"It don't matter for just once. We'll ask somebody at Church, and you can both go in the afternoon," Susan Dunn said.
"I shouldn't wonder if there'll be a Bible Class I can go to as well," remarked Nancy, who was busily washing up the breakfast things. She had quite recovered from the fright of her narrow escape, and was as rosy and pretty as ever.
"Shouldn't wonder if there is," said Dunn. "You'll miss your old class, my girl."
"Yes, father, very much," the girl said, with a sigh. "And a good many things beside."
But she was much too busy to stand still, and indulge melancholy recollections.
Sometimes, when they could manage it, the Dunns all went to Church together in the morning, Dunn contenting himself with a cold Sunday dinner, that Susan might be free; and that was the plan for to-day. Susan always took care that he should have something extra nice, though cold, in return for this self-denial; and the vegetables, being prepared beforehand, were cooked after their return.
Now and then they would all go together in the evening also. If Dick or Susie seemed tired, however, or disinclined for the second service, then Susan or Nancy would remain at home. The children were really too young for both services, in addition to Sunday school, yet they often begged to go. For they had been brought up to look upon Church-going not only as a duty, but as a happiness. And though there was much that they could not understand, yet they did clearly understand that people came together in Church for the purpose of united worship and praise of God, and united prayer for others as well as for themselves.
These thoughts must surely have been in Dunn's mind as he sat with Susie on his knee, and Dick by his side; for after hearing the two repeat some hymns, he said suddenly—
"We shan't be in the old Church to-day, Susie. But we shall all be doing the same here as they'll be doing there—saying the very same words to God. It's nice to think of."
"Will we have the same hymns, father?" asked Susie.
"No, that's not likely. But the same prayers. It's wonderful to remember the thousands and thousands who'll be asking the very same things of God presently all through England, and in many other parts of the world."
"And God always hears, don't He, father?" little Dick observed.
"He always hears real prayer, Dick. I'm afraid there's lots of people go to Church who let the clergyman say the prayers, and don't join in themselves,—don't really mean to ask anything of God. And some even say the words aloud, and never think of the sense. But that's not prayer at all."
"I do try to think," said Susie. "Only there's a lot of words I can't understand."
"Well, you needn't try to pray what you don't understand, Susie. You're such a little thing yet. And there's one prayer you always know when it comes,—'Our Father, which art in Heaven.'"
"Isn't it a good thing that comes so often?" said Dick. "That's the prayer the Lord Jesus made for us, isn't it, father?"
"For us and for everybody," said Dunn.
Dick looked thoughtful.
"And the more you try, the more you'll understand the other prayers, too," said Dunn. "It isn't hard when something comes about asking God to forgive us all our sins and naughtinesses, for Jesus' sake; and when we ask God to bless the Queen, and to help people who are sick and unhappy. Why, there's lots of things even you and Dick can pray in Church, like the rest of the people, Susie. And most commonly, there's one hymn, at least, that you can join in."
GOING TO CHURCH.
ARCHIE STUART did not always trouble himself to go to Church on Sunday mornings. His mother commonly stayed in, cooking a hot dinner for him; and she liked Archie to go with her in the evening.
Mrs. Stuart was one who considered a certain amount of religion to be respectable, and, as she would have said, "due to herself." What might be due to God did not much enter into her thoughts. She liked to be seen in Church once every Sunday, wearing her neat Sunday dress and best bonnet; and she liked her boy Archie to be there also, wearing his best suit. She had been brought up to go to Church, and she counted it proper and decorous to continue the habits in which she had been brought up.
If Archie had wished to go in the morning also, Mrs. Stuart would have made no particular objection; but she took no pains to encourage him in so doing. So, not unnaturally, after leaving Sunday school, and when beginning to look upon himself as a man, Archie fell into the ways of too many around.
Though far from lazy in other respects, he did not at all object to an extra two or three hours in bed every Sunday; and after coming down to a late breakfast, he felt often much more disposed for a country ramble than for Church.
On this particular Sunday morning, Archie had not at all made up his mind what to do. It was not yet quite a regular habit with him to stay away every Sunday morning, though fast becoming so; and perhaps Archie's own narrow escape from the mad dog during the past week had disposed him to unusually serious thought.
"Going for a walk, I suppose?" his mother said, seeing him ready to start.
"Well—yes—I suppose so," Archie answered hesitatingly.
He had been on the point of getting his Prayer-book; but somehow Mrs. Stuart's words and manner checked him. If he said he meant to go to Church, his mother would be sure to ask why, and Archie could not have told her why, for he did not know it himself.
So he started with a resolve to have his walk as usual; yet, instead of going towards the country, he went in the direction of the Church. "One way's as good as another," he said to himself.
Then, suddenly, after turning a corner, he found the whole family of Dunns proceeding leisurely churchwards; Richard Dunn and his wife together, and in front Nancy, looking very sweet and modest, in her dark dress and straw bonnet, and the two children, one on each side of her.
"Fine day," Dunn said, as Archie came up.
"Very fine," responded Archie. "Just what the farmers are wanting now."
Nancy stopped to speak to him, quite simply and naturally. She did not blush, or seem to be thinking about herself, but only said, "We have been wanting so to thank you again for what you did that day."
"Yes, I thought you'd have been to see us by this time," remarked Dunn. "Come along with us, lad; unless your mother's waiting for you anywhere."
"No, she don't go in the morning," said Archie. Honesty prompted him to add, "I don't either—most commonly. She and I go of an evening."
"Come with us to-day," suggested Dunn again.
"I don't mind if I do," said Archie. "Only I haven't got a Prayer-book."
"We're close home. Dick 'll run back for one,—mother's old one, Dick. It's on the book-case."
"You won't mind having my old one?" asked Susan. "Nancy and the children gave me a new one my last birthday,—look, isn't it a beauty?" And she unfolded a sheltering silk handkerchief. "I shouldn't like to lend that. But my old one's quite tidy."
Dick ran off at once, and overtook them close to the Church door.
It was a large building with lofty pillars; and low open seats, all free; and a good organ, the gift of Dunn's new employer, Mr. Rawdon. Mr. Wilmot read well, in clear reverent tones; and the congregation—largely composed of working-men and their families—joined heartily in the responses. There was plenty of singing, a good choir taking the lead; but the congregation did not sit or stand and idly listen to the choir. Mr. Wilmot was very particular about having well-known simple tunes, and he often impressed upon his people the duty of every one in Church taking an active personal share in the public worship of God.
So a more hearty yet reverent service could hardly have been found.
After the second hymn, Mr. Wilmot stood up in the pulpit,—looking pale still, some thought,—and gave out his text twice over, in far-reaching tones:
"St. Luke xxii. 33: 'Lord, I am ready to go with Thee, both into prison and to death.'"
THE OLD MOTTO.
MR. WILMOT'S sermon was short. Parts of it, curtailed, were as follows:—
"There is an old English motto, my friends, which has been lately often in my mind—a short motto, of three words only—
"'READY, AYE READY!'
