uncle, if a young woman ought not to judge her elders, when she is called upon to decide between them, she is obliged to consider what is her duty! My choice was declared when Uncle Jack made to me the best offer in his power, and Brian will not wish me to break my word to him, to agree to behave towards him as though I possessed one tithe less of the respect, love and admiration I have always felt for him!'
Brian responded to this appeal gravely and resolutely.
'While regretting the necessity to refuse so generous an offer, I think Catherine is quite right. This family quarrel exists through no fault of ours, so maybe it is not fair that we should suffer through it; but as we have to choose a side in it, we are bound in honour to make the choice in sympathy with our honest opinion of the right, not letting ourselves be influenced by the gain or loss of any worldly advantage. In Catherine's name, as well as in my own, sir, I express a hope that our being unable to accept favours from you will not prevent our owning your friendship.'
The squire turned abruptly aside and crossed the room to the window, where he stood for a few minutes gazing out. Land, houses, wealth, position, ease,—all these things had been scorned once by young Loring Carmichael; now they were once again refused by Catherine and her poor journalist lover. Yet the squire had spent his lifetimein amassing these goods,—had made great sacrifices for them, had toiled feverishly in his youth, and plodded through his best years of manhood,—had believed that wealth rules the world, and is the chief power over men and women. This second blow was a hard one, but he was too proud a man to wish to show chagrin.
As he returned from the window he replied to Brian.
'You must forgive me if I think you foolish. Having made you an offer, for which you have been good enough to express gratitude, it would be unreasonable were I to quarrel with you for refusing it. Your peculiarly delicate conscience will interfere with your chances in life, I fancy; but argument with an obstinate man is worse than useless.'
Catherine approached him, and clasped his right arm with her two hands, crying pleadingly:
'Uncle, say you forgive me for refusing. I don't want to lose your affection. I told you the other day that I sought you out for the sake of your old kindness to me, with no idea that a penniless niece might be helped by your money.'
The ring of truth in her voice touched the old man's heart, making him yet more regret her refusal of his offer. Here was honesty shining behind those frank brown eyes, and he half repented having hedged his plan round with conditions. But obstinacy, the fault of his old age, prevented him from withdrawing one of his former words.
'I forgive you, Catherine. I trust you may not suffer much through your folly,' was his sole answer.
Catherine's choice had been finally made, approved by Brian and declared. They decided that there was no need to tell Uncle Jack of the offer Uncle Ross had made them, not unless he were to question them in such a manner that truth would be sacrificed by silence. And this did not happen. The colonel was anxious to be assured that his brother would not quarrel with them on account of Catherine's promise to regard Redan Cottage as home, and when he was gratified by receiving this assurance he believed that all was well.
'Uncle Ross has forgiven me. I shall go to see him sometimes, just as I have been doing,' she said.
Those were delightful days during which Brian remained in Beverbridge. Not only did Mrs. Arderne kindly invite him a great deal to her house, but she allowed her companion so much liberty that the young people were almost constantly in one another's company.
'I'm afraid I haven't been of much service to you lately!' the girl exclaimed penitently, when Brian had returned to town.
'Nonsense, my dear!' was the little lady's prompt answer. 'You simply obeyed my wishes, which happened to coincide with your own. I derived a great deal of entertainment as well as pleasure from observing you and your lover. Good gracious, what a weary-looking, thin fellow he is! But his holiday did him good, and his facewas rapidly gaining a peaceful expression, which I hope it won't lose directly he sets to work again.'
'Oh no, that expression has come to stay!' Catherine replied, with a happy smile.
'What do you mean, you perplexing young woman? How can you possibly tell? Your Brian will begin to overwork himself again just as soon as he gets an opportunity. And unless he does, thanks to your united folly, you will never be able to get married.'
'Brian's peace doesn't come from any cause that can be taken away from him, dear Mrs. Arderne. Not even great fatigue, nor a breakdown in health could rob him of it.'
'Religion again, Catherine!'
'Yes; trust in God. Oh, I wish you would rejoice with me over Brian's new knowledge! I wish you would understand what true happiness is, you dearest of employers!'
Mrs. Arderne kissed the speaker, but shook her head.
'I've not a religious mind, Catherine. It refuses to concern itself chiefly with spiritual matters. The unseen thing called faith was always a mystery to me. Of course, God must exist, since we do, and the earth must have been made by Him; but if He wants us to love Him, He should manifest Himself to us.'
'So He does, in wonderful ways to those who seek Him. You would not have Him speak intimately to persons who will not listen for His voice? In countless mysteries He is always proving His power, in the things He has created; but human beings turn away their eyes from the evidences of His power and their own helplessness. Directly a soul begins to grope after the light, light comes in plenty. It is those souls which do not wish for faith which remain desolate for want of it!'
'No wonder, say I, that some do not wish for it, since its possession seems to entail upon them such extremes of self-sacrifice.'
