True to her word Bessie paid her visit to Mrs. Coates the next day. She had not been long in the house before the hollow cough was heard.
"Good gracious!" exclaimed Bessie; though really listening for it, the sound had quite startled her. "What a dreadful cough!"
"That it is. It's our lodger, poor fellow! I'm afraid he's not long for this world."
"What is his name?"
"Richard Wood."
"H'm." If Mrs. Coates had been at all a sharp sort of woman she might have detected something peculiar in that expression.
"I'm afraid he's very poor," continued Mrs. Coates. "He's paid me all right, but I don't think he's much left. I took him up some hot supper last night, and my! didn't he eat it up ravenously!"
"Has he any friends?"
"Doesn't seem to have any."
"The best thing he could do would be to get into a hospital."
"Yes, I suppose so. I really wish he would, for that cough quite wears on me."
"I know some one who subscribes to the Warley Hospital: I could get him an in-letter for there, I feel sure, if he would care to go."
"Do you really!"—quite eagerly. "I should be glad if he could be got there! I shouldn't like to tell him to go, it would seem cruel, but I'm sure I can't stand that cough much longer."
"Well, go up at once and ask him," suggested Bessie.
"I will, there can be no harm in that," and away Mrs. Coates went.
There was quite a different look on her face when she returned.
"No, he won't go," shaking her head, "couldn't move him!—says that when his money's all gone, he'll go into the workhouse; I needn't be frightened about being kept out of my money—as if I was thinking of that! But there, that's all I get for all my trouble! You might give your life for some folks, and they wouldn't give you even a nod in return, not they!" Mrs. Coates was evidently feeling very annoyed.
"Yes," exclaimed Bessie, "he's just one of that sort"—and then suddenly added, "at least, I should think so, from what you say."
Bessie could think of no other suggestion to make, but went away determined to think out some other plan for getting Mrs. Coates' lodger out of Hadley.
The next time Mrs. Coates had an interview with her lodger, he suddenly asked: "Who was that woman who wanted to get me packed off to Warley?"
"Mrs. Jones," was the curt answer.
"And who's Mrs. Jones?"
"A very nice woman," turning round quite fiercely towards him, "a very nice young woman indeed, and I can't see why you shouldn't be willing to let her do you a kindness—that I can't!"
"Perhaps not," he replied, "but you haven't told me yet who she is. There are heaps of Mrs. Jones."
"She used to live with Mrs. Waring; she's the daughter of Mr. Marchant, the chemist. I wish you'd let me ask Mrs. Waring to come and see you," exclaimed Mrs. Coates, not giving "Richard Wood" time to reply, the very mention of Phebe's name bringing, what she thought, a bright idea into her head; "she would be sure to know what was the best thing for you to do! I always take all my troubles to her."
"Look here, woman!" exclaimed the lodger angrily, "don't bring that friend of yours here, for I will not see her. Please remember that."
"But she is a good woman."
"Is she!"—with a sneer.
"Yes, she is—a very good woman!"
"Then why did her husband have to leave her?—Yes, I know her just as well as you do, perhaps better."
"You know nothing bad about her, that I'm certain," replied Mrs. Coates, raising her voice to quite an angry pitch; "you should ask, 'What sort of a sneak was her husband to leave such a woman?'—that's what you should ask."
"So that is how she talks about her husband, is it?"
"No, it isn't. I've never heard her mention him, so there. But I won't have you say one word against my Mrs. Waring. So I tell you!" And Mrs. Coates left the room for fear her tears should be seen.
"The horrid man!" she said to herself. "I suppose God sees something in him to love, at least that's what Mrs. Waring would say, so I suppose I must search for it till I find it. But for that he should go out of this house this very day, that he should! Wouldn't Jim be riled if he knew what he said about Mrs. Waring! I'd better not tell him."
Late one evening Phebe paid a visit to Jim Coates to explain to him her garden scheme and to secure his help for it.
What a change there was in that home from what it was on her first visit! The whole family this evening was in a state of great excitement over the arrival of a new couch, and each member had been taking turns to lie down on it. Jim had also got a special and personal bit of news which considerably added to the excitement; he had just seen Mr. Black, who had offered him a good position as foreman on some fresh works quite near, and when Mrs. Waring added her news there was a state of matters in that little home difficult to describe.
Jim clapped his hands and shouted: "If this isn't like being in Heaven afore the time! It beats everything I ever knowed!"
"Don't make quite so much noise, then," put in Mrs. Coates. "You see," turning to Mrs. Waring, "we've got a lodger in bed upstairs, and he's that bad, poor fellow, I don't know what will become of him."