"Now you scarcely need that I should tell you the meaning of this motto.
"Ready for what? Why, ready, of course, for anything and everything which may come in the way of one's duty.
"The true-hearted soldier is 'ready, aye ready' to go where bidden, even to death. The true-hearted servant is 'ready, aye ready' to do his master's desire, careless of trouble or weariness. The true-hearted child is 'ready, aye ready' to accept or bear whatever his father wills for him. The true-hearted man or woman is 'ready, aye ready' to risk or suffer aught in the cause of needy and suffering men and women.
"This spirit of readiness is not rare in the present day; and especially it is not rare in our own land. You may say that the age is a selfish age; and so has been every age, for mankind is a selfish race. Nevertheless, there are in these days thousands who hold themselves 'ready, aye ready' to do and dare, for the sake of loved ones, for the sake of their country,—nay, that is not surprising, but more than this—for the sake of all those who are in need, in peril, in extremity, and unable to help themselves. Look at the records of shipwrecks; look at the records of mines; look at the records of hospitals, of fever and plague-stricken districts,—for the truth of what I say.
"Ready to do, ready to dare, ready to endure, ready to risk life itself, for the sake of others. It is something to be able to say so much. And mark all of you what I say, this would not now be, but for the life and example and teaching of Him who was 'ready, aye ready' to quit His glorious throne in heaven, that He might die a fearful death, as Man, for a ruined world. All that we see around us of benevolence, of pity, of tenderness, of self-denial, has been taught to mankind by Jesus, the Son of God.
"I do not say that no gleams of tenderness are to be found in the natural heart of man. A heathen wife or mother may love her husband or child; a heathen may shrink from the sight of suffering. But if you would learn what man is by nature, you must look at heathendom in the mass. Look at those lands where the Name of Christ is unknown, and see the awful abounding cruelty, the recklessness of human life, the wholesale murder of infants, the slavery of women, the contempt for others' distress, the neglect of the sick and dying, the utter rampant selfishness.
"Look then at our own land, and see the hospitals, the orphanages, the immense and countless charitable organisations, the eagerness of thousands to 'spend and be spent' for those who are in need. These are no mere fruits of civilisation. You may search in vain for any such results of the finest pagan civilisations of olden days. These things are the fruits of Christianity.
"So widespread, so far-reaching, is the influence of the Spirit of Jesus,—of His pity, His self-forgetfulness, His love for men, His tenderness towards suffering,—that thousands who care little about Christ are yet so impregnated from babyhood with lessons of Christian love and pity, that they will themselves do Christ-like deeds, deeds of pity and love and humanity, utterly unknowing whence this spirit of kindliness in them is derived.
"But now we have to think of something far beyond mere kind and humane intentions towards those around us.
"'Lord, I am ready,' Peter said, with his eager warm-hearted utterance, 'ready to go with Thee both into prison and to death.'
"And he was not really ready. He thought himself so; but when the test of peril came, he failed. He was 'ready, aye ready,' in will; but weak in act. Trusting, perhaps, in his own readiness, his own love for Christ, instead of trusting only in his Master's power, and in that Master's love for him, he failed. He was one of those who at the moment of darkness 'forsook' Jesus, 'and fled.'
"Yet Peter went far beyond too many of us. For he did at least wish to be thus 'ready.' His aim was to do always and unflinchingly the will of Christ.
"A grander example of this 'ready' spirit is to be found in the life of St. Paul.
"Look at Acts xxi. 13,—'I am ready not to be bound only, but also to die at Jerusalem for the Name of the Lord Jesus.' And again, in 2 Timothy iv. 6,—'I am now ready to be offered, and the time of my departure is at hand.'
"He was ready. No vain boast this, but a calm certainty. St. Paul was bound, and did die,—not at Jerusalem, but at Rome,—for that Master whom he loved and served. During long years of toil and trouble, he had held himself always 'ready, aye ready' to go here or there, to do this or that, which his Lord might command. And now he was ready to be bound, ready to die,—without a thought of reluctance or of holding back.
"Most of us are ready enough to follow our own inclinations. How many a one among us all now gathered in this Church holds himself habitually, day by day and hour by hour, in a position of calm willing readiness to do the will of God?
"Look at a verse in 2 Samuel xv. 15,—'And the king's servants said unto the king, Behold, thy servants are ready to do whatsoever any lord the king shall appoint.'
"Which of you will stand and say that from your very heart to the Lord your King?—'Master, I am ready to do whatsoever Thou shalt appoint.'
"Whatsoever! That allows no choice to self, no indulgence of self's fancies, no habits of laziness, no mere life of pleasure with the smallest possible amount of real work. O no: it means a very different kind of existence—toil cheerfully undertaken, hardship and suffering patiently borne, sin met and conquered, self subdued.
"Will some of you say that such a life of absolute readiness to carry out another's will must be a life of slavery?
"Nay! For unto love there is no slavery; and we who serve the Lord Christ love Him. St. Peter's readiness was the readiness of love; and so also was St. Paul's.
"Is it slavery which makes a mother willing to toil, to endure, to forget herself, to die, if needful, for her child? Is it not love alone?
"Look at the other side of the question. If not servants to the King of kings, standing always ready to do whatsoever He shall appoint, whose servants will you be? Satan's? Is there anything grand in the subjection of a man to the Evil One? Your own? But the most contemptible of all contemptible sights is the man who is a slave to his own will and passions!
"I tell you there is no loftier or grander life lived on earth, than the life of the man who holds himself a willing bond-servant to the King of kings. That man is free indeed,—free from the tyranny of Satan, free from the tyranny of self, free with the glorious freedom of Christ. Whether he be king or labourer, prince or tradesman, matters little. Once enrolled in the service of the King, yielding himself and his all to the King, accepted and pardoned by the King, signed with the King's own signet, he is thenceforth himself of the heavenly blood-royal.
"'Ready to do whatsoever my Lord the King shall appoint.' He may appoint us something painful, something sad, something from which heart and flesh shall shrink,—but what then? Has He not the right? He has bought us with His Blood. He loves us, and knows what is needful for us. And we are bound to His Service,—aye, bound whether we will or no,—bound as His children by creation, bound as His purchased possession, bound by Baptismal promises, bound by Confirmation vows. He would have you bound by one more tie,—the tie of willing heart-servitude,—not to be servants only, but children by adoption, children of the Father, 'heirs of God, and joint-heirs with Christ,' led by His Spirit, obedient to His will.
"There must be the blood-washing. There must be the heart-readiness. There must be the use of all appointed means of grace. There must be acceptance of the King's free gifts.
"Then, whatever the King may appoint for you, whether suffering or joy, whether work or waiting, whether life or death, from Him shall come the needed grace, the needed strength. Not like St. Peter, but like St. Paul, you shall be in very heart and in very deed,—
"Ready, aye Ready!"
ARCHIE'S MOTHER.
