GOOD ADVICE.
"GOOD afternoon, Mrs. Stuart. Fine day! Well—and how's the world getting along with you?" asked Mrs. Mason.
Mrs. Stuart looked as if the world were not getting along with her at all. She gave Mrs. Mason scant welcome.
"My fire's took to smoking like mad; smoked me out, if I didn't want to be turned into a dried herring," said Mrs. Mason. "So I thought I'd just look in here for an hour, and ask you for a neighbourly cup of tea."
Mrs. Stuart rose to her full length, like a big snake rearing itself on end, and stalked like a pair of huge compasses to the fireplace.
"I've brought my knitting," said Mrs. Mason. Forthwith she pulled out a half-made stocking, and set to work upon it.
Mrs. Stuart stalked back again.
"The kettle don't seem to be of a mind to boil yet. Kettles are uncommon perverse articles," said Mrs. Mason. "I'm in no sort of a hurry, so it don't matter—not in the very least. But perhaps you're expecting company, in which case I'd best make myself scarce, seeing I'm not come by invitation."
Mrs. Mason knitted and smiled as she talked, showing no bodily inclination to budge.
"I'm not expecting no company," said Mrs. Stuart, with the intonation of a deeply injured woman.
"How's Archie to-day?" asked Mrs. Mason.
"He's well enough," said Mrs. Stuart.
"Fine-looking young fellow he does grow, to be sure! I don't know a finer in the neighbourhood!"
Mrs. Stuart looked glum.
"And I can tell you, other folks think so as well as me. Why, there's the Dunns!"
Mrs. Stuart's wrath exploded suddenly. "Don't talk to me of them Dunns!" she cried.
"Why, dear me!" uttered Mrs. Mason. "And they such friends of Archie's!"
Mrs. Stuart couldn't sit still. She had nothing particular to do, standing up, but she marched to the dresser, and carried off two plates to a cupboard. Then she rubbed away vigorously at a spot of grease on the table. Then she poked the fire.
"I'm sure I don't wonder, neither," pursued Mrs. Mason. "They're the nicest family I know in all Littleburgh. Yes, the very nicest."
Mrs. Stuart tossed her head.
"And Nannie Dunn is the sort of girl one don't come across often." said Mrs. Mason. "She's the best-trained I ever saw. And the best-behaved. And the prettiest. And the neatest-dressed. I'm sure now, to hear Miss Wilmot talk of her! And as for that poor thing, Bess Gardiner—why, she's a different creature altogether. I do believe there's nothing on earth she wouldn't do, if Nannie bid her. Mrs. Gardiner can't make her out. There's a lot done among girls by a good example. And I always do say Archie 'll have a pretty little wife, and a good one too, some day."
Mrs. Stuart wheeled round upon Mrs. Mason, snorting contemptuously.
"My Archie's not a-going to marry Nancy Dunn," she declared, her nostrils quivering with anger.
"Why now, you don't say so! And everybody counting it a settled thing," said Mrs. Mason.
"Everybody's got no business. It's not a settled thing. It's never a-going to be a settled thing," said Mrs. Stuart.
"Just suited for one another too," said Mrs. Mason.
"My Archie's in the trade," said Mrs. Stuart majestically; "and his father was in the trade afore him, and his father afore him. And Dunn's a labourer. Archie's not a-going to marry yet. And when he does, he'll marry somebody of his own proper standing. And that's all I've got to say about it."
"Pity! Ain't it?" said Mrs. Mason. "And Dunn pretty near as well able to handle the tools as any man in the trade, if it wasn't for trade restrictions; and better read by a long way than any other man at the works. And you don't count Nannie good enough for your Archie! Dear me, now! I shouldn't have thought it."
"It don't matter who thinks, nor who don't," said Mrs. Stuart, impatiently pouring water from the kettle into the teapot. "I've my own mind in the matter."
"But, Mrs. Stuart, Archie has his mind too," her visitor said. "And he's getting to be a man fast. And I suppose a man has a right to his mind, as well as a woman."
"Maybe!" Mrs. Stuart said shortly. Perhaps the idea had not struck her before.
"If I was you," Mrs. Mason went on, "I'd just take care not to pull the cord too tight—that's what I'd do. For if you don't, I shouldn't wonder but some day or other your boy may chance to break loose from it. It's not all young fellows as 'ud wait so patient as Archie's waiting now. And if I was you, I wouldn't go too far. You don't know but what the temptation might be too strong for him, if you do. His heart's just set on Nannie, and there's nothing except your will keeping the two apart."
