"The Dunns are new-comers. You have heard of the eldest girl, Nancy Dunn," added the clergyman abruptly. "She is the girl whom young Stuart saved from the mad dog."
"Ha! I thought I had some association with the name in my mind."
"That is it, of course. Nancy Dunn is one of the best and prettiest girls I know. I rather think our friend Archie Stuart is of the same opinion, from a few words I had with him this afternoon. But he seems to fear opposition from his mother."
"Ha!" repeated Mr. Rawdon. "That is why she so disdainfully wished to be beholden to nobody."
After a slight pause, he asked carelessly—"Have you been doing too much to-day?"
"No. The more the better just now. Less time for thought."
Mr. Rawdon gave him another glance.
"I believe the strain is rather too much for me sometimes." Mr. Wilmot spoke low. "Do what I will, I cannot help expecting—watching myself—dwelling on what may come."
"And the fact that you cannot speak to Annie makes you, of course, suffer the more," Mr. Rawdon said, carelessly still, as he slipped an arm into the clergyman's. "My dear Wilmot, it was a mere scratch—almost a nothing. I do not say that it was an absolute nothing, of course. But the prompt measures taken—How is your wrist to-day? You were coming to see me again to-morrow, I think."
"It seems to be steadily healing. That is as should be. Yes, you burnt deeply. The thing could not have been done with more thoroughness. But still—"
A sigh came after the word. There was just the "but still!" Mr. Rawdon knew it, and so did Mr. Wilmot. Say what they might, there could be no certainty of escape. Prompt and thorough measures had been taken—but still! And the dawn of a new hope which now exists for such as are in Mr. Wilmot's case had not then become known.
"I wish you could banish the whole thing from your mind," said Mr. Rawdon.
"Impossible," was the quiet answer. "I do not repine, Rawdon. If the time came over again, I would do the same again, knowing what lay before me. And if—if it is God's will to call me to His presence through that gate of suffering—I think I can say truly that I am willing. Willingness does not mean stoical indifference, however. Flesh and heart may shrink—must shrink—under some circumstances."
"Aye," Mr. Rawdon answered briefly. "How do you sleep at night?"
"Not well. I have a return of uncomfortable heart sensations—such as I had two years ago. Nothing of importance—merely the result of the shock."
"I'll look into that to-morrow. You must keep up your strength. Yes, the shock was likely to tell upon you, one way or another."
"So I supposed. I do not at present see in myself any marked symptoms which might prelude that," Mr. Wilmot said calmly, as if speaking about somebody else. "The wound seems to be healing healthily. I am not particularly troubled with moroseness, or unreasonable depression, or anxiety to be much away from home. These are some of the tokens, are they not, sometimes? You see, I have looked into the matter. I wish to know in time, if it comes—for Annie's sake."
"And you have been wrong," said Mr. Rawdon decisively. "This is not quite your usual good sense, Wilmot. The thing you have to do now is as much as possible to put the whole question aside, not to sit watching your own symptoms, and speculating on what may come next. Mind, my dear friend, it is your positive duty—for Annie's sake as much as for your own. If this goes on, you will soon be thoroughly overstrained, and unfit for work. I shall have to order you abroad."
Mr. Wilmot shook his head.
"One thing or the other will have to be." The doctor spoke with a touch of sternness. "Either you must give up this morbid self-watching, or you must go away."
A pause followed before Mr. Wilmot said—"I have had to fight the battle."
"What battle?"
"To be able to say from my heart, Thy will—not mine.'"
"Wrong again. Don't misunderstand me, but I think you are wrong. If God sends the trial, He will send strength to endure. You are not called upon yet to endure. All you are called upon to do at present is to put aside possibilities, and to trust for the future. The more childlike a life you can live just now the better—taking each day as it comes, and not looking forward. I am speaking both as your friend and as your medical adviser. This strain of expectation is the worst thing possible for you."
Mr. Wilmot uttered a simple "Yes" of acquiescence.
"You know that it is. Now mark my words, Wilmot. There must be a change. You must put the thing aside-give up analysis of your own symptoms—and have done with midnight battlings. What need for it all? HE will not let you be tried 'above that you are able.' Yours is a childlike trust, generally. Be a child now, in trust, and leave the matter in God's hands. He is all-powerful; and there is nothing more that you and I can do."
"You are right," Mr. Wilmot said quietly. "I have preached you a good many sermons, but never a truer one than you have just preached to me."
"Shall I quote from a sermon of your own?" asked Mr. Rawdon. "Your concluding words this morning, Wilmot—'Whatever the King may appoint, whether joy or sorrow, life or death, from Him shall come the needed strength. Not like St. Peter, but, like St. Paul, you shall be—Ready, aye Ready.' But standing ready to obey surely does not mean conjuring up possibilities of commands which never may be given."
"No. You are right," repeated Mr. Wilmot, pausing before a small house. "I must go in here."
"Not done the day's work yet! It is very late. Can't you go home and rest?"
"I promised to look in for a minute. This is the last."
"Good-bye, then."
The two shook hands and parted, Mr. Rawdon going on alone in the darkness. A sigh escaped him, suppressed hitherto. "Poor fellow!" he murmured.
MRS. MASON'S OPINIONS.
TEN days had gone by, and Mrs. Stuart had her foot up still on a chair, swathed in bandages. She was allowed to hop downstairs once a day, with Archie's aid, but not to stand yet.
Mrs. Stuart was by no means a patient invalid. It seemed to her very hard indeed that she of all people should be laid aside, very hard that she should have to suffer pain, very hard that she should be indebted to neighbours—above all, to the Dunns—for help. Other people, of course, had their troubles, and must expect to have them, as a matter of course, but why Mrs. Stuart should have them was quite another question. She could only count it "very hard." As for being patient and cheerful under her trial, who could be so unreasonable as to expect it of her!
Many a time Mrs. Stuart had heard in Church those familiar words—"Whom the Lord loveth He chasteneth, and scourgeth every son whom He receiveth." But it may very much be doubted how far Mrs. Stuart really listened to the reading of the Bible in Church; and it may be doubted still more how far she really understood what she heard. Her feeling towards God was in no sense the feeling of a child towards a Father. She had no love for Him, and she knew nothing of the deep Divine love which will rather send pain and sorrow than suffer the wilful child to wander on in courses of evil. Sometimes nothing less than great trouble will bring the wayward soul to Christ.
Mrs. Stuart saw nothing of this, however. The love of God was far away from her thoughts. She only considered herself a much injured woman; and she felt sure that nobody had ever had so much to bear as herself; while she was vexed with the Dunns for their persistent kindness, and yet more vexed with Archie for his growing friendship with them.
Undoubtedly Mrs. Stuart was greatly indebted to the Dunns. Mrs. Dunn had spent whole nights in the cottage, and had taken turns with Nancy to run in and out by day. Mrs. Dunn was looking quite fagged with all she had undertaken, and Mrs. Stuart ought to have been extremely grateful. But she was not grateful at all. She was only annoyed with herself and the Dunns and Archie and everybody—a most uncomfortable state of mind to be in.