"THAT'S a preacher of the right sort," Dunn said warmly, as they left the Churchyard. "He speaks right from his own heart, and straight to ours. I like your Mr. Wilmot, Stuart; that I do!"
"I'm sure it's a comfort to have such a Church to go to in a new place," added Susan.
The two children were alone in front, pacing quietly together. Dunn walked between his wife and Nancy, and Archie had managed adroitly to place himself on Nancy's other side.
"I don't know that I've seen things just in that light before," Archie remarked hesitatingly. "Mr. Wilmot seemed to make out religion to be a manly sort of thing. And there's a good many who count it—"
"Count it womanish and namby-pamby, eh?" Dunn said, as Archie stopped. "I'll tell you one, thing, lad, which you may as well remember. If ever you see a feeble namby-pamby sort of fellow trying to serve God, you may be quite sure it isn't his religion that makes him so. He'd be a deal more feeble and namby-pamby if he didn't serve God. Fighting against evil and striving to do what's right, don't make any man less manly than he is by nature. It makes a man more manly. But it don't work a miracle, and turn a dull man into a clever man, nor a puling weak sort of chap into a strong spirited one."
"I don't know, though, as I could quite hold with what Mr. Wilmot said," observed Archie. "I mean about a man giving up himself to be a sort of slave to God's will. A man likes to feel he's free."
Nancy's eyes gave a quick look up at Archie, and then at her father.
"A man is free—in one sense," said Dunn. "God made man free,—gave him a will of his own, and power to choose what he'll do and be. But there's a deal of clap-trap talked about freedom and independence: for after all there's no man living who stands altogether alone, and don't depend on others. And more than that, there's no man living who don't choose for himself a master. Mr. Wilmot spoke true enough there. It was a command to the Israelite people of old,—'Choose ye whom ye will serve.' For they were morally sure to serve somebody; and it's the same now."
Archie made a sound of dissent.
"Think not? Why, look around you," said Dunn. "One man's a slave to money; and another's a slave to drink; and another's a slave to evil habits; and another's a slave to bad temper; and most of them are slaves to self. And everybody who don't own Christ for his Master is under the dominion of the Evil One. Is that freedom, I wonder?"
Archie was silent.
"A soldier gives himself up to the service of his Queen,—does it willingly,—and then he's bound just to go where he's bid, and to do what he's told, and to fight for his Queen and country whenever the command comes. But you don't count that slavery, eh, lad?"
"Well, I'll think about what you say," observed Archie, standing still. "I've got to turn off here. Mother 'll be expecting me. It's very good of you to let me go to Church with you all, and I'm glad I went."
"That's a nice young fellow," Dunn observed, when Archie was out of hearing.
"It seems to me odd his mother shouldn't have been in to see us yet," Susan said. "I did think at first I must go right off and thank her for what her boy did for our Nannie. But when I said something of the sort to him, I could see at once he didn't want it. What sort of a woman used she to be?"
"She used to take a sort of pride in keeping herself to herself," said Dunn.
Susan shook her head slightly, and remarked: "Well, I'm not one to push myself on her, anyway."
Nancy said nothing. She was not much of a talker at any time.
Meanwhile Archie strode home at a brisk pace, and found dinner just ready, and Mrs. Stuart in her best gown and cap, looking very tall, starched, upright, clean, and solemn.
She greeted him with a short,—"You're late to-day."
Archie knew in a moment that something had happened in his absence to annoy her.
"I went to Church," he said.
"That's a new notion," said Mrs. Stuart.
"Well, I didn't see why I shouldn't. I do go sometimes—in the morning, I mean."
"Four months since last time," she rejoined sarcastically.
"I suppose you've nothing to say against it, if I like to go once in a while, morning as well as evening?" observed Archie, his own tone growing somewhat tart.
"What made you like to go to-day?"
Archie had no immediate answer to give. Mrs. Stuart was dishing up, and the talk was in abeyance for some minutes. When they were both seated, and Archie had made some way through a large helping of roast beef and vegetables, she began again where they had left off, wording her question differently,—
"Who got you to go to Church to-day?"
"I'd thought of going before," said Archie.
"And left your Prayer-book behind?"
"Well, yes,—I hadn't made up my mind," said Archie.
"Who made it up for you, I should like to know?"
Archie was sure by this time that somebody had seen him with the Dunns, and had reported the fact to Mrs. Stuart.
"I met some friends going, and I went with them," he said, with assumed carelessness. "I don't see why I'm to be catechised like this, mother, as if I was in my pinafores still! One would think I'd done something wicked."
Mrs. Stuart's long nose became pinched, and her thin lips grew rigid.
"What friends?" she demanded.
"Only the Dunns."
A pause followed. Archie glanced up once or twice from his plate to Mrs. Stuart's face.
"There's no harm if I did go with the Dunns, or anybody else," he continued. "They're out-and-out nice people; and Dunn's a really good fellow, if ever there was one. I'm sure of it. There's lots of things he can talk about."
Silence answered him. Mrs. Stuart helped herself to another potato, and disposed of it in four big gulps, as a relief to her feelings.
"I haven't been to see them again, because I knew you wanted me not. But they've been expecting me; and they must count it odd you not going. I do think you might, when Dunn knew father, and all! And when I want it too! Anyway, I'm old enough to choose my friends. If it was a bad sort of friends I'd got hold of, things would be different. But people like the Dunns,—I can't see why on earth you should mind."
Mrs. Stuart avoided looking at her son.
"I didn't know I should meet them, of course; but I did. It wasn't likely I should pass them by. I'd had thoughts of going to Church; and when Dunn asked me, I didn't see why I shouldn't. They lent me a Prayer-book."
Mrs. Stuart went on eating solemnly, her eyes downcast.
Archie had a temper as well as his mother: not a sullen temper like hers, but sometimes a hot one. He was very good-humoured up to a certain point; but he could be roused; and her manner was irritating.
"If you don't mean to speak to me about them, mother, I shan't speak of them to you neither," he said. "And another time you needn't catechise me,—that's all. I'm not a baby to be kept in leading-strings."
Still no reply. Archie bolted the remainder of his big helping, pushed back his chair, and stood up.
"Well, if I'm not to have civil words here, I'll go where I can get them," he said, in a passion.
Mrs. Stuart did not look up, but she said coldly,—"You're not going to those Dunns?"
"I don't see why not. Mrs. Dunn won't treat me like this, anyway."
Archie lingered for two or three seconds near the door. Even in his fit of anger, he knew himself to be acting wrongly. He really did not wish to grieve or trouble his mother. She had been a good mother to him, and Archie could not but know it. He had good reason to be grateful and forbearing, even apart from the fact that she was his mother. Archie, of course, did not fully know how much he owed to her: young people seldom do. Nevertheless, he waited, hoping she might say some little word which should make it easy for him to come back to the table. Truth to tell, he would not have objected to so doing, since he was hungry still.
No such word came, however. Mrs. Stuart rose, and stalked with long offended strides towards the fireplace.
"Mother!" Archie said hesitatingly.