Mrs. Stuart snorted again.
"I'm not saying that Archie has a mind to marry yet awhile, for I know he hasn't. I've heard him say so. And there's no need for you to fret and worry, expecting that. Archie knows well enough his first duty is to his mother. You've done a deal for him, and he knows it, Mrs. Stuart. He don't mean to marry till he can earn enough to keep a wife as well as his mother. I shouldn't wonder if he hasn't said so much to you. It's not a subject you're over-fond of talking about, if I'm not mistaken. But Archie knows his duty, and he does mean to do it. And if he didn't, there'd be none quicker to blame him than Mrs. Dunn."
Mrs. Stuart grunted this time.
"Howsomever, I do say his mind is set on Nannie Dunn—and I don't wonder!" said Mrs. Mason. "If I was a man, I wouldn't look at another girl in the place beside her! And I do say, you'll be wise to give in to your boy, and let him be happy. You don't like me saying so much!—No, of course you don't. And it isn't none of my business—no, of course it isn't. But I do say, if I was you, I wouldn't risk snapping of the cord by pulling of it too tight. For there's never no knowing how much a young man 'll stand."
Grunt the second.
"Now if Nannie was a bad sort of girl, and one as couldn't be expected to make Archie a good wife, why, you'd be right to hold out all you could. But when there's no sort of manner of reason!—And when she's the best and sweetest and prettiest girl that ever was!—And when Archie just dotes on her!—And when she's willing!—And when her father and mother don't object!—Why, I do say, Mrs. Stuart—just you lend me a pair of scissors for one moment, will you?—I do say, Mrs. Stuart, you'll be wise to give in. And if you're angry with me for speaking out, I can't help it; for I made up my mind I'd speak out, and when I make up my mind to a thing, I'm not easy stopped. And Archie's behaved so pretty of late, I do think he deserves it."
Mrs. Mason was a person of some influence among her neighbours, accounted by them to possess an uncommon amount of common-sense. Her words were not without effect. Mrs. Stuart made no answer; but she did not snort or toss her head. When Mrs. Mason was gone, she actually sat idle, with her hands before her, thinking the matter over.
After all, there was much truth in Mrs. Mason's words, and Mrs. Stuart knew it. She began almost to wish that she could see some mode of giving way to Archie, without hurting her own dignities. Like many people of rather small minds, Mrs. Stuart had the greatest possible objection to acknowledging herself in the wrong. She always was right, and she always had been right; and if she once said a thing, she stuck to it like a limpet to a rock.
So the difficulty was, how she could possibly slide out of her former position into a new position, without giving anybody the power to say, "Mrs. Stuart has changed her mind." Mrs. Stuart prided herself on not changing her mind. Infallible people never do change their minds; for why should they ever become wiser to-day than they were yesterday?
Still, without condescending to change her mind, or to acknowledge that she had been mistaken, Mrs. Stuart had certainly obtained a new view of the question. And the grand puzzle was—how to beat a retreat without seeming to do so?
THE RECTOR'S WISH.
EXACTLY one quarter of an hour after Mrs. Mason's departure, there came a rap at the door. Mrs. Stuart went to open it. Outside stood a respectably dressed young woman, tall and plain-featured. The shawl drawn over her head in lieu of a bonnet marked her out as a "factory-girl."
Mrs. Stuart had a puzzled recollection of knowing the face, but she could attach no name to it. So she only stared solemnly at the new-comer, who returned the stare with interest, while demanding bluntly—
"Mrs. Mason here?"
"No," said Mrs. Stuart.
"Plague!" muttered the other. "And they told me she was."
"She's been here," said Mrs. Stuart.
"Where's she gone, then?"
"What's she wanted for?" asked Mrs. Stuart.
"One o' the Handcock children's been and pulled a kettle o' boiling water over, and got itself scalded. Nancy Dunn's in there, but Mrs. Dunn's out, and Nancy thought Mrs. Mason 'ud help best. So I said I'd fetch her, and they told me she was come here."
"Why, whatever in the world was the mother about not to look after the child?" demanded Mrs. Stuart.
"Mrs. Handcock? She's off at the factory all day."
"More shame for her!" said Mrs. Stuart. "With four babies to look after, and a husband getting good wages."