Catherine pondered this remark, Mrs. Arderne watching her face meanwhile, and admiring the grace of her bended neck and the sweetness of her smile.
'Do you know, dear friend, I think all the better parts of ourselves are in great sympathy with self-sacrifice' (this was the outcome of her reflections), 'since love is the greatest joy we know, and love means preferring another's happiness to our own. If a man loves a comrade, he will go into dangers for his sake; if a woman loves her husband, even if he be unkind to her, she will spend her life in trying to make his happiness, and in shielding him from blame; and what will not some mothers give up for the sake of their children? This seems to me to be the truth of the matter—that self-sacrifice becomes happiness when it is founded upon sufficient love. No doubt happiness follows any renunciation for the sake of duty; but the other is the more human point of view.'
'And what lesson do you deduce from that truth, Catherine?' Mrs. Arderne was interested in the study of her companion's opinions.
'That love of God makes sweet and easy every sacrifice made for Him. Christ, the great Model of self-renunciation, appeals for sympathy to the better self within each one of us—which was created in us—the breath of God in man. And it is only those who let God live within the soul, who do not hinder His work, who desire His guidance and control, who feel strong enough to be happy in a life which is all uncertainty. The luckiest man in all the world may be destined for overwhelming misery and pain to-morrow; it is only the man whose happiness consists in obedience to God's will, and in hope for an eternity cf perfect joy, whose peace neither fear nor sufferingcanoverwhelm!'
'It is a pity that we do not have female clergy, my dear. If we did, you might become a popular preacher.'
'Oh, you are laughing at me! Am I too fond of talking about my opinions? I was only trying my best to answer the questions you asked me.'
'Yes, I know. I like to listen to you, though I wish you were less convincing. My own life always looks a poor, dreary, selfish one, filled with perils I've no courage to face, and my longing to be braver always frets me, after I have heard some of your sermonettes, child. If great misery or suffering were to overwhelm me to-morrow, I don't know what I should do!'
'You would lay your burden upon the Saviour, would you not, you darling?'
'How could I, after ignoring His existence so long as my life was placid. Certainly He must be generous, or He would send trials at once to test me, and to prove His power.'
'If He did, it would only be in His mercy, in order to expose you to the influence without which you will not seek the only lasting happiness.'
Mrs. Arderne sighed.
'Iwillturn over a new leaf; you shall help me, dear. I have been very much worried of late, because my husband wants me to rejoin him soon in India, and I don't want to go out there. My babes must stay in England. I will not have their health injured, perhaps permanently, by my selfish longing to keep them with me; and how can I bear to part from the darlings?'
There was a tremor in the mother's voice.
Catherine clasped the little woman in her arms, and laid her cheek against her face.
'Oh, you might have told me sooner of your anxiety! Would it not have been easier to bear, if you had told some one, even me, who would have sympathised?'
'I knew you would say I must go. Itismy duty, I admit. Henry has let me have a long holiday trip—firstto Australia, now to England. I have seen all my friends and relatives, and recovered my own health. With the exception that it is terribly hard to leave my children, there is not the slightest excuse for me to stay here.'
'Is the climatereallyso bad?'
'For children, yes. They shall not grow up sickly because their mother thought more of her own happiness than of their welfare.'
'And you expressed a wonder, only a few minutes ago, that any one could desire faith which might entail self-sacrifice! Oh, you dear, brave little mother, even while you are lonely for want of your babies, will you not be proud and glad because you have loved them better than yourself? That is the way in which gladness comes from loving God. And it is He alone who can comfort you, to whom you can pray for Ted and Toddie; to whose loving care you can confide them, knowing that He can guard them better even than your love could do, were you always close beside them!'
Mrs. Arderne laid her hand on her companion's shoulder, and indulged in a hearty cry.
'Oh, Cath!' she said at last, 'Imustlearn to love God now, for I shall be so lonely in India, and I must feel that I can do something for the babies when I am far away from them. He won't be angry and refuse to listen to me, will He, because so long as I was quite happy I did not serve Him?'
'The labourer who came at the eleventh hour into the vineyard received the same pay as those who had borne the heat and labour of the whole day. For God sent not His Son into the world to condemn the world; but that the world through Him might be saved.'
After another silence Mrs. Arderne said:
'When I go, you will take charge of Ted and Toddie? Promise me that, Catherine. Whether you live in RedanCottage, or in your husband's home, you can give a shelter to my babes. There need be no difficulty about money, for I can make a liberal allowance for their comfort, and to dosomethingtowards recompensing your care of them. This idea only occurred to me the other day, after I received Henry's letter asking me to come back soon to him, and then I felt I could have hugged you for refusing to be adopted by your Uncle Ross!'
'He did not want to adopt me, dear. I should have had a home of my own. Still, perhaps he would not have liked me to bring Ted and Toddie on constant visits to Carm Hall; and if I have charge of them, I will never be parted from them.'