"Bless you! he can't hear us," exclaimed Jim; "and if he did, it 'ud do him good. It does you good to laugh, and it does you good to hear a laugh, too."
"Ah, but Mr. Wood is a good deal too bad for that."
"Poor fellow!" said their visitor, "if I can help him in any way please let me know."
"Look here, Mrs. Waring," put in Jim. "I wish you'd do us the honour of having a bit of supper with us. I'm of the same mind as your Mrs. Colston, when you're extra happy it seems like as if you ought to eat together. On the strength of my new job I've bought a tin of coffee and some new-laid eggs."
Mrs. Waring felt it would be very ungracious if she did not accept the invitation, though just then time was very precious.
"Don't you think I'm a lucky man, Mrs. Waring?" exclaimed Jim, as he stood with his watch in his hand, counting the minutes while the eggs were boiling, "and it's all come through you."
"No, through God," was her correction.
"Well, God used you, anyhow. And what a change there is in Mr. Black, too——"
"Who is that!" suddenly exclaimed Phebe, springing to her feet. Mrs. Coates had just gone upstairs, leaving two doors open behind her. It was the lodger's cough she had heard.
"It's only Mr. Wood coughing," explained Jim, and Phebe took her seat again feeling strangely tired.
Again the cough was heard. It had a strange little moan at the end of it, almost like a suppressed cry.
"Oh!" exclaimed Phebe, this time feeling powerless to rise, but stretching out her hands to Jim Coates, "that is my husband coughing!"
Jim almost dashed his watch on the table and rushed towards her, taking hold of both of her hands.
"It's our lodger, Mrs. Waring, don't be skeered. Come up and see him, if you like, and then your mind will be easy."
"Yes, yes," whispered Phebe faintly, "in a minute I will."
She would have fallen on the stairs if Jim had not put his strong arm round her, but when she reached the sick man's room she was herself again, only that her breath seemed very short.
Just for an instant she stood at the foot of the bed, and then going to the side she took up one of his thin hands, and said gently: "Ralph, dear, why did you not come home?"
"I didn't want any fine folks about me."
"But I am not fine, I am your wife. You will come home now, won't you?"—the voice was full of pleading. "It is your home, I've kept the business on—it's yours, too."
"Of course it is." There was not one loving tone in the voice, but he was stroking her hand gently. He was glad she had come, glad of her gentle welcome, but he did not want to show it.
Jim Coates and his wife were dumb with surprise. When the meaning of it all dawned upon them, with the instinct of true gentle-people they crept quietly downstairs.
Phebe bent and kissed Ralph on the brow. "I'll leave you now, dear," she said, "just for a little while. I must go home and arrange for your coming. I will not be long, and if we roll you up well in blankets and drive in a closed cab the journey will not harm you." His only answer was a nod, but that was better than a refusal.
She walked home like one in a dream. Stephen was there waiting to ask her some question about the garden scheme. He was talking to Nanna.
Almost abruptly Phebe broke in upon them. Her face was very white, she was trembling all over, and could scarcely speak. Nanna rushed to her, thinking she would fall before she reached a chair. It was Stephen who gently placed a seat near, and held his arm round her as Nanna stooped to loosen her boots.
"Poor dearie, you're quite done up!" said Nanna, but she knew all the time the shadow had fallen.
"I've found Ralph," she whispered. "I want you to light a fire upstairs—I am going to fetch him home in a cab."
Stephen withdrew his arm and caught hold of the chair-back to steady himself; the room seemed to swim before him.
"Yes," was all Nanna answered.
"Did you know?" gasped Phebe.
"Yes."
"And you?" turning to Stephen.
He could only shake his head.
The sight of Stephen's struggle gave her fresh strength.
"Why did you not tell me, Nanna?"
"It was too difficult—I did not know." The words came with great effort.
Phebe stroked her hair with a comforting touch; they had exchanged places.
It was Stephen who fetched the cab, and when it drove up again and the limp figure with the incessant cough stepped out, he was standing on the pavement, looking a sad, solitary figure.
It was very late. The shop had long been closed. Jack was safely in bed. Only Nanna and Janie knew of Ralph's arrival.
As soon as their lodger had been removed, Mrs. Coates told her husband what he had said about Mrs. Waring. "And to think," she exclaimed, "that he should talk like that about his very own wife! I didn't tell you before 'cause I knew it 'ud rile you so."