"Well, she is—and the children's locked up at home commonly. Nancy heard the screams, and called help, and the door was broke open somehow. They had a job to get in. The child's badly hurt."
"I shouldn't wonder if Mrs. Mason was—what's your name?" inquired Mrs. Stuart.
"I'm Bess Gardiner." The girl's freckled face coloured up.
"You Bess Gardiner! I never! Why, I shouldn't have known you."
"That's what I am," said Bess hardily.
"I shouldn't have known you, anyway," repeated Mrs. Stuart.
"It's Nancy's doing," said Bess.
"What's her doing?"
"Me!" said Bess curtly. "If I'm different, it's all Nancy."
"You ain't a friend of Nancy Dunn's!" said Mrs. Stuart, with a toss of her head.
Bess flashed out, understanding more than Mrs. Stuart would have expected—
"No—that's what I'm not. You're right there. I'm not good enough to be Nancy's friend. But she's the best friend to me ever I had in all my life. She don't cock up her head and look down upon everybody as isn't as good as herself. She just takes 'em by the hand, and helps 'em on. If it hadn't been for Nancy—" Bess came to a stop. "But I've no business waiting here. You can't tell me where I'm to find Mrs. Mason?"
"No, I can't," said Mrs. Stuart.
"Might as well ha' told me so at first!" And Bess dashed away.
Mrs. Stuart made no effort to detain Bess further. She went back to her seat and her darning.
Not, however, to remain long undisturbed. Visitors were plentiful this day. Another rap at the door—gentler in kind than the last—drew Mrs. Stuart thither again.
"May I come in?" asked the Rector's pleasant tones.
Mrs. Stuart backed before him in a flutter of pleasure. As Archie had said, she "set great store" by Mr. Wilmot. A call from him made a red-letter day in her calendar. Mr. Wilmot was a thorough gentleman, never more so than in the homes of working-men, and his kind considerate courtesy had long ago won Mrs. Stuart's heart. Immediately her eyes fell on him, she made up her mind not to speak as yet about the scalded child, lest he should instantly start off for the Handcocks' cottage.
"Pray do come in, sir," said Mrs. Stuart, with an air of much alacrity, dusting a chair which required no dusting.
Mr. Wilmot found his way to it, with a faint smile of response. He looked very pale and weary, and for two or three seconds he did not speak. Mrs. Stuart watched him in an uneasy fashion.
"I'm afraid you're ill, sir," she said at length.
"Not very well," Mr. Wilmot answered. "Would it trouble you much, Mrs. Stuart, to give me a cup of tea?"
Trouble her! Mrs. Stuart was delighted. She put back the kettle on the coals, brought out china and teapot anew, and cut some delicate slices of thin bread-and-butter, disregarding Mr. Wilmot's assurances that he wanted nothing to eat.
Then she stood by the fire, waiting till the kettle should boil. Mrs. Stuart was far too good a housewife to make tea from a singing but not boiling kettle.
Mr. Wilmot leant back in the big wooden easy-chair, as silent as herself. Mrs. Stuart, unlike Annie, knew illness when she saw it, and she was much struck with his air of exhaustion. It seemed so unlike Mr. Wilmot. Generally when he came in he was bright and chatty, asking her about all her interests and belongings.
"I'm afraid you've been very bad sir, lately," she said. "There's a good many of us have seen it. You've lost a deal of flesh."
Hardly any answer came to this. The water was boiling at last—evidenced by the straight rush of steam from the spout and by the dancing lid. A few minutes more, and Mr. Wilmot was gratefully sipping a cup of excellent tea.
"You certainly are an adept in the art of tea making," he said.
"And I'm sure I'm proud to make it for you; sir," asserted Mrs. Stuart, with a geniality of manner which would have astonished many of those acquaintances who knew her only as a human icicle. An icicle needs to be thawed before it can possibly become warm; and not many people in Littleburgh possessed such thawing powers as Mr. Wilmot.
"Sit down, Mrs. Stuart. Pray don't stand," he said kindly.
Mrs. Stuart complied.
"And you'll eat something—won't you now?" she entreated. "My bread's every bit home-made, and I'll answer for it as it's wholesome. You do look better for the tea, sir, already. I didn't like to see you as you was when you come in."
"Mrs. Stuart, if you see my daughter, don't mention this to her," said Mr. Wilmot. "She is anxious enough already."