'If? Tell me youwill, Catherine. I can only be happy about them if I leave them in your care.'
'I promise I will have them, if Uncle Jack does not refuse, and he is not likely to do that.'
'You do not speak of Brian's opinion.'
'There is no need. Brian will be glad for me to do anything in the world that I can do to ease your anxiety. Besides, are you not making me a most helpful offer? You are going to keep on your companion, letting her live at home. She would be altogether delighted, were it not that she will be parted from you!'
'You must write to me, Cath, very,veryoften; and you won't let the babes forget me, will you? Oh, but I know you will not! Your salary must be doubled, so that you are no expense to Uncle Jack, and we will decide on a sum to pay for the board of Ted and Toddie. Dear child, it is a comfort to me to feel that you will benefit by my misfortune. You'll be able to save money, to help your lover, and in a few years Henry will bring me back to England.'
After a little more discussion of this plan, Mrs. Arderne sent Catherine to take the news to Redan Cottage.
Only Agatha was at home this evening, and her joy may be imagined.
'Oh,Catherine; you will come to live here, with those two dear children? We shall have you, just as we planned to do! and you aregladto come!'
A short while ago the little girl would have said, 'Ishall have you,' and would not have troubled to question whether or not the arrangement would bring joy to others; but the influence of Catherine's teaching was working within this heart.
'Glad?—yes indeed, dearie!'
'And you will talk to me every day about God, until He seems real and near? Then I shall not be so dreadfully afraid of dying.'
The colonel returned to the house early in the evening, to be greeted by the radiant smiles of his niece and ward. The former rose from her low seat by Agatha's couch, and advanced to meet him with her hands outstretched, and cried,—
'I want to come "home" to stay, dear uncle. Will you have me?'
It was sweet for her to see the joyous light that broke over his face as he listened to her explanations, for she learned to understand more and more how much he hadwanted her. His earnest words of welcome were not necessary, though they also were sweet to Catherine. Later, when he was walking back to Woodley Villa with her, she learned a fact which robbed her prospects of some of their joyousness, but which made her trebly thankful that she was to live 'at home' for the future.
They had reached the gate of Mrs. Arderne's house, when Uncle Jack laid his hand detainingly on his niece's arm, and said,—
'Lassie, you know that my pension is a very small one, and that it will die with me?'
'Yes?'
'When Agatha comes of age, if she lives, she will come into a tiny fortune; but meanwhile, the sum that was allowed me for her maintenance is barely sufficient.'
'Are you afraid that I shall prove an extravagant housekeeper?'
'No, dear,—no. But if I were to die,—what would become of Agatha?'
'Could I take care of her,—I mean, would she suffer if I had to provide for her altogether out of that sum which you say is barely sufficient?'
'You could do it, lassie, but she would be a great tie.'
'I will never desert her while she needs me. Even if Brian would not let me have her with me, and you know that is an unnecessary supposition, I could make arrangements for her to board and lodge somewhere quite near, so that I could be often with her. You meant, did you not, that you could not bear to think of her being left lonely, and obliged to think and manage for herself? I would prevent that.'
Uncle Jack smiled, and squeezed the arm he was holding.
'God bless you, dearest,—you have taken a load of anxiety off my mind! Yes, thatwasall I meant. Icouldn't endure the thought that my poor Agatha might be utterly alone. Probably my brother would offer her a home,—but I could not count upon that.'
'But you—you are not going to die soon. I mean you—you are not ill?'
'For a year past I have had need to be careful of myself. My heart is in a wrong condition, so the doctor tells me. In fact, lassie, his warnings simply amount to this, which we all believe of ourselves,—that I might die any moment, if God so pleased.'
For a while Catherine was speechless. Then she realised the truth which the colonel's words had suggested—threatened his life might be, but it could not end until the Creator had ordained that he should die.
'No wonder you have been anxious about Agatha. Dearest uncle, do not worry about her any more. Please God, we will keep you for many, many years to come, but if He were to call you away from us, we would cling to one another for all our lives.'
'Lassie, lassie,—I didn't mean to bring tears into your eyes! You mustn't be less brave than your words. We are all under orders,—and a good soldier never lets himself fear the next command.'
'No, I will remember your advice,—colonel.'
There was a smile on her lips now, as she gazed lovingly into the old man's face.
'This is a secret from Agatha, of course—she is not strong enough yet to bear burdens that can be spared her. You and I are more like comrades, lassie, who can hearten and strengthen one another by exchanging ideas and knowledge.'
'I shall always ask God to help me to help you, then, Uncle Jack, for you are naturally a brave fighter, while I am but a girl.'
'Many a woman's courage has shamed a man! Iremember hearing how, just before the battle of Inkerman——'
And then followed an anecdote, the telling of which brought fire into the eyes of the old soldier, and a thrill into his voice. Catherine, watching him, guessed that it was in this unconscious manner that he had inspired poor Loring Carmichael with that love for the military profession which had caused him to anger his Uncle Ross.