Mrs. Mason, living opposite Woodbine Cottage, was usually a very convenient person in time of illness. Being a widow, with only one married daughter, and having consequently no home-ties; being, moreover, a motherly sort of body, with useful instincts, she liked to be called in to help where help might be needed.
The very day, however, before Mrs. Stuart's accident, Mrs. Mason was summoned to her married daughter by telegram. Had it not been for this, she would as a matter of course have shared with Mrs. Dunn the care of Mrs. Stuart.
After ten days, Mrs. Mason came home, leaving her daughter recovered from a sharp little illness; and then she was speedily made acquainted with events which had taken place during her absence. The next thing that happened was Mrs. Mason's appearance in Mrs. Stuart's kitchen, with a half-knitted stocking, a short time before tea.
"Now, you didn't expect to see me, did you?" she asked, in her round comfortable voice, which exactly suited her stout and motherly figure. "But I'm come. I told Mrs. Dunn I'd do it for her—get you your tea, I mean, and wash up. Dear! I never thought I should find you like this—that I didn't. There's never no knowing what'll happen next, and that's a fact. Well—I'll put your kettle on to boil, first thing. And so Mrs. Dunn's been looking after you all this while. Just like her! She's got enough to do at home, though, and I told her I'd come instead. But to think now of your stealing a march on me, like that! To think of it!"
Mrs. Stuart failed to understand Mrs. Mason's meaning, and she intimated the same in gloomy tones.
"What I mean! Why, I mean the Dunns, to be sure," said Mrs. Mason briskly. "The nicest family that's come to Littleburgh for a year past. And as soon as ever I'm out of the way, you've gone and stolen a march on me, and got as intimate with 'em! No, I didn't expect it of you, I did not, Mrs. Stuart!"
Mrs. Mason shook her head vigorously. But Mrs. Stuart was in no humour for joking, and she intimated that fact also in yet gloomier accents.
"A joke don't do nobody any harm," said Mrs. Mason, "provided it's harmless. There's jokes and jokes. There's a sort that's better avoided. But I'd sooner laugh than cry over a worry any day. You wouldn't be half such a skinny scarecrow of a woman, if you was to laugh oftener, and glower seldomer over your frets. That you wouldn't."
Mrs. Mason was too useful a woman to be quarrelled with for her plain-spokenness; but certainly, her remarks did not lessen Mrs. Stuart's moodiness.
"That Nancy Dunn is the best and prettiest girl ever I see!" remarked Mrs. Mason.
Mrs. Stuart grunted.
"Isn't she now?" asked Mrs. Mason.
"I've got nothing to say against her," declared Mrs. Stuart, with the air of one suppressing truths.
"Shouldn't think you had, nor anybody else neither. Don't Archie like her?" demanded Mrs. Mason, rising to get the teapot.
No answer to this.
"Well, if I was you, I'd encourage it in every way I could. That's what I'd do," said Mrs. Mason emphatically, rinsing out the teapot. "She's a pretty girl, and a good girl, and she'll make a good wife to somebody some day. That girl's had a training that it isn't many girls get now-a-days. She'll clean up a room in next to no time; and she's first-rate at washing and ironing; and she's a good cook in a plain way. Yes; Mrs. Dunn's a wise mother. She's trained up Nancy to follow in her footsteps. And that isn't all neither; for she's trained up Nannie to live for God, and to think of the world that's to come, and not only of just how to eat and drink and get along."
Mrs. Stuart found something to say at last. She opened her lips with a resolute, "I don't hold with being so mighty religious."
"No?" said Mrs. Mason. "How much religion do you hold with?"
"I'm not one as likes shams," said Mrs. Stuart.
"Nor me neither," responded Mrs. Mason. "But there's no sort of shamming about the Dunns. It's real honest hearty living to God, and trying to do His will. I can tell you, Mrs. Stuart, I've learnt a thing or two from them already, though it's so short a time they've been here; and I'm not ashamed to own it. And I hope I'll be the better for knowing them. And as for being 'mighty religious'—if fighting against wrong, and struggling to do right, and helping those that's in need, and serving God in every bit of daily life—if that's what you mean by 'mighty religious,' why, I wish there was a lot more of it in the world. I do, and that's a fact. For it would be a deal better sort of world."
"I don't like talk," said Mrs. Stuart.
"Nor me neither," assented Mrs. Mason again. "That's to say, I don't like talk that's not carried out in action. Folks must talk. It's natural to human nature. And folks 'll talk mostly of what comes nearest to 'em. There's some cares most for eating, and they'll talk of their eating. And there's some cares most for politics, and they'll talk of politics. And there's some cares most for their children, and they'll talk of their children. And, dear me, there's some cares only for themselves, and won't they talk a lot about themselves? But that's all natural. It's all human nature.
"And when a man cares for religion, and loves God from his heart—why, don't it stand to reason that he'll speak sometimes of the things he cares for most? That's not shamming, Mrs. Stuart. It's shamming if a man talks religion, and don't let it come into his daily life. And it's shamming when folks keep all their religion for Sunday, and make believe to pray to Him in Church, and then never think of Him at all from Monday morning till Saturday night. That's shamming, as much as you like. But as for talk—why, talk's natural—in moderation. And you'll never find Mrs. Dunn talk too much. No, never."
Perhaps the same could not be said of good-humoured voluble Mrs. Mason. She brought the teapot from the hob, and set it on the table.
"There—that's all right," she said, in a different tone, possibly feeling that she had said enough on one subject. "I've had my tea before coming, so I don't want any; but I'll stay to wash up. I've got my knitting. And by-and-by I'll come in again. So Archie's out with friends to-night? Well, he's a likely young fellow—sure to make friends. I hope they'll all be as good friends as the Dunns. And you've had Mr. Wilmot here, paying you visits? Kind sort of man, isn't he?—and as good! No sort of sham there neither! But he don't look as he should. What is come over him?"
Mrs. Stuart did not know that anything had.
"He's not himself," said Mrs. Mason. "Lost all his colour, and don't walk with half his spirit. He'd ought to take care of himself. Good people ain't too common in this world. It's my belief, he works a deal too hard. Yes—there's something wrong. I'm sure I don't know what."
PEOPLE AND THINGS.
MANY weeks had gone by, and Mrs. Stuart was pretty well recovered from her accident. She limped a little, it is true, and was unable to walk any distance; still, on the whole, she might be counted convalescent.
Archie had been a good son to her through those weeks. Nobody could question it. Even Mrs. Stuart did not deny the fact.