"No, sir. She'd need be anxious, I'm sure," said Mrs. Stuart, unaware that it is often by no means the height of wisdom to tell an invalid how ill he is looking. "For I don't know as I ever did see anybody change for the worse, sir, in a few months, as you've done—and you as used to be so strong! Why, you've grown as thin! And not a bit of strength in you."
"Not very much sometimes," admitted Mr. Wilmot. Then with a grave smile he added, "But isn't it a happy thing to be able to say, not only 'To live is Christ!' but also 'To die is gain!'"
"Mercy, sir! You're not a-going to die," exclaimed Mrs. Stuart, though she had often of late asserted a belief in the fatal nature of Mr. Wilmot's illness.
"That neither you nor I can tell. It will be as my Master wills. If He calls me, I am ready."
"But, sir—"
Mrs. Stuart stopped. Something in his look affected her strangely. She might talk to others in a glib style about his failing health, assuming to possess a gift of foresight, yet all the while not fully believing her own words. To hear him speak thus was another matter. A lump in her throat checked utterance.
"It matters little—if one is ready—whether the call Home comes a few years earlier or later," mused Mr. Wilmot. "But—if one were not ready—"
"I'm sure," said Mrs. Stuart huskily—"I'm sure it wasn't that as I meant, though I did say to Mrs. Mason as I'd never seen nobody so changed, and Mrs. Mason said—she says—"
Actually a tear rolled down Mrs. Stuart's cheek, and fell on her lap. Ashamed, she turned away her head.
"My kind old friend!" Mr. Wilmot said quickly, touched by the sight. "But I did not mean to distress you, Mrs. Stuart. I was speaking then in general terms—about you or me or anybody; not about myself alone. The call may come to any one among us, any day; and I should like to feel that you and all are indeed ready for it."
Then passing naturally to another subject, he asked, "How is Archie?"
"He's well, sir," said Mrs. Stuart, heaving a deep sigh.
"Getting on at the works?"
"Yes, sir."
"And a good son to you, Mrs. Stuart?"
"Yes, sir." Mrs. Stuart's tone grew more dubious, and also harder. "I don't complain."
"Have you anything to complain of?"
"He's got his faults," said Mrs. Stuart stiffly.
"Why, yes—he would hardly be human if he had not," said Mr. Wilmot, smiling. "What of his liking for bright little Nancy Dunn?"
Mrs. Stuart's face became grim. All softness and geniality had died out of it.
"She is a good girl, Mrs. Stuart," said the Rector.
"She ain't the sort for me!" said Mrs. Stuart.
"I am sorry for that. She seems to me just the sort for your Archie."
Mrs. Stuart was silent.
"Another person can, perhaps, hardly judge for a mother in such a matter," observed Mr. Wilmot. "But take care, Mrs. Stuart. It is a serious responsibility for you to refuse your consent, if there is not a sufficient reason. I have wished for some time to have a few words with you on this subject."
"Yes, sir," said Mrs. Stuart, with unsmiling visage.
"Don't count it interference on my part. You and I are old friends, and I am thinking about your son's happiness. Archie is, I do believe, earnestly seeking now to serve God; and Nancy Dunn is one who would help him on in the right path. If you stop the thing altogether, Archie's next fancy may be for a very different kind of girl. I want you to think over the idea. Archie is no longer a child at your knee, and sooner or later he must decide for himself. I hope he will not go against your will; but it is very important that your will should be distinctly on the right side. Probably years may pass before Archie will be in a condition to marry. Meantime, I can scarcely fancy any greater help in keeping him steady, than that he should be engaged to such a girl as Nancy."
Mrs. Stuart was silent.
"Come, you will reconsider the matter, perhaps," said Mr. Wilmot, standing up. "Second thoughts are often best. Thank you very much for your nice tea. I must not wait longer, for somebody has appointed to see me at home. Good-bye, Mrs. Stuart."
"Good-bye, sir," said Mrs. Stuart.
Mr. Wilmot turned back on the threshold to say in a kind tone—"I wish you would give your consent."
Then he was gone.
REST.
"FATHER, I expected you home nearly an hour ago," said Annie, meeting Mr. Wilmot at the hall door.
"Yes—I could not come, dear."
"Mr. Page has been waiting ever so long in the study to see you."
There was an almost imperceptible sigh. "I should have been in time, but I was stopped. One of the poor little Handcocks has been terribly scalded. Of course I went at once to see."