An unconscious influence!—this it was for which Uncle Ross would not forgive his brother, who daily grieved for the estrangement between them!
And though Loring had died young, had he not died honourably? Since there must be soldiers, why, some must die young,—and all honour be to them! Surely Uncle Jack had done Loring no great injury after all. The young man had been spared the temptations of long life, and had gone to find the reward which the King of Battles gives to all loyal-hearted fighters.
While hearing the anecdote of the battle of Inkerman, Catherine Carmichael once more resolved to make every effort to bring about a reconciliation between her uncles.
'That was a fine story!' she cried, when the tale was ended.
'Yes, lassie; women are very brave,—often. You have made me happy to-night. I could say you have taken away my last trouble, if it were not for Ross' anger against me. God knows I would give the rest of my life, if possible, in exchange for the reinstating of the old regard we had for one another! We were devoted to one another as lads and young men, Catherine. There was never a quarrel between us,—and we were friends, true, absolute friends, until Ross caught the gold fever, that passion for money-earning and hoarding which ruins many men.'
'That was the beginning of your estrangement?'
'That began to put us out of sympathy; but I want himjust as badly as ever, lassie. After almost a lifetime of brotherly affection, this separation is terrible. I think the tie that binds one man's heart to another is tremendously powerful. I shouldn't wonder if Ross were wishing for my friendship all the while almost as strongly as I long for his; but his pride has grown very stubborn, and I did him an undoubted injury, though I meant no harm.'
'God will answer our prayers, Uncle Jack, dear. The reconciliation will come some day.'
'His will be done!' was the reverent answer. Then the colonel suddenly remembered how long he had kept his niece standing talking by the gate,—and they parted with a great hand-clasp,—'just like comrade-soldiers,' as Catherine thought to herself.
She ran indoors, and sought out Mrs. Arderne, who was in the nursery putting away the toys which Ted and Toddie had been playing with before they had been carried away to bed.
'Cath! your face has a cloud over it!'
'Oh, you quick-sighted friend!—Yes, I want to tell you about something—about Uncle Jack.'
The little woman drew a chair forward, and made the tall girl sit down; then standing beside her, pillowed her brown head on her arm.
'Let me hear all,—it is my turn to try to comfort you now!'
Gradually the tale was told, and Catherine did not pretend not to be deeply grieved about her uncle's illness. Warm-hearted, tender-natured as she was, she could not fail to sorrow over the news he had told her of his state of health, although she never lost consciousness of that beautiful truth that God was taking care of him.
'You see, God may mean to take him from me soon,' she explained, clinging to the encircling arm. 'I cannot tellhowsoon. God has a right to do so. His decrees arealways for our good, but—but—I love Uncle Jack so truly, and I have only just found him! It seems so hard to contemplate the possibility of having to give him up to God just yet. You won't think me wicked, or a hypocrite, to be feeling like this, will you?'
'No, no, childie! Your religion would not be beautiful at all, if it did not make allowance for natural human feelings. Resignation must be the result of sorrow, mustn't it? Poor, dear old gentleman! I hope and trust that he may be spared to you for a long, long time. And you know, dear, threatened lives are often lengthy. You must take great care of him.'
'Indeed I will! Do you not think that his trouble must be very bad for him?—his regret about the quarrel? He told me to-night that he would gladly give the rest of his life, if by so doing he could become friends again with his brother.'
'Can't you soften Mr. Carmichael's heart by telling him of his brother's illness?'
Catherine raised her face, and eagerly considered this suggestion.
'Oh, if I only could coax him to make the least advance, or even to meet Uncle Jack somewhere for a talk, the battle would be won! It is dreadfully selfish of me to be sitting here crying, when I ought to be forming plans of action and praying for success with them!'
'Oh, you energetic young woman, you need not grudge yourself five minutes' rest and indulgence in tears! Why, a good cry sometimes does a girl a world of good, and acts as a tonic, so that she can work fifty times better after it.'
'I know, and you are such a dear to cry upon!'
'We are to be parted so soon, Cath, that it is best for us to help one another all we can now.'
'Will it be very soon? Agatha asked me, but I told her that I did not know.'
'I have been making my plans while you were away, and I have decided to leave England the week after next. Nurse can have board wages instead of her notice, unless, indeed, you would like to keep her on. You are quite welcome to do so, if you prefer it.'
'There would be no room for her in Redan Cottage, and I would much rather have Ted and Toddie all to myself. You do not imagine that I regard a nurse's daily work as hard or derogatory, do you? Why, it is some of the best and greatest labour a woman can possibly find to do!'
'My children are extraordinarily lucky little people to be left in your care, Catherine!' said the mother gratefully.
'So you will be with your husband for Christmas?'