Mrs. Stuart looked round. "Oh, you're not gone yet!" she said, though she had been aware of the fact before.
Archie walked off at once, and banged the front door. Mrs. Stuart saw him pass the window.
A change came over her face then. The thin nose began to work, and the thin lips to tremble. She had not expected Archie to take her at her word. Though Mrs. Stuart was a proud woman, with a cold manner and a bad temper, yet down below she had a loving heart towards this only boy.
Al! the morning she had been working for him; and in the oven now were the rice pudding and the fruit tart which he liked.
Mrs. Stuart was wounded to the very quick. It seemed so hard that he should turn against her, only for the sake of these new people, almost strangers to her. She did not want to know the Dunns. She looked upon their standing as inferior to her own; and Mrs. Stuart was a proud-spirited woman, very particular as to whom she would associate with. Moreover, there was a girl at Woodbine Cottage—a pretty winning girl. People had not been backward in talking about Nancy's looks, and about Archie Stuart's evident admiration. That was just the thing which Mrs. Stuart most feared. She wanted to keep her boy to herself for many a year to come.
A neighbour had run in before dinner to gossip about the matter, having seen from her window Archie's encounter with the Dunn family on their way to Church.
"And you may depend upon it, things won't stop there," the neighbour had been so kind as to add. "Archie's a likely young fellow, and he'll be easy caught; and Mrs. Dunn's a woman that knows what she's about."
This was enough for Mrs. Stuart, and she gave her caller very plainly to understand that nothing of the kind ever would or should come to pass. Archie was not going to marry anybody yet awhile, and most certainly he was not going to marry Nancy Dunn.
Poor Mrs. Stuart! She had never yet learnt that difficult lesson, which almost all have sooner or later to learn—that we cannot have our own way in life, either for ourselves or for others.
TEMPERS.
IF Archie had been a little less angry, I do not think he would have seriously entertained the idea of going to Woodbine Cottage that afternoon, despite his threat. For it was not commonly his way to run straight in the teeth of his mother's wishes.
But being for once thoroughly vexed, he marched off in that direction, determined to assert his independence.
When near the cottage, it occurred to him that the Dunns would not yet have finished their dinner. So he went for a good round first, walking fast, and doing his best to keep up his indignation at fever-heat.
This proved not quite easy. Archie could get into a passion, and could say or do angry words or deeds; but he never could remain long annoyed. Mrs. Stuart, after being vexed, would spend hours in a sullen mood. Not so Archie. He never could sulk.
By the time he had performed a certain round, and was drawing once more near to Woodbine Cottage, he began to wonder whether he really would go in. He did not like to remember his mother sitting alone at home,—alone, and doubtless unhappy. The thought made him feel uncomfortable. What if he were to return, and try to put her into a better humour?
But perhaps, if he did, she would still refuse to speak. Or if she spoke, she might insist on his promising never to see the Dunns.
"No, no; I'm not going to do that," Archie said, almost aloud.
Then, looking up, he found himself close to the gate of Woodbine Cottage; and he saw Dunn issuing therefrom, with a little boy and girl, one on each side of him.
"How d'ye do again?" Dunn said kindly. "I'm off with these young 'uns to the Sunday school. It's their first time of going, and they're a morsel shy,—eh, Dick and Susie?"
"I'm not shy," asserted Dick; "I could take care of Susie."
"So you could, I don't doubt; but Susie don't think so. You'll find my wife inside, if you've a thought of going in," added Dunn to Archie.
"Well, I did half think of it," said Archie hesitatingly. "She told me to come some time, you know."
"So she did, lad,—you're quite right. We're not much of folks for gadding in and out of neighbours' houses all Sunday; but you're different to anybody and everybody. You've made your self, in a sort, one of us. She will be glad enough to see you, I make no doubt. Come along, Susie and Dick,—we mustn't be late. Yes, yes; go in, Stuart."
And Archie went,—not fully resolved yet in his own mind, but hardly knowing now how to get out of it.
Susan Dunn herself opened the door, and led Archie into the cosy parlour, which was always used on Sundays. But Nancy was not there, as Archie had expected and hoped. A book lay open on the table, and Susan had plainly been alone, reading.
"Sit down, won't you?" she said, in a kind manner. "I'm so glad to see you here at last. You meant to come before, didn't you? My husband's gone to see the children to Sunday school. It's a new place to them, and Susie was afraid. And Nannie's gone to the Rectory. She wanted to hear of a Bible class on Sunday afternoons, that she could go to; and I asked Mr. Wilmot this morning if there wasn't one. I met him just a little while before we all came on you, and I asked him, and he said Nannie was to go and talk it over with Miss Wilmot. We are glad of that, for somebody told us Miss Wilmot was a very sweet young lady."
"Yes, so she is," observed Archie. "She comes to see mother once in a way."
Susan looked at Archie, then out of the window, then back again at Archie.
"Your mother don't come to see me?" she said at length.
Archie reddened somewhat. "I wish she would, Mrs. Dunn. I've tried my best. I can't get her to come."
"Don't she want to know us?"
Archie said "No," involuntarily. Then it struck him that perhaps Susan might feel conscientiously bound to carry out Mrs. Stuart's wish, and might cease to encourage his calling at Woodbine Cottage. "It doesn't mean anything," he added in some haste. "Mother's got her own notions, you see; and if she's said a thing, she sticks to it like a leech. She's got her friends, and I've got mine. We pull along pretty well together. Sometimes she's angry, and won't speak to me,—like to-day. But it's not worth bothering about. She's always sure to come round after a while."
"Has she been vexed to-day?" asked Susan, with a look of trouble and pity.
"Oh, it's her way, you know," Archie said, assuming a careless air. "She don't mean anything by it, and I don't take it for more than it's worth. She wouldn't say a word to me at dinner, so I just walked off and left her alone. Oh, she'll come round."
Susan was evidently distressed. "I wouldn't," she said in an undertone,—"I wouldn't do that,—not again."
"But I couldn't sit it out. Nobody could," protested Archie.
"She didn't mean anything by it. You say that yourself," pleaded Susan. "And she's your mother, and she's been a good mother to you,—hasn't she? I wouldn't leave her to sit alone, Archie,—may I call you Archie?"
"Yes, do, please," put in Archie.
"I wouldn't leave her there alone,—I wouldn't really," said Susan again, chiming in with the remonstrances of the young man's own heart.
"Well, I won't," said Archie, after a pause. "I'll go back presently, and see if she won't like a walk."
"Yes, do. That'll be nice," said Susan. "And if she's put out once in a way, I wouldn't be put out too! I daresay she's had a deal of trouble to fight against, and that don't always smooth the temper."
"Well, yea, she's had troubles," admitted Archie. "And she's got a temper too, no mistake about that. And she'd like to keep me in leading-strings still, as if I was six years old."
"You're not in leading-strings," said Susan, with a little smile. "But I do think you're bound to do all you can to please her."