"Oh, how dreadful! How was it?" asked Annie. She was watching anxiously her father's face, even while keeping up in resolute style the cheerful manner which she had cultivated of late.
"The mother out, of course, and the four infants locked indoors alone. A kettle of water had been left on or close to the kitchen fire, and the eldest child pulled it over, trying to lift it farther away. The youngest child, crawling on the floor, narrowly escaped a complete deluge. Bad enough as it is."
"Who helped the poor things?"
"Nancy Dunn. Her mother was out, and Nancy behaved admirably. Bess Gardiner went off in search of Mrs. Mason."
"Bess Gardiner! Why, how was she not in the factory?"
"Some repairs going on in the machinery where she works. Annie, dear, I think I must sit down."
"O father!" Annie's start was self-reproachful. "How wrong of me to keep you here! Come to the drawing-room. Mr. Page is in the study."
"Better get that over. He has waited so long.
"I wish you would not. I am sure you ought to rest."
Mr. Wilmot stooped to kiss Annie.
"Nothing of consequence, I think," he said, as if answering her unspoken fear. "We will have a quiet evening. Come to me when Mr. Page goes."
But Mr. Page was sure to be long in going. Annie knew this well from past experience. She saw her father disappear within the study door, dragging one foot after the other. Then she busied herself in the drawing-room as best she could, waiting for the welcome sound of footsteps in the hall.
How Mr. Page's voice went on—on—on! Annie could seldom hear the sound of her father's voice in response. Mr. Page seemed to have a large amount to say; and he was very lengthy in the saying of it.
Suddenly a ring at the front door, and the opening of the study door. Mr. Page appeared alone, not followed as was usual by Mr. Wilmot.
"Good evening, Miss Wilmot—good evening," said Mr. Page. "Fine day, isn't it? Mr. Wilmot doesn't seem quite the thing, though—no, certainly not quite the thing. He'll be getting away for a holiday soon, and that'll set him up. I tell him, he wants a holiday, for he works too hard—a great deal too hard. Never any rest, morning, noon, or night, Sunday or week-day. Human nature wasn't made to stand it. I'm sorry to have had to stay so long, but there was a lot of things to settle. Good-bye, good-bye."
Mr. Page vanished, and a voice at the front door was requesting to "see Mr. Wilmot." Annie waited to see who it might be, then glided into the study.
The room was getting rather dark, and Mr. Wilmot had chosen a shady position, leaning back in his easy-chair.
"Father, Mr. Page has been very long. Somebody else wants a word with you now."
A pause, and then—"I think—I can do no more."
The voice was not entirely natural.
Annie bent over him, trying to see his face.
"Are you very tired, father?"
"Yes—strangely weary to-night."
He did not ask who had come. Annie had never before known such an omission.
"I will settle it," she said, and she went to the maid, waiting outside the study door.
"The man must come again to-morrow," she said. "My father is not well, and he must be quiet this evening. And please go yourself at once for Mr. Rawdon. If he is not in, leave a message, asking him to come as soon as he possibly can."
Once more in the study, Annie sat down close beside her father, watching him steadily in the dim light. He did not appear to notice her, until she laid her hand on his, and then his fingers closed round it.
"Father, have you any pain?" she asked.
"No, my child. Nothing, except weariness."
"When did that come on?"
He hesitated, as if to recall—then said only—"I don't know."
His head was drooping, as if he had not strength to hold it up. Annie put her arms round him supportingly.
"Would you not like to lie down?"
No reply came.
"If you could get a little rest—"
"This is rest," he said dreamily.
Some minutes went slowly by. It was impossible that Mr. Rawdon should arrive yet. Annie did not like the heavy silence. It filled her with a nameless dread.
"Father, I think you want food. May I get something?"
"No, darling. I am very comfortable."
"Really comfortable? You don't feel ill? Is it only rest that you want?"
"Only—rest," he said.
Another prolonged silence.
"The depths of His mercy—" she heard at length whispered.
"Yes, father—"
But silence again.
Was that the front door bell? Had Mr. Rawdon come?
She could not move to ring or ask. Mr. Wilmot was leaning against her, supported by her in a measure. It was as much as she could do to hold him up.
Steps sounded in the hall, and at the same instant Mr. Wilmot stirred. Annie was conscious of a slight start—was it from pain? She could not tell. Two words fell from his lips with a singular distinctness, an intonation of surprise and joy—
"READY—MASTER—"
Mr. Rawdon entered the study. He walked straight towards the arm chair, took Mr. Wilmot's hand, dropped it, turned to the table, and struck a light.