'Yes,—poor Henry! I had contemplated inviting lots of friends down to stay with me, and indulging in all the Yule-tide frivolities and entertainments of the neighbourhood—dances, etc.; but my heart has reproached me too strongly. Thanks to you, I'm not half as pleasure-craving a butterfly as I used to be. Duty seems not only best, but happiest. Once I have got over the parting with you and the chicks, I know I shall be glad to be with Henry, in spite of the climate.'
The two women kissed one another, and clung together, feeling that their troubles had wrought a strong tie of sympathy between them. Then ensued a long, thoughtful silence, which was broken at last by Catherine's earnest, low-toned voice, saying,—
'Do you remember the words of Jesus Christ to Simon Peter: "I have prayed for thee that thy faith fail not; and when thou are converted, strengthen thy brethren"? I have always thought that so touching an instance of our Lord's mercy! For He knew that Peter was about to deny Him, yet He prayed that in sin he might not lose his faith, but, in spite of his errors, come to be a teacher of others.Dearest of friends, I am only an ignorant, sinful creature, but if we ask God to help me, He will teach me how to watch over and train Ted and Toddie, so that they may not suffer for want of their mother's presence.'
'Cath,—teach them to be like yourself, and I shall be more than satisfied!'
Catherine wrote two long letters next morning—one to Brian, the other to Uncle Ross—to acquaint them with her new prospects. She concluded the letter to her uncle in this way:—
'I shall be sorry if my going to live at Redan Cottage displeases you, but I know you will be glad for me to do anything I can to serve my kind friend, Mrs. Arderne,—and remember, you promised not to quarrel seriously with'Your affectionate niece,'Catherine Carmichael.'
'I shall be sorry if my going to live at Redan Cottage displeases you, but I know you will be glad for me to do anything I can to serve my kind friend, Mrs. Arderne,—and remember, you promised not to quarrel seriously with
'Your affectionate niece,
'Catherine Carmichael.'
In the course of the same day she received his reply, brought down to her by a groom. Her uncle assured her of his esteem for Mrs. Arderne, and his unalterable affection for herself, and expressed satisfaction that the proposed change in her circumstances would be of pecuniary advantage to her. Redan Cottage was not so much as mentioned, nor was Uncle Jack nor Agatha.
Brian's reply, which was lengthy, greatly comforted Catherine. Not only did he thoroughly approve Mrs. Arderne's plan, but he sent such earnest sympathy,combined with encouragement, on the subject of the colonel's state of health, that his promised wife felt that she possessed in him a consoler upon whose perfect understanding and stable judgments she could always rely. And, in advising her to hope for success in her efforts to effect reconciliation, he alluded to 'your happy faith, which you have taught me to share.'
During the following days Uncle Jack and Mrs. Arderne, Agatha, and the children, met many times, and inaugurated friendships, greatly to Catherine's delight.
'That old man is a hero and a darling!' the vivacious little lady told her companion one evening, after they had spent some hours at Redan Cottage.
'Yet you once wanted me to give up his friendship, to refuse his offer, to practically behave as though I did not love him, and all for the sake of Uncle Ross's money!'
'Cath, don't throw my past folly in my face! I didn't know your uncle then, and I felt sure you were championing the one because he was the poorer,—out of a mingling of quixotic chivalry and obstinate pride.'
'What is your opinion of my poor little Agatha?'
'I don't like her—I've not advanced far enough in the study or practice of universal charity to feel sure that I love her, as we are told to love all men! As for loving her specially, as you seem to do, that is quite out of the question for me,—a thing far beyond the bounds of possibility.'
'She only shows you her outward self,—the bad manners and forgetfulness of others of a spoilt child; if she had shown you her heart, with all its pathetic longings, fears, and affections, all its contradictory beauty and ugliness, you would be just as fond of her as I am.'
'I can't think so. The only reason why I feel the least tenderness towards her is the fondness she shows for my babies.'
'The more you see of her the faster will grow that tenderness.She is one of the many girls who suffer countless deprivations on account of their unconciliatory manners, and who remain lonely and morbid because no one ever loves them well enough to gain their confidence.'
'But supposing there seems nothing worth loving?'
'That can't ever be—not to a person who sees God's handiwork—something, therefore, of God's own beauty—in every human face,' said Catherine.
Before the day came for Mrs. Arderne's departure from Beverbridge, she had become genuinely interested in Agatha, and much more friendly towards her. Ted and Toddie, with the impulsiveness of their youth, had forced their passage into Agatha's love. 'We only just wanted to be nice at first, 'cause we was sowwy for you, 'cause you can't get up,' Ted announced once; 'but now we weally loves 'oo.'
And after a speech of this description, delivered by a truthful, confiding, kissable urchin six years of age, and echoed by his more demure but equally kissable sister, what could Agatha's pride do but yield? She was always happy, even when suffering pain, if Ted and Toddie were playing about the room, running up to her couch every few minutes to ask her opinion or advice, or to bestow a 'weal good cuddle' upon her.