It may seem an odd thing to say, considering the mother's love for her boy, but, undoubtedly, Mrs. Stuart had not quite forgiven Archie for being in some sort the cause of her accident. If Archie had not left her all those hours alone, she would not have gone searching after him in the brick-fields. Mrs. Stuart was wont to dilate on this very self-evident truth; while she forgot to mention the equally self-evident truth that if she had not given way to ill-temper, Archie would not have left her. Archie had been to blame, no question as to that. But Mrs. Stuart herself could scarcely be reckoned blameless.
And Mrs. Stuart was not of a generous nature. When her foot was at its worst, she seemed to find a particular gratification in reminding Archie that it was "all his doing." A generous nature would have shrunk from allowing Archie to see how much she suffered, for fear he should blame himself too far.
Archie bore his mother's reproaches patiently—so patiently that Mrs. Dunn often wondered, looking on. For she knew the young fellow to be of a quick and hasty disposition; and she did not know yet how a strong new principle was taking root in Archie Stuart's heart, and beginning already to show in his life.
One result of Mrs. Stuart's accident was a great pleasure to Archie. His friendship with the Dunns was no longer a thing forbidden. Mrs. Stuart hardly could prevent it, after Susan Dunn's kind care of her. But she still did not care to see more of the Dunns than was necessary; and if Archie spoke of Nannie, Mrs. Stuart was sure to spend some sulky hours in consequence.
It was very difficult for him to abstain from speaking of Nancy; for by this time he thought of her more than of any other human being. Nancy's pretty face was before his mind's eye perpetually. When he looked forward to the future, it was always a future with Nancy Dunn—not always as Nancy Dunn. But he had not spoken out to anybody yet of his wish. He wanted his mother to learn to like Nancy first.
"Why don't you come to see my mother oftener?" he asked one day, and Nancy answered frankly—
"I don't think she cares to have me come. She always seems so busy."
This was true, and Archie could not deny it. The thought troubled him much, but he tried to wait quietly. Meanwhile he was very often in and out at Woodbine Cottage; and the more he saw of the Dunns, the more thoroughly he respected and wished to be like them.
For there was nothing half-hearted, nothing inconsistent, about these Dunns. They were not great talkers, but neither did they hide their religion. In Richard Dunn's life, the leading aim was to serve that dear Lord and Master who had died for him on the Cross, and this aim was followed out with steady persistence. If need arose, he could speak of his heart's desire; if required to do aught which he believed to be contrary to God's will, he could refuse quietly, and without bluster. Lesser aims were included in the one great aim. He was a steady workman; he sought to keep his wife and children in comfort; he loved to have a tasteful and well-furnished little house. These things were right. It was well that he should be the better workman, because he served first a Heavenly Master; and it was well that while striving to do God's will, he should seek to please his wife, and make his children happy.
Things were much the same with Susan Dunn and with Nancy. Setting first before them the desire to please in all things a Heavenly Master and Friend, they did, as a matter of course, their best in all things.
But there was nothing sombre, nothing gloomy, in the atmosphere of Woodbine Cottage. How should there be? Richard Dunn was a man of cheerful spirit. You need not suppose for a moment that he or his family were the less cheerful because of their religion. Why, how should they be? Real religion—the religion of Christ—is rest, and joy, and safety now, and the looking forward to a glorious by-and-by. That doesn't make people gloomy. No doubt a great many true servants of God are gloomy, but they find their gloom in themselves, not in their religion, if it is indeed according to the teaching of Christ.
You would not have heard merrier children's voices anywhere in the neighbourhood than in Woodbine Cottage, or a sweeter laugh than Nancy's; nor would you have seen a sunnier face than Susan's, or a busier and happier life than Richard Dunn's. He was always at work upon something, even in leisure hours; reading a book, or doing a bit of carpentering, or tending his plants, or having a game with his little ones. There was no time in his life for idle lounging, any more than there was in Susan's or Nancy's for gossiping.
Some people may count it odd to talk of a man being "at work" when he reads a book or plays with his children. But there are many different kinds of work. Reading may be very hard work indeed—not of course just looking at a shallow article in a paper, or glancing through a worthless novel, but real steady mastering of facts worth knowing in a volume of history or science. And though playing with a child is not hard work, yet it may really be in one sense work for God, if the father is lovingly trying to win his little one's heart in every possible way, and to please God in so doing.
Archie Stuart being much in and out of Woodbine Cottage, noticed all these items of the way in which his friends lived and acted, and gradually, he seemed to catch something of the same spirit. He began to feel that for a man to live only to himself is not grand; that to please one's self always is very easy, but not beautiful. He saw slowly, more and more, how grand and beautiful, aye, and how manly a thing it is, to be permitted to fight on God's side in the mighty world-wide battle between good and evil.
No namby-pamby matter this, as Archie soon discovered. For with all his young vigour and his strong will, he found soon how little he could do, how strong were the powers of evil; and then it was that his friends could speak to him of One "mighty to save," in whose great strength Archie should, if he willed, be "more than conqueror." And then, Archie learned to pray.
That was how Archie grew more kind and patient during the weeks of his mother's illness. He did not think it himself. He had never found self-restraint harder, or the temptation to sharp self-defence more keen. But others looking on saw the difference in him already.
This learning to pray is a great step in anybody's life. Archie no longer went to Church merely as a dull duty, to listen to words which had as yet no meaning for him, because his eyes were not open to their meaning. He went now to ask God, in common with others, for things which he and they needed, to offer thanks for things already given. Both in Church, and in his own little room, he had begun to draw nearer to the footstool of Christ the King, to know Him as the Crucified, to trust Him as the Saviour, to be taught of His Spirit, to bow before Him as Lord.
For all this Archie lost no whit of his growing manliness. Was it likely? Does any one lose in force or manliness through daily intercourse with a mind infinitely greater and wiser than his own? Besides, what is more manly than self-control, than conquests over one's evil tempers, than a spirit of kindness and generosity to those weaker than one's self? Archie was growing in these things more manly, not less manly, day by day, and many remarked that it was so. The Dunns saw it especially.
THE GARDINERS.
THINGS were widely different, next door to the Dunns, from what Archie had found in Woodbine Cottage. It is astonishing what a change comes over the scene, if one just passes from one little cottage home into a second, the two being separated by only a slender wall.
There was not too much religion in the Gardiner household by any means, neither was there too much of happy children's laughter, or too much wifely affection, or too much manliness in the head of the household.
John Gardiner had probably no intention of being unmanly. Probably, also, he was what people call "a well-meaning man," that is, he meant to do well, so long as doing well didn't happen to cross his own inclinations. He was a man of very strong principle too, after a fashion, his one leading principle being always, and on all occasions, to do exactly what he chose, without consulting the inclinations or wishes of anybody else.
In the workshop, this principle had of course to be in a measure subordinate to the will of his employers. But at home it had full swing.