Annie noted first the changed look on Mr. Rawdon's face. Then, as he relieved her of the weight she bore, she saw her father's face.
No signs of pain there, or even of weariness now. The eyes were lifted, looking upward, far beyond the enclosing walls of that small room, and the pale lips, smiling, said once more with exultant clearness—
"AYE—READY!"
Then he seemed to fall quietly asleep. It was a sleep from which no earthly power, no human skill might awake him.
A LOSS.
ALL Littleburgh mourned for Mr. Wilmot, for he had been a friend to all.
Of Annie's grief it is needless to speak. The blow almost crushed her. She felt herself alone in the world, bereft of him who had been father, mother, friend, and companion to her. She had indeed other friends, and a choice of homes for the future, but none could ever fill his place in her heart.
Yet, in the worst of her woe, Annie could not but be thankful. She could not but know how very tenderly her Heavenly Father had dealt with them both. When she thought of the terrible death which might have been his portion, this most childlike falling "asleep in the Arms of Jesus" did indeed seem only mercy.
Almost all Littleburgh went to the funeral. So great a throng had never before been seen in the cemetery. Few dry eyes could be perceived throughout the concourse of people, and more than once a widespread burst of weeping drowned the voice of the clergyman who read the service.
For Arthur Wilmot had given up his life for others; had spent lavishly time and powers, money and strength, upon those who needed help. No marvel that years of outpoured sympathies should have brought a wealth of love in return.
Mrs. Stuart like others had been to the cemetery, and like others she had wept there freely for the friend whose face she could never see again on earth. Since returning home, she had sat long in thought, giving vent to no remarks.
Archie had noted his mother's gravity and absence of mind since the day of Mr. Wilmot's death—not grimness, which was usual, but a softened gravity which was unusual. He noted too that her manner of speaking was gentler, more humble, less stiff and self-asserting. He felt sure that she was grieving deeply over the loss they had all sustained.
"It was a wonderful sight this afternoon, mother, wasn't it?" he said, to break in upon a silence which lasted long. Archie had been to the funeral as well as his mother: and so had many scores of working-men, set free from work for the purpose by their employers.
"Ay," she said, with a deep sigh.
"There wasn't a soul stayed away that could manage to go," pursued Archie.
"Ay," repeated Mrs. Stuart. "'Twould have been a deal more wonderful if they hadn't gone, after all he's been and done."
"I'm afraid we'll never get another Rector like him, mother."
Mrs. Stuart sighed again.
"And to think of his being bitten after all by that dog,—and nobody knowing all this while what might come of it," said Archie; for the fact had become known in the town. There was no longer any reason for concealing what had occurred. It was well that the people should know to the full the brave and self-sacrificing spirit of the man who so long had lived among them. If any more were needed to make them cling to the memory of their beloved Rector, that "more" was now supplied.
He had not, indeed, in one sense, died from the results of the bite or scratch; but in another sense, he perhaps had, since without it, the break-down of his health might have been long postponed. There could be no question as to the tremendous and terrible peril which he had willingly incurred for the sake of helpless little ones.
"It isn't many would do what he did," said Mrs. Stuart.
"It isn't many would have thought of such a thing, either," added Archie. "I'm sure I shouldn't. But I liked that what the preacher said to-day, mother, about Mr. Wilmot being willing to give up his life for the children, and about God's pity being greater, and the Son of God giving up His life for us. It seemed to bring the thought out so clear. I don't know as I ever saw it so plain before. And I can remember Mr. Wilmot telling us how pretty near all the kindness and pity we do see round us was learnt from Christ."
Mrs. Stuart said "Yes" thoughtfully. After a pause, she added, "You put your life in danger too, Archie, for the sake of Nancy Dunn."
Archie was very much astonished at such a remark from his mother. He did not, however, show his astonishment, but said only—"It wasn't for Nancy, mother. I didn't see her to be Nancy till after. I hope I'd do all I could for any girl in danger—though what I did wasn't what Mr. Wilmot did."
"But you'd sooner help Nancy than any other girl?" said Mrs. Stuart.
"Yes—I would," said Archie, his face kindling. "Mother, I love Nannie so much—I do think I could die for her."