Archie said, "I s'pose so," not very cheerfully. He did not mean to count himself bound to shun the Dunns. He liked them increasingly, and he lingered on, hoping for one more glimpse of Nancy. The lingering was in vain, for Nancy did not appear, and presently Susan said, "I don't like to seem to hurry you. But won't your mother get impatient?"
"Well, p'raps she will," admitted Archie. Thereupon, he said good-bye, and walked off.
"MY ONLY BOY!"
MRS. STUART felt her loneliness more than she would have liked to say, and very bitter and sorrowful grew her spirit, as time went by and Archie appeared not. She could not read, could not employ herself, could not turn her mind to any other subject. She would not go out, for fear Archie might return to find her gone.
"It would serve him right," she told herself; and once she rose and put her bonnet on, determined to punish him. But resolution failed there, and she took it off and sat down again.
So the minutes dragged slowly past, and Mrs. Stuart watched in weary solitude; and her face fell into a sad dreary set, which anybody must have been grieved to see.
Suddenly a brisk footstep could be heard without. Mrs. Stuart stirred out of her stooping postures and was in one moment stiffly upright. She wiped hastily away the traces of two tears which had insisted on having their way, and hardened her features into an expression of cold indifference. Archie should not know what she had suffered. If he did not care to be with her, she would not seem to care about being with him.
"Well, mother?" Archie spoke in a bright voice as he entered, for he wanted to make a pleasant impression. "Like to have a walk with me?"
Mrs. Stuart made no answer. She would not look at Archie, but stood up, stalked to a drawer, pulled out a duster, and began polishing a corner of the small bookshelf, which needed no polishing.
"Come, mother! Now you're not going to be vexed with me still," expostulated Archie. "There's no need. Let's have a walk and forget it."
Mrs. Stuart went on with her polishing industriously, just as if she had not heard a word.
"Of course if you don't want me, I can be off again," said Archie, in a rather aggrieved tone. "But I should think you might as well forgive and forget. I'm sorry now that I went away in such a hurry from dinner. And I do think you've been angry long enough."
Mrs. Stuart faced round upon Archie.
"Where have you been all this while?" she demanded.
"I went for a walk, mother, first."
"And after that?"
"I just went in for a little chat with Mrs. Dunn. But I didn't stay long. She wouldn't let me stay. She told me I'd ought to come back to you; so I've come."
Mrs. Stuart's thin nostrils began to quiver.
"I'm much beholden to Mrs. Dunn," she said hoarsely. "So I'm to have my boy's company at the bidding of a stranger! That's it, is it? Not as he cares to be with his mother! O no, I quite understand all about it now! And all I've got to say is, that if you don't want to be here, I don't want to have you. So there! You'd best go back to Mrs. Dunn, and stay there till bedtime. Why shouldn't you? I don't care whether you go or stay. I'm not going to have you come to me just at Mrs. Dunn's bidding."
She did not mean it, of course; people seldom do mean what they say in a passion. She did care very much—even terribly. It went to her heart to have this difference with her boy. But pride and temper were stronger than love. They had been allowed to grow rampant during many long years of indulgence; and the gentler plant of love was well-nigh choked by these great rank weeds. So bitter was her tone, so severe was her manner, that Archie at the moment believed her words. He looked strangely at Mrs. Stuart, growing almost pale.
"Very well, mother!" he said, husky in his turn. "If you don't want me, I'll go. I'm sure I shan't bother you, against your will. I'll go somewhere, though it won't be to the Dunns. And you needn't look for me till bedtime." Archie stopped, hesitating. "If you mean it," he added.
"It isn't my way to say one thing and mean another," retorted Mrs. Stuart. "May be the way of your friends, the Dunns,—likely enough! A set of—"
"Mother, you'd better not! You don't know them!" broke in Archie.
"I know enough about 'em," she said scornfully. "Trying to wheedle you away from me—you that I've just lived for! I know all about it! But I don't mean to say no more. You'll do as you choose. And if you don't want to stay, I don't mean to have you just at Mrs. Dunn's bidding, nor that spoony-faced chit of a girl's neither."
Archie broke into one angry utterance, and then he was gone—this time with a heavy unmistakable bang of the front door. Mrs. Stuart could see him striding past the window, not towards Woodbine Cottage, but the other way.
Would he come back? Might he not think better of his annoyance, and return? She had not meant him to take her at her word. She had not intended really to send him from her. Was it only the allusion to Nancy Dunn which he would not endure? Mrs. Stuart's face grew rigid at this thought.
She stood very long near the window, watching and waiting. Then she sat down, and watched and waited still. The afternoon wore away, and tea-time approached. Mrs. Stuart laid the table, and put the kettle on to boil; but she could not resolve to sit down alone to eat and think; and Archie did not come.
"I've driven him away," she murmured at length. "And he's my only boy."
Time went on, and by-and-by the Church bells began to ring. Would Archie not reappear in time for Church? He had always gone with her.
Mrs. Stuart made herself a cup of tea, and drank it off feverishly. It was of no use to think of eating. Then she dressed, putting on her boots and her best shawl and bonnet. Just at the last moment he would run in—having had tea doubtless somewhere else.
But the last moment came, and with it no Archie. The bells had ceased chiming, and the last five minutes' tinkle had come to an end. Mrs. Stuart stood waiting still.
Suddenly she came to a resolution. She would go and try to find her boy. Why had she not started sooner on this errand? The two had been parted long enough. Mrs. Stuart meant to forgive him now, and to take him back into favour. As for the Dunns, that matter must settle itself somehow. It was not her intention to give way about them; but, on the other hand, she could not forego her boy's companionship. She had had a lesson against pulling the reins too sharply.
"I'll find him and bring him back," she murmured. "I mustn't drive him away. He's getting masterful—not a child any longer, and I mustn't forget that."
And she started on the search, her mother's heart all unstrung and aching with the strain of the afternoon, her whole soul going out in a passionate longing for the boy she so loved.
Yet, if Archie had that moment walked up with a smile, I am not at all sure whether her features would not have stiffened instantly with cold disdain, and whether she might not have turned her back upon him straightway.
WITH MISS WILMOT.
"PLEASE, Miss Wilmot, there's a young girl wants to see you. She says her name's Nancy Dunn," announced the Rectory parlour-maid.
Annie Wilmot looked up with a smile. "O yes, I expected Nancy Dunn," she said. "Please show her in here."
Nancy entered shyly, with her usual pretty and modest manner. Annie, used to the bold and rough bearing of too many Littleburgh girls, was taken by Nancy's manner directly. She came forward, saying, "How do you do? I am so glad to see you, Nancy. My father told me that you would come."
"He said it was to be about this time, Miss," said Nancy timidly. "I hope I haven't kept you in."
"No, you have not kept me in, because I kept myself in," said Annie's kind tones. "Generally I have a class in the Sunday school; but a lady is here to-day who used to take that class, and she wanted to take it again. So I have nothing to do, and it is the right time for you to come. Now you will sit down here, and tell me all about yourselves."