John Gardiner at home counted himself absolute master, and he insisted on being so too. A wife was, in his estimation, a useful sort of creature, fit to scour and wash and cook, fit also to be the victim of harsh words when he pleased to bestow them. If words failed to bring submission, he would not object to try the effect of a blow. After which, no one could rightly speak of John Gardiner as a "manly Englishman," much as he might desire the term. For a man who can stoop to strike a woman has forfeited utterly all claim to "manliness."
But of course Gardiner did not see this. A coward nature seldom knows its own cowardice. A bully is always a coward; and there was a good deal of the bully in Gardiner's nature.
His children shrank away from him habitually, with a mixture of dread and cunning. Not that they saw much of their father. He allowed his wife a certain amount out of his wages for household expenses—expecting a goodly amount of the same to be spent upon food for himself—and he came home to eat and to sleep. That was about all.
His evenings were spent elsewhere, always. If his wife knew where he went, it was by accident, since he rarely condescended to tell her. Perhaps it is not too much to say that neither his wife nor his children craved more of Gardiner's presence in the little home.
If Betsy Gardiner knew little of her husband's doings, he was not much better acquainted with those of his wife and children. The eldest girl, Bess, was at sixteen practically independent. She chose her own friends, followed her own devices, and was at once blamed and sheltered by the weak and hasty yet indulgent mother. Betsy Gardiner might slap her children roughly, under sudden provocation; but to see them feel the weight of their father's heavy hand was another matter. She shrank from that; and she shrank from what might drive the elder girl permanently from home.
The state of things could hardly be wondered at. John Gardiner was a man who lived distinctly and solely for himself. He expected everybody and everything in the household to bend to his pleasure. He gave no love and he received none. The example of abject self-pleasing—for such slavery to self is abject and contemptible—was naturally followed by his children. How should it not be? There were no softening influences; none of an opposite kind. The spirit of the household was a reflection of the father's spirit—how in every way to please and indulge self, coupled in the case of the children with a constant effort to shirk blame at any cost.
The Gardiners and the Dunns were not disposed to be intimate. Naturally two families of such different minds and views did not suit. Had the Gardiners been in trouble, Susan Dunn would have been ready at once to help them. But she did not care for the friendship of Mrs. Gardiner for herself, or of Bess for Nancy, or of the quarrelsome shrieking children for her own Dick and Susie.
Two girls could scarcely have been found in the place more unlike than Nancy Dunn and Bess Gardiner: Nancy, with her sweet blue eyes, and pretty smile, and modest dress, and gentle manner; and Bess, with her rough bearing, her coarse laugh, her conspicuous fringe, her gaudy dress. They were girls utterly unsuited to one another. Their bringing-up had been different, their tastes were different, their pursuits were different, their rules of action were different.
Yet these two girls were alike in one thing, and that was in the possession of a naturally warm heart.
Only, with Nannie the warmth had been fostered, the tenderness had been cherished, till it was as natural to her to give out love as for a sunbeam to give out warmth. Bess, on the other hand, had been checked and snubbed, fretted, neglected, and scolded, till she had grown-up seemingly hard, and ready to fight the whole world, with all her natural warmth hidden away beneath a tough outside crust.
The warmth was there still, however. It only needed to be set free. And nobody would have guessed that gentle Nancy Dunn would be the one to win her way in through this crust. Yet so it was.
At first when the Dunns came, Bess laughed at them, and said scornful words about Nancy's "prim ways." But whenever the two girls met, Nanny always had a little smile, and a kind passing word for Bess. And gradually Bess ceased to sneer. The winning manner and the soft straightforward eyes were unconsciously gaining possession of poor Bess Gardiner's frozen-up heart.
Nancy did not know it. She guessed nothing of it yet. She only thought it rather odd that she should so often lately have met Bess. Somehow Bess seemed to be always coming across her path. Bess would say nothing when they met. She only hung about sheepishly till she had had a word of greeting, and then rushed away. And Nancy never gave more than the passing word; for she knew that Bess' companionship would not be liked by her mother. Nannie did not know how Bess craved for more, how Bess watched for her coming, and feasted on the passing word, and would have run a mile for a second word. If any one had suggested such a state of things, Nancy would have laughed and thought the idea absurd.
Yet things had actually come to this pass, one August evening, when Nancy Dunn had been to speak to Miss Wilmot at the Rectory, and was walking home—things had come to such a pass that poor rough-mannered Bess might almost be said to worship the ground on which Nancy Dunn walked.
The evening was a lovely one, and Nancy was tempted to stroll a short distance round on her way home. She chose a quiet lane, with a hedge on either side, more country-like than most of the roads round Littleburgh. And halfway through this lane, she found Bess Gardiner standing alone doing nothing, only watching her approach.
THAT GIRL BESS!
"GOOD evening," Nancy said pleasantly, as she reached Bess, and was about to pass her.
But Bess, with a sudden movement, placed herself in front of Nancy.
"You don't never say one word more!" she burst out. "And I wish you would."
Nancy looked at her in surprise. "Why—what do you want me to say?" she asked. "I don't understand."
Bess hung her head and was silent. She had spoken under a momentary impulse, and now shyness seized upon her. Rough-mannered Bess was by no means wont to suffer from shyness, and the sensation came as a novelty.
"I'd like to walk along the lane with you," she muttered at length.
Nancy was perplexed, knowing well that her mother would strongly disapprove of any intercourse beyond the exchange of bare civilities between Bess and herself. She stood still, thinking.
"I ain't good enough for you. But I'd like a talk with you sometimes. Don't see why I shouldn't. Might make me better, you know," continued Bess awkwardly.
"I should like to help anybody," Nancy said, speaking slowly. "Anybody that wants help. I should like to help you—if I could," and she hesitated, "but—"
"But you don't choose to be seen walking along of me," cried Bess, in loud tones.
"It isn't choosing—indeed it is not," said Nancy, distressed at the other's look. "Bess, please believe me. It is only—I always tell mother first—and then—"
But Bess flung herself away, and rushed off, hurt and angry. Nancy felt sorrowful, fearing that she might have acted unwisely, and done harm.
When, however, she reached the end of the lane, and turned into a broader road, there stood Bess.
"I say," the strange girl burst out, "you aren't angered?"
"No," Nancy answered, with a little smile; "I'm only sorry."
"I say," repeated the other, "d'you mean to say you do just as your mother tells you?"
"I hope so," Nancy said gravely. "Why, Bess, doesn't the Bible tell us to obey our parents? And she's such a dear good mother, I couldn't bear to make her unhappy."
"Oh, well; mine's a different sort from that," said Bess.
"But if she is—if she were—that wouldn't make any difference about what's right for you," urged Nancy.
"Oh, I think it does! I've had pretty near enough of my home," said Bess recklessly. "I'll go and live with somebody else."
"O no, Bess, you won't," said Nancy seriously.
"But I mean to," responded Bess. "So there! I did think I'd have a talk with you—and you won't."
Nancy's eyes looked into those of Bess.