"That's easy enough said," rejoined Mrs. Stuart. "It wouldn't be so easy if you'd got to do it. But you're a brave lad, I know. And as the preacher told us to-day—it's one thing to be willing to die for one that loves us, and another thing to die for them that hates us. There wouldn't be many who'd do the last."
"Only Christ," said Archie, wondering anew at his mother's mood.
"Only—Christ," she repeated. "Yes—He did. I don't know as I've hated Him, like some do—but I haven't cared. I haven't thought about Him; and that's bad enough, after all He's done. And I hope I shan't go on so—not any longer. You needn't tell what I'm saying—not to anybody, Archie. But it did seem as if I must say it to somebody. And Mr. Wilmot 'll never come again. He'd have helped me—and there's nobody now."
"Mother, there's One," said Archie shyly; "there's One who'll help, if anybody asks Him—and He's best of all. Mr. Wilmot would tell you to go to Him."
"But if He shouldn't want me?" she said.
"I shouldn't think there's any chance of that, mother," said Archie. "I should think, if He cared enough about you to die for you, when you weren't even born—why, it isn't likely He'd stop caring, and turn away, just the minute you're beginning to want to know Him."
"No—I think you're about right," said Mrs. Stuart. And she stood up slowly, left him alone, and went upstairs to her bedroom for a while. There are times when one needs to be all alone with God.
HOW THINGS CAME ABOUT.
THE next evening Mrs. Stuart asked abruptly of her son—
"Seen any of the Dunns to-day?"
"Just for a minute." Archie questioned with himself what might be coming next.
"Nancy Dunn?"
"Yes, mother. I'd hardly a word with her, though."
"And you're hankering after her just as much as ever?"
"Mother, there isn't another girl like Nancy in all the whole world! I give you my word for it," said Archie earnestly.
Mrs. Stuart began to sob.
"It isn't my way to give in," she said. "I'm not one o' those folks that's for ever chopping and changing. When I says a thing, I mean it, and I keep to it. And I did say I'd never have you marry Nancy Dunn. I didn't think her good enough. Nor I don't. Leastways, her father isn't your father's equal."
"Oh, bother!" broke out Archie.
"Yes, it's easy to say 'bother!'" she retorted, rather disposed to flare up. She had been somewhat irritable all day—no unusual state of things in the earlier stages of trouble, or of any marked change in heart and life. "But if you'd have a bit of patience and hear me out, you'd maybe speak in a different sort of way."
"Yes, mother," Archie said meekly, a sudden hope springing up.
"I did say I wouldn't have it," repeated Mrs. Stuart; "and I meant it too, and I'd have kept to my word. But he—he came in to see me, just the very same day he died—he did, Archie, that very afternoon. And I made him a cup o' tea, and he said—he said—I was the best tea-maker—"
"Yes, yes, mother, I know," said Archie, as she broke out crying. "You told me all that."
"And if I did," she retorted, "there was something else I didn't tell you nor nobody, and didn't mean to neither, till I'd made up my mind what to do. And I couldn't make it up till yesterday, when I was standing in the crowd, and all of 'em in black, and everybody crying round me, and Nancy Dunn with her pretty face all blistered—for there's no denying she's got a pretty face."
"Yes," assented Archie, with much warmth.
"It gave me a sort of a fellow-feeling with her, and I won't deny it," said Mrs. Stuart. "And it sort of made me think of his talking to me like that, about you and she, and how he hoped she'd be a good wife to you one day."
"Did he?" cried Archie.
"Yes, he did," said Mrs. Stuart, heaving another sigh. "And I won't deny as I was a bit grumpy, not thinking as it was the last time I'd ever see him again. O dear, dear me! To be sure! And the very last words he says, as he was going out of the door—looking so bad, for all he was better for the tea, as I'm sure I'd a foreboding in my mind it couldn't be long—and the very last words he says to me was how he wished I'd give in and let it be."
"And you will, won't you?" begged Archie.
"I'm not one to give in easy," repeated Mrs. Stuart. "But seeing it was, as one may say, his last wish, it do make a difference. And I won't deny neither that I've maybe been too stiff; and got to learn to be different. And understanding you don't mean to think of marrying for many a year to come—"
"Marrying! No," cried Archie. "Not yet, mother. Not till I'm earning enough to keep you and she too in comfort. But I do want to have her promise. I want to know she's safe to be my wife by-and-by."