Nancy felt rather at a loss. Telling "all about themselves" sounded formidable. But a few questions soon set her off, and in a very short space, Annie knew something of the pretty home that the Deans had left, and the regret they felt in leaving it; also of the good father and mother that Nancy had, and the little brother and sister.
"And you are sixteen years old—just about my age," said Annie, who was much taken with her timid visitor.
Nancy smiled. She liked its being so said; though really Annie's ease made her seem much the older of the two.
"My father tells me that you want to go to a Bible Class," observed Annie presently.
"I always used to go to one; and it was such a help," said Nancy.
"Yes, I have been thinking about it," said Annie. "There is a class here, held in the Church schoolroom by a lady, for young women and big girls. More than a hundred belong to it."
Nancy looked rather alarmed. Fresh from country life, she did not quite like the notion of such a number.
"There wasn't ever more than twelve in the class I've been used to go to," she said.
"You like that better, perhaps. This class is meant for all sorts of girls, and some of them are terribly ignorant. The teaching has to be very simple, that they may all understand. I have been thinking—" continued Annie. "My father has wanted for a long while to get up another class—quite a small one. We hoped a lady was coming who could take it; but she cannot come. And now my father wants me—we have been wondering whether perhaps I could not do it instead."
Annie blushed a little, and spoke half apologetically. "It seems almost as if I were too young; but I do so love teaching; and of course I have a great deal more time for working up subjects than many can have—those who have to work hard in other ways, I mean. And then there is always my father at hand to help me. So I have been planning whether perhaps you, and three or four other nice girls that I know of, would like to come here for an hour every Sunday afternoon, and read the Bible with me. I think it would be so pleasant—don't you? And I shall want you all to talk as well as myself—to ask questions, or say anything you like. If we get puzzled over a text, I can ask my father about it before the next time. What do you think, Nancy?"
Nancy looked bright. "I should like it ever so much, Miss," she said.
"We can sing hymns together," pursued Annie. "I do so love singing hymns—don't you too? It always seems to me to come nearer than anything else to what the angels do in heaven. We'll begin and end with a hymn. Then will you count it a settled thing to come at half-past three next Sunday afternoon? The lady who has taken my class this afternoon wants to have it again regularly, so that will be all right. I will see about the other girls before the week is over."
Nancy assented with her shy smile, and stood up, thinking that she was meant to go.
"Oh, don't leave just yet," said Annie; "I haven't done with you yet,—unless you are in a hurry to get to your home."
Nancy was not in a hurry, and she sat down again willingly.
"I have been thinking so much about you, ever since you were nearly bitten by that dreadful dog," murmured Annie. "It was such a thing to happen in Littleburgh! And if anybody had been hurt! My own dear father was in terrible danger, you know, and oh, so brave! I am very proud of him, but I can't bear to think of the danger he was in; and your father and mother must feel the same about you."
"Yes," Nancy answered; "Mother has scarce liked me to go out of her sight till to-day."
"I wonder," Annie said slowly, "I wonder how you or I would feel now, if the dog really had bitten one of us?"
"I think it would be very dreadful," Nancy said, with a shudder.
"Yes—dreadful. It could not help being that. But I do think it would make such a difference, if one could look quietly on to the beyond without any fear—to beyond death, I mean. What lay between might look dreadful; but if the 'beyond' were all sure peace, then the 'between' wouldn't matter so very very much—would it, Nancy?"
Two large tears gathered in Nancy's eyes, and fell.
"No, Miss," she said; "it's just that. I've had it, in my mind so often since. If one could be sure—"
"I have had it in my mind too," said Annie. "A thing of that sort happening does make one think. It makes death seem so much nearer, and life so much smaller. Oh, I do think it ought to make one very very earnest in seeking Christ, in praying Him to forgive us and make us His own; and in giving up ourselves to live only for Him. And I am hoping that perhaps our Sunday afternoons together will be a help to all of us."
Half-an-hour later Nancy wended her way homewards, to find her parents alone. The "little ones" had not yet returned.
"Well, Nannie?" her father said.
"I'm going to the Rectory, father. Miss Wilmot means to have a small class herself; of just a few girls; and I do think I shall like it. Miss Wilmot is such a sweet young lady; she don't seem to have a bit of pride. I do love her already."
"Hallo, my girl, you're going on fast! Forsaking old friends for new ones already!"
"O no, father, please don't say that. I couldn't forsake old friends, and I love everybody at home as much as ever."
Littleburgh was not yet "home" to the Dunns.
"But I do think Miss Wilmot is sweet, and I'm so glad she will have the class herself."
MISSING.
AT half-past eight Archie reached his home, feeling altogether guilty and uncomfortable. Pride had prevented his returning sooner, otherwise he would undoubtedly have found his way back before Church time. As anger died away, he became sorry for his mother and vexed with himself.
"Well, well—I'll make it up to her now," thought Archie, as he tried to lift the latch.
But the door was fast locked.
This seemed odd. Had Mrs. Stuart gone for a walk so late? She was not in the habit of thus doing, even with Archie for a companion; still less alone.
But the door was unmistakably locked. Archie rapped at the window, and had no response. He could see nothing within, through white blinds and flowering plants, beyond a faint glimmer of firelight.
Was Mrs. Stuart really out? Or did she wish to refuse admittance to her boy?
Somehow Archie could not accept the latter supposition. More likely, on her return from Church, she had gone to a neighbour to inquire after Archie's own whereabouts.
He began to feel thoroughly annoyed and regretful at having stayed absent so many hours.
Well, no doubt she would return in a few minutes. Archie tried the door afresh, without avail. Then he walked up and down the street, keeping watch. He asked one or two women whether they had seen Mrs. Stuart go out, but they had not; and he did not pursue the inquiry. He was not anxious that the uncomfortable state of affairs between his mother and himself should become known.
Thirty minutes passed. Nine strokes from the Church clock sounded solemnly.
This would never do. Archie went once more to the door, and struggled with it, but to no purpose.
Then he directed his efforts towards the window, which—being happily held by a crazy hasp—he succeeded at length in forcing open.
Entrance had now become easy. Archie pushed aside a few plants, and scrambled in—two or three small boys watching his proceedings from the pavement, and commenting thereon with interjections of "O my!"
The room was nearly dark; but Archie could see its emptiness. He went out into the passage, then to the kitchen, lastly upstairs, searching carefully. All in vain. No human being except himself was under the roof.
A feeling of great perplexity and trouble crept over Archie. He could not at all understand what this meant. Had he found his mother at home, vexed and silent still, he would not have been surprised; but to find no mother at all awaiting his return did startle him sorely.
It was plain that Mrs. Stuart had gone somewhere, locking the front door, and taking the key away with her; for Archie found no key within. When thoroughly convinced of her absence, he had to make his exit by the same mode as that by which he had entered. Derisive exclamations from the group of small boys greeted his reappearance through the window. Archie was in no mood to care for laughter. He passed them by, and began a series of close inquiries, speaking to one neighbour after another.