"Don't be vexed," the gentle girl urged. "I'll have a talk with mother, and she'll let me see you, I'm sure."
"She don't like girls as wears hair like mine. I know," said Bess, with a careless shake of the unkempt mass which descended low on her freckled forehead. "I've seen her look me over. I know."
"Mother doesn't think that sort of thing respectable for girls in our position, Bess," said Nancy quietly.
"Nor you don't neither," said Bess.
"No," said Nancy.
Bess shoved back the loose mass, stared at Nancy and suddenly burst into tears.
"I'd be respectable if I could," she sobbed. "Nobody's never taught me; and I don't know how. I'd learn from you, that I would—and you won't help me! I'd best give up, that's what I'd best do! I'll give up, and I'll never speak one word to you again, that I won't."
But Nancy's hand was on Bess' arm, detaining her, when she would have rushed away.
"No, Bess," Nancy said, "you won't give up. You'll try harder. And you'll come home with me now and see mother, and she'll tell you what to do."
"Come home! With you!" gasped Bess.
"Yes; come straight home with me now."
Bess said not another word. She gave herself up to Nancy's guidance, and followed her meekly into Woodbine Cottage. The two girls hardly spoke by the way; and indeed the distance was very short.
Susan Dunn happened to be alone indoors, her husband having taken out the two children for a short walk. Susan was busy over some mending. She looked up with a smile on Nancy's entrance, but the smile passed into an expression of doubtful welcome, as her eyes fell on Nancy's companion.
"Mother, I've brought Bess Gardiner to you," said Nancy simply. "She isn't happy at home, and she wants some one to help her to be better. And I didn't know what you'd like me to do, so I've brought her to you. I knew you'd be glad."
Was Susan glad? With all her kind-heartedness, she had very particular notions about proper acquaintances for herself and her children, more especially for Nancy. And she had taken such pains to avoid any kind of intimacy with those Gardiners. For a moment Susan really did feel quite provoked, and the only answer she made to Nancy's appeal was a slow, "Well—sit down."
Bess stood doggedly upright.
"I told you so!" she muttered to Nancy. "And I'm not a-going to stay where I'm not wanted."
"Mother, Bess isn't happy, and she wants help," pleaded Nancy.
"Not likely to be happy with their sort of way of going on," said Susan. "But if there's anything I can do—Sit down," she repeated.
No, Bess declined to obey. She came a step forward, with glowering eyes.
"It wasn't my wish to come," she declared. "I'm not one of them who'll go where they're not wanted. And she'd ought to have known better than to bring me. I don't say I'm fit company for her, neither. Only, she's always got a kind word for me—and I did think—maybe—but it don't matter! I'll go my own way, and I'll never trouble nobody again—never! It don't matter. Folks are born to be miserable, I suppose. And there's nobody to care. It don't matter. So, good-bye."
"O mother!" cried Nancy in distress, tears filling her eyes, as Bess turned away.
But it was not Nancy's cry which made Susan Dunn stand up and move swiftly between Bess and the door, with a face which had softened all at once into motherly pity. Another thought had come to Susan—the thought of One who did care, who cared so much for poor rough Bess as to have given up His life for her on Calvary. How would it be in His eyes, if Susan let this poor untaught girl wander away without the help which she craved?
"Good-bye; I'm going," repeated Bess hoarsely. "Let me go."
"No, my dear. You're not going yet," said Susan, in resolute tones. "Nannie's right to bring you in. You're not going yet. You just take your shawl off your head, and sit down and tell me what's the matter. And you needn't say again that nobody cares. Come, child, sit down!"
That conquered Bess. She took the seat indicated and laying her head on the table, broke into heavy sobs.
"Come, now—come!" repeated Susan. "Don't you be so upset. Tell me what's wrong, and we'll see if I can't help you put things right." Then, with a sudden thought, "Is it anything my Nannie shouldn't hear? I'll send her away, if it is. She don't know the bad ways of some of you girls; and I don't choose she should, as long as I can keep her from it."
Bess choked down her sobs, and sat up with heaving chest.
"I wouldn't tell her neither," she said earnestly. "I'm not so bad as that. She ain't like us; and I wouldn't be the one to make her like my sort. I'd sooner learn to be like her—if I could."
"And of course you can," said Susan encouragingly. "I'd begin this minute, if I was you."
"Begin to be like Nancy! This minute!" Bess said, in a wondering tone, as if the idea were a new one.
"To be sure I would," said Susan.
Whatever Susan Dunn did or did not mean in a practical sense, Bess evidently had some distinct notions on the subject, for she sat more upright, gazed hard at Nancy, then walked to a small looking-glass hung over the mantel-shelf and surveyed herself. Susan and Nancy said nothing for a few seconds. On the dresser stood a basin full of water, and Bess' next move was to plunge her rough unshawled head into this water. It came out dripping; and she parted the flattened thick mass with her fingers, pushing it back on either side.
"How they'll jeer!" she burst out then.
"Who will?" asked Susan.
"They! When I'm seen like this."
"The girls that you've made your friends? But you'll have to leave them, and choose a better sort of friends," said Susan.
Bess walked back to her vacated seat.
"Won't you mind Nancy being seen along of me now?" she demanded.
Susan was rather perplexed. Certain other changes would be needed beside the possession of a neat head, if Bess Gardiner was to be counted a fit companion for Nancy Dunn; yet she could not bear to check the poor ignorant girl in her first effort to take a right turn.
"What makes you want that so much?" she inquired.
"Because—" Bess' voice suddenly faltered. "Because there ain't nobody like her—and I—I—I'd do anything in all the world that ever I could for her—I would!"
Mother and daughter exchanged looks, tears in Nancy's eyes, and something very like tears in Susan's.
"If Nannie's to be the one who can help you to what's right, I'm not the woman to hinder," she said, with a touch of huskiness. "Seems to me it may be God's will for you both. But look here, Bess. You've got to make your choice. You can't do both, you know. If you want to be in and out here, and to learn from my Nannie, you'll have to leave your bad companions, and drop your old ways. There's to be no bad words spoken, and no taking of God's Holy Name in vain, and no saying of things which a pure-minded girl shouldn't hear. And you'll have to stop going about in that sort of dress I saw you in last Sunday. I wouldn't have my Nannie seen in the street with a girl dressed like that—no, not for anything you could mention. I'm not speaking unkindly; but I do mean what I say. You've had your old friends, and you've gone on in their ways. If Nannie's to be your friend now, you'll have to take to new ways."
Bess's low brow was frowning anxiously.
"I'd do anything," she said; "anything you'll tell me. And I mean it. I told mother I'd go right off and board with them Joneses, because father did storm at me so. And I won't now."
"No," Susan said, in decisive tones. "It's the Joneses or Nancy. Not both."
Bess shook her head.
"Couldn't be both," she assented. "But my! Won't they be at me!"