'Muvver, you'venoidea howvewwynice Ag'tha is,' declared Toddie.
Ted one evening determined to break the ice between his mother and Agatha, and proceeded to act upon his intention with his usual all-subduing bluntness.
'Ag'tha,' he announced, 'you like muvver, don't you? and muvver, you like Ag'tha, don't you? So s'pose you just kiss one anover an' be fwends ever afterwards?'
The kiss was given, laughingly; indeed, it could not well be refused. Agatha wondered if Ted were right, if Mrs. Arderne did really like her; and this thought made hermanner gentle and timid, the consequence of which was that the child's surmise was proved accurate, even though it had been a mistake at first.
The time for the mother's departure arrived all too rapidly. She had superintended the fitting up of Ted and Toddie's nursery in Redan Cottage, had found out, with pride, that the little people were already beloved by all the household, and knew that they were certain to be quite happy with Catherine. Perhaps her heart suffered a few pangs because of her knowledge that they would have grieved far more, had it been Catherine who was obliged to leave them; but this reflection she resolutely put away from her, as one likely to encourage selfishness. After all, the fact was not strange. It was Catherine who had appealed to the souls of the babies, taken notice of their young emotions, studied their characters, helped and consoled them in their troubles; she, the mother, had petted them egregiously when they pleased her, and banished them without remorse when their prattle had tired her. By assiduously caring for their health, she had imagined that her duty had been fully done, but now, when it was too late, she realized that even small children should be taught to respect the justice of praise and blame, punishment and reward, and that they turn naturally with the greatest affection to those who appeal to their generosity. While Catherine had taught them 'Be good, or you will grieve your loving Father in heaven, who sees you every minute of the day and night, who is sorry when you are naughty, and glad when you are trying to please Him,' Mrs. Arderne had ruled by alternate bribes and threats, such as, 'If you are naughty, you shall not have that picture-book I promised you,' or, 'Dobe good, Ted and Toddie, then you shall have those nice chocolates out of the cupboard.'
Often and often had Ted's spirit failed to be subdued by these means; he had been known to answer, 'Don't care!do wivout choc'lates'; but a few minutes' talk with Catherine had never been found to result in anything but meekness and repentance.
It was the old story—when worldly measures proved worthless, God's love produced wonders.
The day of farewells came at last, after a few days which had seemed to lag because they had been filled with sorrow. Mrs. Arderne was to start very early for London, so the parting with Ted and Toddie was a silent one. Bending over them where they lay happily asleep in their cots—Ted pouting and Toddie smiling seraphically—the mother would not waken them to gratify herself at their expense. 'It's best that they don't know,' she whispered, 'for they would cry, though you could soon comfort them.' Then she kissed the rosy cheeks, laid her hands on the golden head and the brown one, and let Catherine lead her out of the room.
'Oh, Cath, Cath, be good to them!'
'You know I will, dearest.'
'Don't let them forget me. Try to make them remember their mother's good points only, if she has any. I have not been the best of mothers, but it was through ignorance; and, please God, I'll learn all about Him, so that the children may not find me wanting in sympathy when I come home to them.'
'Pray for them night and morning, just when you feel sure they are saying their prayers and asking God to bless "muvver."'
'Oh, their dear little lisps! They won't be babies any longer when I see them again, my darlings!'
This was the worst parting; though the little woman clung to Catherine at the last moment in the railway carriage, and felt, as she owned, that she could scarcely bear to let her go, the mother's sorrow was naturally the stronger, as was proved by her last words.
'Be good to them, Cath, take care of them.'
As the girl returned alone to the villa, to superintend the removal of herself and the children to Redan Cottage and to part with the nurse, she was conscious of a feeling of dread at the responsibility she had adopted, as well as of a loneliness due to the loss of her friend; and it was only by means of prayer that she regained courage.
Not until Ted and Toddie were installed in their new home did Catherine break the news to them of their mother's departure.
'Oh, Carr, she's not gone'd?'
The pathetic cry, the startled look went straight to the girl's heart.
'Ted, she is coming back again!' she cried, clasping him to her breast, 'and you must try ever so hard to grow good, wise, and clever, that she may be really proud of her boy!'
Toddie sat down on the floor and began to weep, refusing utterly to be comforted until she had had her cry out, when she displayed healthy curiosity regarding her new doll's cradle, her mother's parting gift.
Ted had by far the more affectionate disposition, and grieved trebly as much as his sister, as Catherine had expected. He tried to hide his unhappiness, even from her, until night, when she found him sobbing pitifully in the dark, and had to spend a long while in endeavouring to soothe him.
At last he cried himself to sleep in her arms.
It was many days before the little fellow ceased to fret, and at one time Catherine began to fear for his health; but she and Agatha managed him so adroitly that he was surprised into laughing over a new game one evening, and after that laugh his spirits gradually returned to him.