These inquiries were not without results. In a few minutes Archie learnt that his mother had not gone to Church. She had been seen to come out, dressed as usual, a short time after the bells ceased, and to set off, walking hurriedly, in just the other direction.
"I spoke to her, and she didn't answer," one woman said. "Seemed to me some'at had worried her. She looked queer-like. But she never do like to be asked nothing. I saw her go along the road, all of a scurry, and turn to the left there—towards the brick-fields."
Archie followed the clue thus obtained. By dint of further inquiries, he traced her steps all along the road "to the left," and down a lane beyond, as far as the very border of the brick-fields.
There evidence failed, and he came to a pause. It was not likely that Mrs. Stuart should have actually crossed those flat dull fields, with their piled up rows of bricks. Archie had indeed himself taken a solitary ramble round them that afternoon, brooding over the condition of things; but it seemed highly improbable that his mother should have done the same.
"She's not there," he said aloud, gazing over the uninteresting expanse. He turned back into Littleburgh, to call at cottage after cottage where his mother was known, and where she might have gone. But nobody could tell him any news of Mrs. Stuart. He returned home once more, only to find the door still locked, and nobody to welcome him.
Archie's trouble was becoming now very real indeed. He went at last to the Dunns, and told his story; and Nancy's face of sympathy brought the first scrap of comfort.
"I'll go with you, lad," Dunn said at once. "We'll hunt till we find her—please God. But you'll take a mouthful of something to eat first."
Archie did not feel as if he could eat—till he tried. Then he found how much he had been in need of refreshment. While hastily disposing of what was put before him, he recounted what he had already done.
"That's right. You're looking more up to the mark now," said Dunn. "I'll tell you what, lad—my wife shall go to your house, and make up the kitchen fire, and see that there's boiling water against it's wanted. And you and I'll go and take a look at the brick-fields."
"But what's the use? Why, she'd never dream of staying alone there all this while," protested Archie.
"Maybe not. Best to make sure, any way," said Dunn. "She was seen to go there, and she wasn't seen to come back. And where else can she be?"
Archie shook his head.
"You see, now! Best to make sure," repeated Dunn. "She may be all right and safe in somebody's house. But if she did take a fancy to go into the brick-fields, why, she might have tumbled down somewhere and stunned herself. I don't see why not. Are there any sort of deep holes or quarries anywhere about?"
"Nothing of the sort," averred Archie. "It's all flat."
"So much the better," said Dunn. "But anyhow we'll go and look."
Which they did—Susan Dunn accompanying them part of the way, as far as Mrs. Stuart's cottage. It was rather a puzzle how to get her indoors, till they found that the front door key of Woodbine Cottage would open the locked door.
"I'll be sure to have everything comfortable," Susan Dunn said kindly. "I shouldn't think Mrs. Stuart could mind. I do hope you'll find her soon, all safe and sound."
FALLEN BRICKS.
"WHAT'S that?" exclaimed Archie.
They were treading the brick-fields side by side—not in darkness, but in clear moonlight. It streamed down upon the wide flat expanse, lending weirdness to the long lines of piled new bricks. Not far off a kiln stood up like a small island.
The two listened attentively.
"I didn't hear anything," Dunn said.
Archie sighed. "It must have been my fancy," he said. "But I thought—Well, she don't seem to be hereabouts, any way."
"We'll make more sure before we give up," said Dunn.
"I can't think how ever I could be such a fool," broke out the young man. "To leave her all those hours alone! And just because she was vexed with me. Why, I might have known she meant nothing by it, really. You don't think she's staying away because she's angry yet?" he asked dubiously.
"No, that I don't," Dunn answered. "It don't sound mother-like. You've not told me what it was that angered her so, and I'm not a good judge without knowing; but it does seem to me a deal more likely that she just went hunting after you. I can't believe the other."
"Nor I," said Archie.
"Sh-h-h!" Dunn exclaimed in his turn.
And the sound of a groaning murmur—"O dear—deary! O dear—my poor foot! O dear—dear—dear—whatever shall I do?" came distinctly.
"Mother!" cried Archie.
"It's she, I do believe," said Dunn. "Steady, lad—don't run a-muck through the bricks."
"Mother! Where are you?" shouted Archie.
"O dear—dear—dear—please help me!" was groaned out again.
"This way! Look-out! Steady, lad!"
And in another minute they came on the tall figure of Mrs. Stuart, seated on the ground, bowing to and fro as if in great pain, and keeping up a continuous groan.
"Mother, are you hurt?" cried Archie. "What's kept you here? We couldn't think whatever had become of you. Why, mother! Have you had a tumble? What's the matter?"
"O dear, dear! I don't know how to bear it! O my poor foot!" And Mrs. Stuart swayed herself to and fro. "O deary me! I thought you'd never come! I thought nobody 'd ever find me! I thought I should die here, all alone! O dear me!"
"She's hurt her foot somehow. Ask her what it is," Dunn said in an undertone to Archie.
"Mother, what's the matter?" inquired Archie again. He stooped down, and touched the foot which seemed to be the cause of her trouble; whereupon Mrs. Stuart screamed.
"O don't! O deary me! I shall die of the pain, I know I shall. And if you hadn't gone and left me all that while, it wouldn't never have happened! Dear me! I thought I'd try to find you, and I came on a pocket-handkerchief of yours, lying on the brick-field—one of your very best—and I thought you'd gone along somewhere here. O dear me! O dear! And a lot of bricks was piled up, and I didn't see they were loose—and I just touched 'em, and they all came down on my poor foot. O dear, dear! And I haven't been able to move since. And I don't know whatever I'm to do—the pain's so bad. O deary me, I don't know how to bear it."
"Mother, we'll get you home," said Archie. "It won't be so bad then, I dare say. Somebody's there who'll help nicely. Dunn and I will get you home."
If Mrs. Stuart noticed the name, she paid no attention to it, but only kept on her persistent rocking and groaning.
"Let's have a look at the foot, missis," Dunn said kindly. "It's bad, though!" he muttered, after a slight inspection. "I doubt but the boot ought to come off—if she'd let me try."
"I'd sooner get her home first," said Archie; for Mrs. Stuart kept fencing them off with her hands, as if dreading the least touch.
A consultation took place, and Dunn started off at full speed for the nearest cottage. He had proposed a shutter as the easiest mode of conveyance; but Mrs. Stuart, overhearing the word, cried out against it. "She'd feel as if she was being carried to her grave," she said. "No, it was to be a chair." And though they knew that progression in a chair must mean the more suffering, they had to yield.
Mrs. Dunn, waiting in the cottage, had no intimation of their approach until they arrived. She had just gone to take another look at the kitchen fire, when groaning sounds of complaint at the front door drew her quickly thither.
"That's over now, isn't it?" Dunn said cheerfully, as he and Archie placed Mrs. Stuart on the black horse-hair couch in the small parlour. "That's over now, and it's been pretty hard to bear, too, hasn't it? Let's put the foot up—so—gently, lad—and now Susan must have a look at it. Eh, Susan, what d'you think? Shouldn't the boot come off?"