"It won't be an easy time for you," said Susan gravely, "It never is, when a girl tries to leave evil and turn to good. And mind, Bess, it isn't only just a leaving off of one thing or another that you've got to think of. That's not enough. You'll have to be whole and thorough—give yourself up to serve God, and do His will. For if you haven't His Power to keep you straight, nothing else 'll be of much use."
"Parson said so too," Bess remarked briefly. "He stopped me one day, and I jeered, and he had his say out and never minded. I've thought of it a many times since."
"What did he tell you, Bess?" asked Nancy.
Bess was in difficulties. She evidently retained no clear recollection of the words spoken. Yet, as evidently, a distinct impression had been made. By dint of questioning, Susan came a vague remembrance of "something about God caring."
"And he said I just hadn't ought to go on a-troubling of Him with my bad ways," added Bess. "Him as was nailed up on the Cross. I didn't know nothing about it troubling Him before. And I thought—maybe—Nancy 'ud tell me what to do."
TROUBLE.
"THERE's something wrong with Mr. Wilmot!" Other people, besides Mrs. Mason, were saying this as the summer went on.
Annie was slower to perceive the alteration in him than were many. For one thing, he did his best to keep up in her presence, fearing to awake his darling's anxiety. For another, she was young still, and had seen little of illness. Moreover, she was extremely busy in the Parish, and was by no means given to conjuring up troubles.
Conjuring was, however, in this matter no longer needed, for a very real trouble lay already to hand.
The change in Mr. Wilmot had become patent to all who knew him. A laboured and languid gait replaced the old brisk walk; a fixed perpetual pallor replaced the old healthy sunburn. If he had to ascend a little slope, he stood still often to pant for breath. The exertion of preaching would bring visible drops of moisture to his brow; and not seldom the once clear and ringing tones were inaudible to half his congregation.
Yet with this appearance of weakness, there existed an unusual brightness, and this it was chiefly which helped to blind Annie's eyes.
For a while, in the earlier part of the summer, she and many others had thought him unwontedly grave and depressed. The gravity and depression were gone now, utterly. Never had his eyes shone with so calm a light, never had his smile been so full of sunshine. There were some who noted in his look and bearing a strange unearthliness—noted it with mingled awe and fear. Yet they could not have told wherein it consisted; for even while they noted it, and thought him worn and altered, his laugh would break out in all its old gaiety, as he paused to speak to some little child. And how the children loved him!
Annie's eyes remained long strangely shut. She thought him tired unusually often, but the hot summer seemed to account for this. By-and-by, he would take his autumn holiday, and that would set all right.
But there came a day of awakening—sudden and unexpected.
She had had her Bible class as usual one Sunday afternoon, with the half-dozen girls who regularly came to the Rectory for that purpose. It was a very interesting hour commonly to them all; not least so to Nancy Dunn, who by this time loved Miss Wilmot dearly. This day's lesson proved certainly not less interesting than usual.
Annie had chosen the subject of trouble, and of how to bear trouble. She had talked it over with her father beforehand, and she had much to say about the bright side of trouble, the often good effects of it, and the spirit in which it should be borne.
"I dare say some of you remember that sermon of my father's about being always ready," Annie said, in the course of the class.
Nancy smiled a response.
"Perhaps we haven't any of us just now any great troubles to bear—only just little every-day ones. But the great troubles may come at any time; and when they do, we ought to be ready. I suppose there is only one way of being really ready, and that is,—" Annie went on reverently—"that is, living always very close to Jesus. For if we are fighting close to His side, and under His banner, then whatever He orders we shall be ready to do—or whatever He gives us we shall be ready to take.
"I don't mean," she added, after a pause, "that one wouldn't feel trouble. My father says that is a mistake. When God sends trouble, He means it to be trouble. And He means it to bring us near to Him, that He may comfort us. I don't suppose He can comfort us till we are 'ready' to have whatever He sends. Some don't learn to be ready till after the trouble comes. But I should like to learn beforehand—shouldn't you? I should like to be able, when it comes, to look straight up, and say, 'Thy will, not mine, be done.' That's what the Lord Jesus could do, even in the midst of His great terrible struggle in Gethsemane. He could say, 'Not My will, but Thine.' For all the while He was ready—truly ready. He could always say from His heart, 'Lo, I come to do Thy will, O God!' And that is what we have to learn to say."
It seemed strange afterwards to Annie herself, as well as to those who listened, that she should have spoken just on that particular day in this particular manner.
The class ended, Annie put away her Bible, set the chairs straight, and went out into the garden, singing softly. She believed her father to be at the school, where he usually went every Sunday afternoon. A favourite Homer rose bush near the garden-gate drew Annie's attention. She thought she would gather a few buds, and put them on father's study table, to refresh his eyes when he returned. He had not seemed at all well that morning; and Annie had almost made up her mind to ask Mr. Rawdon privately some day soon whether Mr. Wilmot ought not to take a tonic.
Six pretty pinkish half-open blossoms were in hand, when a movement near made her look up. "Good afternoon," she said, smiling at the sight of Archie Stuart. Mrs. Stuart's cottage was in Annie's district, and Annie knew the mother and son well.
"How is Mrs. Stuart?" she asked, as Archie seemed to hesitate outside the gate.
Archie's mother was "pretty well," he said.
"Her foot quite recovered?" Annie asked, plucking another rose bud. "Do you think she would like two or three of these? Come in, and I'll give them to you."
Archie was much pleased. He stepped inside, letting the gate swing to.
"There!" Annie said, handing him a small bunch. "Tell Mrs. Stuart I am coming very soon to see her again." Then, with another smile, Annie inquired, "Has she begun to like Nancy Dunn yet?"
Archie's face fell. "No, Miss," he said. "Not as anybody could help liking Nancy—"
"No, indeed!" put in Annie.
"But she won't hear one word of me and Nancy having things settled between us," pursued Archie.
"Then you have to be patient a little longer," said Annie. Between confidences from Archie, from Mrs. Stuart, and from Nancy, she knew pretty well all about the matter. "Nobody is the worse for a little waiting, and I think you are pretty sure about Nancy—are you not?"
"Well, I did speak to her, Miss Wilmot, and to Mrs. Dunn too," admitted Archie. "For I didn't seem as if I was able to keep in any longer. And my mother she was in a great taking. But Mrs. Dunn said, and Nancy said too, that it wasn't to be anything settled until mother was willing. And it does seem as if she never was going to be willing."
"You have waited a very short time yet, and you and Nancy are both young," said Annie. "I think you must have patience still; and your mother has been a good mother, hasn't she? I always notice how very fond she is of you. I am sure you must want to be a very good son to her."
"Well, yes—that I do, Miss," assented Archie, though perhaps not so heartily as Annie wished, for his head was full of Nancy. Then he inquired: "Is Mr. Wilmot better, please? Mother said I was to be sure and ask. She does set store by Mr. Wilmot, and no mistake, and it's worried her to see him so ill lately."