'His mother will cry over the letter I have sent her, describing Ted's way of bearing his first big sorrow,' saidCatherine to Agatha; 'but they will be tears that will do her heart good.'
Toddie was quite placid again by this time, and was becoming the idol of all but Agatha and Catherine, who could not help loving Ted best, though they tried to show no preference.
'Uncle Jack' was the tiny girl's favourite friend, and he spent most of his leisure in her company, which never failed to cheer him.
How greatly he was in need of cheering, Catherine now began to discover. She loved him so well that her power of character-reading was greatly aided in his case. When Agatha thought him merely tired, Catherine knew that he was dejected; when he was laughing aloud over his games with the children, Catherine saw the weary look in his eyes, detected a wistful cadence in his voice, and knew that he was thinking of the quarrel which was as a dark shadow over these years of his old age.
Morning and night, at family prayers, a petition was offered up for the reconciling of all family feuds, the forgiveness of injuries between friends, the health and happiness of relatives. And one day some time after Christmas the colonel turned to those around him, saying simply:—
'This is the anniversary of the day when I and my brother Ross quarrelled, when he told me we could live together no longer. Will you all pray silently for his welfare, here and hereafter, and for our reconciliation, if God in His mercy wills it? I know I have always prayed aloud for this before, in other years; but to-day—my courage fails me.'
'Catherine, if I should die suddenly,' he said when next alone with his niece, 'I trust to you to tell Ross I have never borne him any ill-will, and that I hope to meet him in the kingdom where all the secrets of men's hearts will bemade plain, and where the God of love reigns for ever and ever.'
'I promise to bear your wish in mind, dearest uncle,' was her answer.
And she resolved that not another day should pass before she made one more attempt to soften her other uncle's heart and overrule his pride.
Next morning dawned fair. Catherine was astir early, as was her custom; but, instead of writing letters, devoted all her time to meditating upon her resolution to plead with Uncle Ross. These meditations were interspersed with earnest prayers, and with a study of those parts of the Bible which she thought would best help her in her task.
'I must go to work very humbly,' she told herself, 'or else I may make some serious mistake, and maybe increase instead of lessening Uncle Jack's trouble. If I remember all the time that no action of mine can be the least use unless God helps me, then I am not likely to do harm.'
Her desire to make another effort on Uncle Jack's behalf was just as strong by morning light as it had been the preceding evening, but the difficulties in the way of success looked more colossal. What could she say, that would not be mere repetition of all she had already said? Nothing, except that now she could plead for the reconciliation to take place because the colonel's life was in danger. And if Uncle Ross did not care sufficiently for his brother to be touched by this news, influenced by the dread lest the quarrel should continue until death, there was no strong argument upon which the pleader could fall back as a last resource.
But surely, surely Uncle Rosswouldcare! The lonelyold man, surrounded by riches and comforts,mustbe longing all the while for the brotherly love he had cast away, and repeatedly refused to welcome back again!
Catherine's warm heart glowed with affection for all who were good to her, but more especially for those to whom she felt drawn by the tie of sympathy; and she could not believe that a brother could possibly continue to refuse to clasp a brother's hand, nor that any one could long withstand the gentle fascination of Uncle Jack's sincerity.
The more she prayed and meditated, the more hopeful did she become. She even found herself smiling over the contemplation of a dream-picture—the possible result of the efforts she was planning—of the brothers meeting once again as friends, not foes, and trying to outdo one another in their expressions of sorrow for the years of misunderstanding.
'Uncle Ross is generous at heart, I feel sure he is!' she thought. 'It is only, as Uncle Jack told me, that he has allowed his business career to spoil his outward character—he has grown too fond of money—hard, calculating, and cynical. But, in spite of his wealth, he is unhappy and lonely—he has come to regard his life as a failure. He will welcome the friendship and unmercenary devotion of the brother who has never ceased to sorrow for the loss of his regard!'
Before going downstairs to breakfast Catherine woke and dressed the children and listened to their prayers.
They clung round her and begged for a 'talk,' and this too she gave them—a quaint little morning homily—dealing with the probable events of the day, containing a promise to have a real, long game of play with them in the evening, to make up for leaving them with Agatha until dinner-time.
'You will be dear, good little people, will you not, so that I may go to see Uncle Ross quite happily, without worrying about having left you at home?'
Ted laughed wickedly, but was instantly rebuked by Toddie.
'Naughty boy not to pwomise at once!I'llbe good, Carr dear, but I can't keep Ted fwom bein' bad.'
'Ted will not break his word to me, I am certain of that,' said Catherine, gravely regarding the mischievous-looking urchin.
'That's why didn't want to pwomise,' explained the rebel. 'Feels naughty this mornin'.'
'Come and kiss me.'