"O me, but it is bad!" exclaimed Susan, in a voice of consternation. "Why, I never saw such a foot. You poor thing, you! No, I daren't touch it, Richard, and I don't believe anybody ought, till the doctor comes. You'd best go straight off for him, and he'll say what ought to be done. I am sorry, now—you poor thing! It's bad, isn't it? Yes, I don't wonder you can't help crying," continued Susan tenderly. "But Richard 'll make great haste, and the doctor won't be long."
Archie was astonished. For there, actually, was Mrs. Stuart sobbing, with her head on Mrs. Dunn's shoulder, and there was little plump motherly Mrs. Dunn petting and coaxing great tall Mrs. Stuart, like one of her own children.
"I'd go this very minute, if I was you, Richard," she continued. "I wouldn't stop a moment. The poor thing don't know how to bear herself, hardly. I dare say the doctor isn't far off." And she looked at Archie.
"Mr. Rawdon? No, he isn't far," said Archie. "You'd like Mr. Rawdon best, wouldn't you, mother? He came when you were ill, you know. She don't seem to hear," added Archie, turning to Dunn. "But Mr. Rawdon 'll come, I'm sure. He's our Mr. Rawdon's brother, and he's very clever. I'd best just walk along the street, and show you the turn—if you won't mind going. And then I can come back."
Which plan being followed out, Mr. Rawdon in no long time made his appearance.
He was not very unlike his brother, Dunn's new employer,—a man of medium height and strong build, grey-haired, quiet in manner, sparing of words, with short-sighted spectacles covering eyes of no particular colour. On first coming in, he said nothing at all, beyond a brief "Good evening," but sat down to examine the foot. A pen-knife in his hand speedily ripped up the boot; and silence followed.
Next came a question or two as to the manner of accident. Mrs. Stuart enlarged sobbingly on her sensations in the brick-field, with a digression about the lost handkerchief—"One of Archie's very best, as I had marked for him so particular!" she averred. A touch brought in a shriek here, and Mrs. Stuart clutched at Mrs. Dunn for comfort.
"Well," Mr. Rawdon said at length, raising himself from his stooping posture, "it's a bad foot, no doubt. Many in my place would take it off at once. But I think I can save it for you, if—"
He was interrupted. Mrs. Stuart cried out lustily. Lose her foot! She'd sooner die—a great deal sooner. Life wasn't worth so very much, she was sure! A poor woman with no end of troubles and bothers! She wouldn't have her foot cut off, not she—if that was what the doctor meant. She was much obliged, all the same. Much sooner die! Mr. Rawdon heard all this and more composedly. When her ejaculations came to a pause, he said only—
"I think I can save you the foot, if you are careful to do as you are told."
"I'm not a-going to have my foot taken off. No, not for nobody," said Mrs. Stuart.
"It will, I hope, be unnecessary. I shall bind it up for you now, and you will go to bed."
"I'd sooner die—a deal sooner; if it was fifty times over!" cried Mrs. Stuart.
Mr. Rawdon was examining the foot again. He raised himself, looked at her, and asked:
"Mrs. Stuart, have you ever stood face to face with death, that you can speak of it so lightly?"
For the moment, Mrs. Stuart was silenced.
A PRIVATE TALK.
"NOW," the doctor said, having bound up the crushed member, and ordered complete rest, "who is going to see after you, my good woman? There are to be no attempts at standing about, remember."
Mrs. Stuart was by this time looking somewhat sullen. She answered curtly, "Nobody; I'll do for myself."
"Can't," said Mr. Rawdon.
"I'm not going to be beholden to nobody," declared Mrs. Stuart.
"In that case, you will very soon have to be beholden to me—for amputating your foot," said Mr. Rawdon bluntly.
He was a particularly kind-hearted man, but he had not much patience with entire unreasonableness.
"Have you no friends who—"
"I've got no friends. 'Tisn't my way. I like to keep myself to myself," said Mrs. Stuart, in the tone of one stating a virtuous characteristic.
The doctor's eyebrows went up a little way. "That's nothing to be proud of;" he said.
"I can stay here to-night," put in Susan Dunn. "I should like to do it, sir, very much—if Mrs. Stuart don't mind."
Mrs. Stuart plainly did mind. Her long nose took a discontented curl. Mr. Rawdon ran his eyes over Susan.
"Your face seems strange to me," he said.
"We haven't been long in Littleburgh," she said. "My husband is come for work."
"Hope he's got it," said the doctor.
"Yes, sir—with Mr. Rawdon." A nod answered her. "And I know he'd wish me to help. My girl Nancy will see to everything at home."
"You are fortunate in having such a girl," said Mr. Rawdon.
Perhaps he was thinking of Bess Gardiner, or of girls like Bess.
"Yes, sir, I think I am; more than fortunate," averred Susan. "It's something to thank God for."
"True!" and the doctor bent his head slightly, with a reverent gesture. "Let me see, your name is—"
"Susan Dunn, sir."
"Dunn! Ah—then it would be your husband who called on me. Dunn!" and he looked thoughtful. "I seem to have some sort of connection with the word. Well, nothing can be better than that you should stay here to-night. Mrs. Stuart accepts your kind offer, of course."
"I can do for myself," said Mrs. Stuart stolidly.
"Stuff!" Mr. Rawdon answered, rising. "You can do for your foot, if you like—and you would do for it most effectually, without help. That is settled, then. To-morrow morning I will look in, and we shall see what can be arranged next. Very much obliged to you, Mrs. Dunn. 'A friend in need is a friend indeed.' Mrs. Stuart will have no cause to say again that she has no friends."
Mrs. Stuart made no response. The doctor gave Susan a few careful directions.
"Mind, you are not to put your foot to the ground," he said, turning to Mrs. Stuart. "Your son and Mrs. Dunn will get you upstairs, and you must go to bed at once. Stay there, of course, till I come again. Good evening."
Mr. Rawdon looked rather curiously at the patient's glum visage, smiled at Mrs. Dunn's cheery face, and left the cottage at a quick pace.
Halfway through the next street, he was overtaken by Mr. Wilmot. Those two worked hand-in-hand among the needy and suffering.
"The very man I had in my mind at this moment," quoth Mr. Rawdon. "How do you do? All right?"
The doctor's eyes were lifted for an instant's scrutiny of the other's face as they passed a gas-lamp. Of late, a settled paleness had been stamped there. No immediate reply to the question came, but only another question—
"Is this true about Mrs. Stuart?"
"Crushed foot, yes. Within a hair's-breadth of having to lose it. I'm not quite sure yet!"
"Poor thing!" Mr. Wilmot said, in a half-abstracted manner.
"She's an oddity," the doctor said, stealing another glance. "A fussy sort of body, apparently."
"So much the more to be pitied. I must see her to-morrow."
"Yes, do. A nice little woman is there to-night—Mrs. Dunn. I haven't come across her before."