"My father! Why, he has not been ill," said Annie in surprise. "He seemed tired this morning."
Archie looked at Annie somewhat strangely. He had heard many remarks lately on the Rectors altered look.
"I am expecting him home from Sunday school directly," pursued Annie. "So I must go indoors now and be ready for him. Good-bye. I do hope your mother will soon give way about Nancy. But you have to be patient, haven't you, till then?"
Annie went back into the house, wondering uneasily what could have made Archie speak so of her father. She would certainly got hold of Mr. Rawdon as soon as possible, and beg him to see after Mr. Wilmot.
The study door was shut; but Annie, believing her father to be out, went straight in, meaning to put the rose buds on his study table. Her light and quick approach was unheralded. The door gave no warning creak; and Annie had a noiseless manner of turning handles.
The room proved to be tenanted. Mr. Wilmot lay on the sofa, and beside him sat Mr. Rawdon, bending somewhat forward, and speaking in distinct tones—
"As for your fear of hydrophobia—"
These words struck upon Annie's ears; and no trumpet-clang could have rung out with more startling clearness.
In a moment, the two were aware of her presence, and Mr. Rawdon stopped short.
THE GREAT DREAD!
"WHY, Annie, my child!" the Rector said, raising himself on one elbow, and greeting her with a smile, in which some veiled anxiety might have been detected. "We did not hear you coming. Are those roses for me? How has the class gone to-day?"
Annie could not answer him. She hardly knew what it was that restrained her to some appearance of calm. That terrible word "Hydrophobia" seemed to be ringing still through the room, and with it an awful dread had rushed in upon her. Yet she only stood motionless, holding the back of a chair with one hand and clutching the rose buds fast in the other.
"I did not go to the school this afternoon," pursued Mr. Wilmot. "The truth is, I was not feeling quite—well, not quite as I should; so I took an hour's rest instead."
Annie seemed to hear herself speaking in a hollow distant tone—"And you sent for Mr. Rawdon?"
"No, I came without being sent for," said Mr. Rawdon. He uttered the words in a deliberate repressive manner, as if to impress upon Annie a need for caution. "I was not satisfied with your father's look in Church this morning."
Then a pause. Annie remained perfectly still, her eyes fixed on vacancy. All colour had fled from her face. The two gentlemen exchanged meaning glances.
"Come, my child—sit down here, and tell me about your class," said Mr. Wilmot.
He made a little space on the sofa, and Annie went to it mechanically, but not to talk. In another moment, she had buried her face on his shoulder, and was clinging to him in a passionate wordless agony.
For two or three minutes there was silence, which nobody liked to break. The brisk ticking of the clock sounded clearly; but to Annie that sound was lost in the rapid fluctuating throb of something nearer at hand, something fast yet broken. She could not see her father's face, but Mr. Rawdon could, and his hand took firm hold of Annie's arm.
"Miss Wilmot! Stop this, please. You must get up."
There was a sound of warning in the tone. Annie obeyed, still as one in a maze. It seemed to her that the whole world was suddenly changed with this new fearful dread. Then she saw her father's ghastly look, and she knew that something must be very wrong. He could not speak—could not breathe. Mr. Rawdon had moved away to the table, to pour out some liquid into a small glass, and now he was administering it, holding up Mr. Wilmot. The breathless struggle lessened slowly; and then a fresh fear came over Annie. Had she done him harm? With that thought she was herself again.
"It is going off now—not much this time, I hope," Mr. Rawdon said cheerfully. "Keep still, Wilmot. Don't try to talk yet. Miss Wilmot and I will arrange about the evening."
Annie could only look at the doctor imploringly, and Mr. Wilmot's hand drew her back to her former position—except that she sat upright, not leaning against him.
"Now," Mr. Rawdon said, with a glance at Annie and a movement as if to leave the room. But Annie could not stir. The restraining arm around her might be weak, yet it held her fast. Mr. Rawdon had taken one step towards the door, and he paused hesitatingly.
"The fact is, Wilmot, any kind of agitation is bad for you, in the present state of your heart," he said. "Miss Wilmot and I are used to each other. Better let us have our little talk in another room."
"No," said Mr. Wilmot gently. "Here, please. It will distress me less. Annie must be good and calm."
Mr. Rawdon took a chair, by no means with the air of a man convinced.
Then another pause. Mr. Wilmot's eyes were on his child lovingly; and Annie could be seen to draw one or two deep breaths, as if mastering herself with difficulty.
"Yes," she said at length. "Please tell me."
"I will see some one, and arrange for the service this evening." Mr. Rawdon spoke deliberately. "I have already warned your father that he must consent to do less work.
"I am ready," Mr. Wilmot said, in a quiet voice.
"The fact is, Miss Wilmot—the fact is, your father has had lately a severe return of certain troublesome heart symptoms, from which he suffered a good deal about two years ago. You will probably remember."
"Yes—I remember," Annie found herself saying. "He had to take a long holiday—and—But—but that is not—not—"
"It is essential that he should greatly lessen work now. I tell you both honestly, I don't like these attacks; and this is the third, I believe, within a fortnight."
Annie looked bewildered, even while scarcely taking in the full sense of his words. She could only feel that something more terrible lay behind, something not yet touched upon. But for her father's sake, she dared not ask questions, till she should see Mr. Rawdon alone.
Doubtless, Mr. Rawdon too purposed putting off until then the needful telling. Mr. Wilmot was of a different mind.
"Annie, my child, did you happen to hear what Mr. Rawdon and I were talking about when you came in?"
"Yes, father," she whispered.
"That comes of stealing in upon folks without warning," said Mr. Rawdon.
"What did you hear?" Mr. Wilmot asked.
Annie hid her face in her hands.
"Wilmot, I don't like this for you," the doctor said.
"I must risk it. What did you hear, my darling?"
She lifted her face, and said in a voice quiet as his own:
"Father, Mr. Rawdon will tell me, please—not you." She grew paler: turning to the doctor—"Was father—? Did the dog—?"
"No, not bitten; but he had a touch from the creature's tooth. A mere scratch," said Mr. Rawdon. "Of course the slightest scratch should be avoided. He came to me, however, at once, and I burnt the place out—burnt deeply. I believe he managed to conceal from you that anything was the matter with his wrist."
"Wrist!" Annie repeated the word, and Mr. Wilmot drew up his sleeve.
"That is the scar of the burn," said Mr. Rawdon. "The scratch itself was a mere nothing. The wound healed slowly but thoroughly, as you may see. My own belief is that the remedy was prompt and complete enough to ensure safety."
But Annie knew that these words did not imply certainty. She sat silent once more, hardly thinking, but rather weighed down by a dull pressure of misery.
"And I was never told!" she murmured at length.