"Folks chop and change," said Mrs. Stuart. "I'd sooner you'd keep yourself free. Maybe you'll get tired of it, or she'll change her mind. But there, you're set on the girl, and he wanted me to give in, and I'm not going to stand out against you no longer. So you just go and see Nancy Dunn, and say whatever you like, and have it settled."
Perhaps the consent might have been more graciously worded; but Archie was far too glad to be critical. He felt almost ashamed of his own gladness, at a time when everybody else was sad; yet doubtless it was only natural, and it did not prevent his sharing in the sorrow of others for the loss they had all endured.
That same evening, Archie made his way to Woodbine Cottage, and told the Dunns about his mother's newly-given permission. Nannie looked hardly so pretty as usual, for her face was still blistered with many tears, and they threatened to flow fast again when she heard of Mr. Wilmot's last call on Mrs. Stuart.
"It don't seem as if we'd ought to think about ourselves yet," she faltered. But Archie could not take that view of the question.
"I've waited ever so long, and mother's willing at last," he said. No doubt the few months that he had been acquainted with Nancy did really seem long at his age. "You won't put me off, will you, Nancy? Say she won't, Mrs. Dunn. I do want to have it a settled thing. And you've as good as told me already you'd say 'Yes' if my mother didn't make difficulties. I don't mean that I'm thinking of marrying yet awhile. I've got my mother to keep, you know. But by-and-by—"
"It'll have to be a good long by-and-by, I shouldn't wonder," observed Dunn. "Mind you, Archie, I'm willing to have it all fair and straight between you and Nannie. I do believe it'll be for her happiness and yours too, please God. There was a time when I wouldn't have been so willing. But I do believe it's your wish now to be a servant of God."
"Yes," Archie answered heartily. "And if I may have Nannie, why, I hope she and I'll be able to serve God together, Dunn."
"That's it, lad. If I didn't think so, I'd be loth enough to give her to you. But look you here, there's something else I've got to say. You've got your mother to keep, and it's right you should do it. She cared for you, and you must care for her."
"But I hope I'll soon be making enough to keep her and a wife too," said Archie.
"Maybe," responded Dunn. "You're a capable young fellow, and you're steady, and I hope you'll do well. Seems no reason why you shouldn't. Only mind this, Archie, you don't marry our Nannie, till you've got a right good sum laid by in the Savings Bank against a rainy day. It is all very fine to be making enough to live on in comfort, and to spend every penny of what you've got, never giving a thought to the future. And if illness comes, or an accident lays you by, or trade grows slack and work fails, what's to be done then? No, no, I'll never give in to that for Nannie. I've seen enough of the misery of it for wives and children, let alone a man himself. If you're bent on marrying her, you may do it; but you'll marry with a good provision laid by; and, what's more, you'll not squander it all away on a fine wedding, nor on a lot of smart furniture."
Archie was well content to bind himself by these conditions. Perhaps, like many young men, he thought them just a little needless. In his young vigour, he could not yet believe that bodily strength would ever fail him. But after all, he knew that Dunn was right, and he knew that his mother would put no difficulties in the way. Before winter, he would be receiving the wages of a full-blown artisan, and then, as she had often told him, would be the time to lay by. Archie had not quite seen the necessity till now.
Laying by for the future must of course mean some measure of self-denial. It meant this often in Archie's case. What if it did? His love for Nannie would have been a very poor sort of article, If it could not have endured the least touch of self-denial for her sake.
As time went on, months following months till they grew into years, while the amount down to Archie's name at the Savings Bank grew also, Archie became very grateful for the wise advice of Richard Dunn.
For, after all, though he and Nannie waited years for their wedding day, they did not wait so long as must have been the case, if Archie had not persistently from the first put aside every little sum he could spare from present needs. Sometimes it was a few shillings, sometimes only a few pence. But "many a little makes a mickle," says the old proverb. Archie proved the truth of this proverb.
Little more need be said, except that when the wedding did take place, Annie Wilmot was present, besides many other kind friends. The wedding cake was a present from Annie, as well as a beautiful family Bible, bound in morocco. Nannie made a sweet-looking young bride, in her neat brown dress and bonnet; and even Nannie's own parents scarcely saw her with more of fond pride than did Archie's mother. For Mrs. Stuart had long ceased to regret the thought of Nannie becoming Archie's wife; and on that wedding day, she gained a "daughter indeed" to be the comfort of her old age.
THE END.
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