This invitation could not be resisted. In a second he had scrambled on to her knee, was clasping both his fat little arms round her neck, and showering kisses upon her cheeks and brow.
'Oh, Ted, you do not wish to vex our good God, and to worry your own Carr, do you?'
'Ni-ever!' cried Ted with emphasis. 'Only wanted to play pwanks, go an' tease Hawwiet in the kitchen, an' make Ag'tha let me do everything I like best!'
'You will do none of those things,' announced Catherine firmly.
Ted, scarcely believing she could be angry, yet awed by the decided tone, gazed up at her, asking,—
'Whywon't I?'
'Because you love me, Ted. I cannot have that whichIlike best, if you are determined to try to please yourself this morning. I shall have to stay at home to take charge of you, if you mean to be naughty.'
'An' youweallywant to go to see that howwid old man?'
'Oh, Ted,' put in Toddie the virtuous, 'youarea wicked, bad boy to-day! I wonder Carr has any patience wiv 'oo.'
'I shall bevery muchdisappointed if I cannot go to Carm Hall.'
Ted meditated for a minute, then he laughed delightedly,—
'Then I'll save all the pwanks up!' he announced. 'Ipromise dweffully solemnly that I'll be won'erful good all the times you'se away, Carr lovey!'
When Catherine, having completed her conquest over Ted's mischievous longings, ran downstairs to breakfast, she found a letter awaiting her. It proved to be from her Melbourne cousin George, to whom she had written so long ago asking him for news of the last hours of poor Loring Carmichael.
Robert was shovelling away at the fire, and Harriet was laying the meal, so after a few words to them Catherine slipped away into the garden to read the long letter in peace.
She was not in the least cold, though the January air was fresh, as she paced round and round the narrow gravel walk which surrounded the small lawn.
Her cheeks were glowing with a healthy colour, and her brown hair, having just been rumpled by that naughty Ted, was blown in bewitching locks and curls about her brow.
There was a happy smile of pleased expectation on her lips as she began to read, but it faded away and was replaced by a look of anxiety and grief long before she had finished the letter.
After a few unimportant sentences George Carmichael wrote:—
'I know that I ought to have answered your letter long ago, and I should have done so, had I been certain how much I was justified in telling you about poor Loring. You say you are in a position to make use of any information I can send you, but my knowledge seems to me to be of a kind which, if shared with our uncles, would only increase their quarrel, not lessen it. Loring dictated two letters before he died, which I wrote and despatched as he desired—the one to Uncle Ross, the other to Uncle Jack. They were addressed to Carm Hall. As he was able to write through me, he did not give any verbal messages when hewas dying. Have you never heard of these letters? It is not possible, is it, that Uncle Jack never received his? There! that question is as bad as a lie, so please consider it scratched out. I know, by something you said in your last letter to me, that Uncle J. can't have received it. These are the facts of the case. Loring was offered his choice between giving up his intention to be a soldier, or accepting an income of £2000 a year, with the prospect of inheriting almost all Uncle Ross's fortune. This sounds straight enough, but it was not straight, for he was bound over not to tell Uncle Jack of the bribe offered. Uncle J. thought he was choosing simply between the army and an office stool. Uncle Ross offered him money down, and a life of idleness, spent where he pleased; in fact, there was nothing he would not have offered in order to buy out his brother's influence. When Loring lay dying he considered himself freed from that promise of secrecy which he had made for his lifetime, and he wrote to Uncle Jack telling him how Ross had acted. He also explained that he had left home without any farewells, in order to leave them free to forget him, the cause of their quarrel, and because he was indignant at the secrecy, which seemed dishonourable, of the offer made him. "You," he wrote, "would have scorned to privately bribe me, had you possessed my other uncle's wealth. I chose to follow my own wish in the matter of choosing a profession, since I felt that, by attempting to bribe me, Uncle Ross had absolved me from all obligation due to his former care of me. Until he made that offer, which few young men would have refused, I was trying to subdue my longing for a soldier's life, that I might repay him for making me his heir. You never tried to influence me; you only told me true stories of a soldier's life.It was entirely owing to Uncle Ross's secret persuasion that I left home to enlist." There, my dear Catherine, as nearly as I can remember, those were thewords poor Loring wrote to Uncle Jack by my hand in that letter which it is clear enough Uncle Jack has not received. My own opinion is, that it reached Carm Hall after the colonel's departure, and that Uncle Ross (knowing some of its contents through Loring's letter to him) purposely refrained from forwarding it. If my suspicion is correct, the news I send you will surely increase the family quarrel rather than lessen it; but I place it in your hands to be used or not used, as you judge best. My opinion is that a reconciliation will never take place, if it cannot come to pass without a confession by the squire. It is more often the person who has done the injury, not the person injured, who refuses to forgive. If you ever wish for it, Catherine, I can send you a copy of Loring's letter to the colonel, for I have at home the rough notes for it—the words that his failing breath dictated to me.'