"There was no need," said Mr. Rawdon. "The less said and thought about the matter, the better. Now I must be off, Wilmot, to arrange for your evening's work being done by somebody else. You may leave that in my hands. Keep very quiet, and don't exert yourself. I shall see you early to-morrow."
He said good-bye to Mr. Wilmot, but not to Annie, and turned away. Annie knew that she was to accompany him out of the room, and she stood up, her father's arm relaxing to set her free.
He said only, "Come back to me, Annie."
LIFE LESSONS.
"NOW, remember," said Mr. Rawdon authoritatively, having stepped with Annie into the drawing-room, where he stood pulling on his gloves—"remember, Miss Wilmot, the less you dwell on that thought, and the less you allow your father to dwell on it, the better for him."
"But how can I help—?" sobbed the poor girl, for the moment entirely overcome.
"You must help it. Self-control in this matter is essential for your father's sake. It is not merely a question of talking. He reads every turn of your face, and if he sees you unlike yourself, sad and unhappy, you will act as a perpetual reminder of that which he ought to forget as much as possible."
"I will try hard—indeed I will," said Annie brokenly. "But if—if—"
"No; you are not to indulge in that 'if.' Understand me, Miss Wilmot. Your father is not suffering in the remotest degree from any premonitory symptoms of hydrophobia."
"You are quite—quite sure?"
"Perfectly sure. There is not a sign of anything of the kind about him. Some weeks ago I confess I did feel anxious for a time. He was under great depression, and living in a constant expectation of ill results. You must have remarked his depression. That has all passed off now. I cannot say he has entirely lost the expectation—perhaps I should rather say the distinct sense of what might come. But it is not depression, and it is not fear. I was wrong to use that word. He faces the matter in a wonderfully manly and Christian spirit. I wish he could banish the subject from his mind; but no doubt the present state of his health acts upon him, and lessens the power of self-restraint."
"His heart?" Annie strove to say.
"Yes—the mischief is there." Mr. Rawdon spoke in a grave tone. "I was not satisfied two years ago—but he seemed so far to rally from the weakness, that one had almost ceased to recall it. No doubt there has been mischief long brewing, which must sooner or later have declared itself. The strain and agitation of this summer have only hastened matters."
"But he will be better—he will get stronger by-and-by," said Annie imploringly. "When this dreadful year is over, and we are sure—"
"Yes, I hope so." Mr. Rawdon's voice was still more grave. "We must check his doing too much."
"If he were to get away for change? Could he not take his holiday sooner?"
"That has been discussed already. It is a difficult question," Mr. Rawdon said thoughtfully. "The fact is, I don't like his going far with only you—and he seems scarcely in a state for much travelling. If change could mean full occupation of mind—but too much leisure for thought is not at all desirable. Perhaps a moderate amount of work is better at present. But we shall see. You must try, for his sake, to take a cheerful view of things, and do your best to keep up his spirits. Good-bye now. I will look in to-morrow. But mind, he is not to count himself a regular invalid."
"No," said Annie.
She found it hard to respond, hard to lift her eyes—the trouble which had come upon her seemed so very terrible. She dreaded going to the study to meet her father's look. When Mr. Rawdon was gone, she turned mechanically into the dining-room, and stood there in an attitude of hopeless despondency.
Only half-an-hour or so earlier she had sat just here, a light-hearted girl still, speaking to other light-hearted girls of troubles that might one day come, and how they should be borne. What had she known then of trouble?
Yet her words had been true, and she knew it. But she could not feel or see their truth now. She could only bow her head beneath the blow.
"I was dumb, I opened not my mouth: because Thou didst it."
But she could not reach beyond "dumbness." She could not look up and say, "It is well."
After all, was there any need—as yet? The blow had only just fallen: and He who sent it knew its weight, knew her weakness. Annie had only just entered the School of Sorrow, and He who called her into it could pity her faltering steps with all a mother's tenderness.
She had to go back to her father. That recollection came soon, and Annie yielded to its call. Leaving the dining-room, where she had stood alone with clasped hands and drooping head, she crept thither.
And she had to look bright, to seem cheerful, to wear a face of calm unconsciousness! How could she, with this weight upon her heart?
"I have been looking for you," her father said. "Come here, my child."
Annie did as he told her. She knelt down beside the couch, and laid her face against him.
"That is the right attitude for both of us, isn't it?" said Mr. Wilmot softly.
"Father—" Annie tried to say, hardly knowing what she meant to utter. But the broken word was taken up in quiet accents—
"Father, Thy will, not ours, be done."
Annie shivered; and he spoke again—
"'The King's servants said unto the King, "Behold, Thy servants are ready to do whatsoever my Lord the King shall appoint."'"
Another little break.
"It is not for us to choose, nor for us to resist. He has His own mighty and loving purposes. We have but to be ready—ready to do—ready to bear—'whatsoever' Christ our King may appoint."
"But we may pray—pray—" she sobbed.
"Yes, pray and plead as earnestly as you will; only in the spirit always of Christ's prayer—'Thy will—not mine.'"
"O father, I can't say that, and I thought it would be so easy if trouble came—only not this trouble."
"Poor little Annie! My poor child! Yes, it is always so with us, 'only not this!' But He understands and pities. No pity was ever like His pity. He will teach you in His own good time. He knows how, for He has gone through all the worst of it Himself—worse agony than any of us can ever have to bear. And it is enough meanwhile to sit at His feet, to hear His voice. No more blessed position than that! He is so merciful. He doesn't hurry us, like man, in the lesson learning."
Mr. Wilmot spoke slowly, in brief sentences. "No, I am not hurting myself. But I can speak from experience, Annie. I have learnt much this summer—much of His exceeding gentleness. Where He lays His hand most heavily, He brings the sweetest balm."
"If only you had told me, father! To bear it alone!"
"Alone! I had my Master's presence."
Annie looked up, but she could not face his smile. Her head sank anew.
"There was the battling for awhile—not easy, but close to His side. I seem to have reached beyond the battling lately—to a quiet spot. One of His green pastures, I suppose. He gives rest when it is needful. But my child need not go through all that I went through. It is not necessary. That dread is over now. Mr. Rawdon was mistaken. I have no fear."
"He said so," she whispered.
"No fear, and no expectation. For some weeks I did expect it,—to be called Home by a fiery chariot. Not now. I think it will not be—that!"
She might have read his full meaning, but she did not, wrapped up as she was in the one dread.
He lifted Annie's face between his hands, and kissed it.
"Now, my little woman, we must obey orders. It does not take very much to bring on irregular action of the heart, and I had better not risk another attack of breathlessness. We have talked long enough on sad subjects. Try to forget what you have heard, and leave all in the hands of One who knows what is best for us. I want you to put those rose buds in water, or the poor little things will die. Then you shall tell me about your class, and about Nancy Dunn."
Annie rose at once to obey. Somehow she seemed to catch a reflection of her father's calm. She knew that she must keep up, for his sake.