"I should think so," Jim cried out, "the good-for-nothing fellow. I should have been tempted to have picked him up and carried him straight off to the workhouse whether he wanted to go or whether he didn't."
"Do you suppose Mrs. Waring knows how he's talked about her?"
"No; shouldn't think so."
"If she did, do you suppose she would have taken him home?"
"Yes; that would make no difference to her. She's got too big a heart to hold spite against any one."
"Did you know that she nursed Topsy Scarves for six weeks when she had the smallpox?"
Jim shook his head. "No, but it's just like her if she did."
"She did. Topsy wouldn't let no one else touch her, but she was like a lamb with Mrs. Waring; so Mrs. Waring stayed six weeks and let her business get on as well as it could without her. And when Mrs. Scarves wanted to thank her, she said she wasn't to, for it had been a real happy time for her. Mrs. Scarves says she did everything for Topsy, and wasn't frightened a wee bit. I told you Mrs. Bessie Jones offered to get Mr. Wood,—no, Mr. Waring,—into Warley Hospital. Do you think she knew who he was?"
"Did she see him?"
"No, she only heard him cough."
"I wish to goodness she'd succeeded, and that it shouldn't have been in our house the Little Missis got such a blow! My! it was a staggerer for her when she heard him cough! I never saw any one look as she did! I wish we could help her in some way or other, that I do. I wonder God lets such a good woman like she is have so much trouble."
"Perhaps it's trouble that's made her good," wisely remarked Mrs. Coates.
"Perhaps so, it does some people."
As soon as Ralph was safely in bed Janie was despatched for a doctor. His appearance alarmed Phebe more than ever. The cough was incessant, and occasionally thin streaks of blood were seen on the handkerchief.
"I wish you'd get me a red handkerchief," he said, in an irritable voice.
"A red handkerchief! Why? I haven't got one."
"Yes, a red handkerchief. And if you don't possess such a thing, you could get one, couldn't you? I shouldn't see that blood if I had a red handkerchief."
"I did not know exactly what you meant. I'll get you one at once out of the shop." It was the same old Ralph, always wanting to cover up trouble, never able to fairly and boldly face consequences.
The doctor pronounced him in a dangerous condition, promised to send something at once to ease the cough, and in the morning would examine him more thoroughly. "But I am afraid he is not long for this world, Mrs. Waring," he said, as he bade her good-night; "he has had a very hard life lately, that is very evident."
Yes, she saw it all; Ralph had come back with a wrecked life—had come home to die!—the man who had gone forth to win a fortune to lay at her feet. How bitterly disappointed he must be! This thought gave an added tenderness to her voice, and made her still more patient. All the night long she watched by his side. Sometimes he slept a little, but when awake lay gloomily staring at the wall. He never uttered a word of tenderness or pleasure at being home. Only once did he refer to the past, and then it was to rip open the old wound.
"You've been very successful, Phebe."
"Yes; God has greatly helped me."
"No doubt; but still it was I who started you. I left you a good business, and in addition"—he had to pause to cough—"and in addition I had trained you well, so, after all, the success is mine as much as yours."
How could she contradict him? If he found comfort in this thought would it not be cruel to put forward any doubts? So after a pause she answered: "Yes."
"You don't seem very sure about it," with as much "snap" in the words as his breath would allow.
"I should not be where I am now, but for you," she answered gently, and that answer seemed to please him.
Then in a little while: "I must see the books in the morning. I shall soon be able to pick up the threads. There's a country branch, isn't there?"
"Two."
"Ah, that's good; I gave you that idea." Another fit of coughing. "I shall soon be all right; it's only an extra cold I've got. I'll soon be able to take the reins, and then——" But he was too weak to finish the sentence.
Early in the morning Phebe went to break the news to Jack. He was sitting up in bed rubbing his eyes. She sat down by his side putting her arm round his neck, bringing his sunny head to nestle on her shoulder.
"Jack, darling, I've something very particular to tell you."
"Have you, mummy? What is it? Has Janie got a sweetheart?"
"No, it is something very serious. You must not joke."
"Is it?"—lifting his head to look at her. "Are you in trouble? Who's been hurting you?" in his impetuous way.
"No one. Jack, your father has come home."
"Father!—come home!" in a bewildered voice. "Father come home! I say," and he began to get excited, "I must get up at once. Then he wasn't dead after all?"
"Stay a bit, Jack; he is very ill—and very poor." She knew the dreams the lad had cherished, of how his father would return, of the grand treasures he was to bring his boy.
"Poor!" he exclaimed; "then why didn't he write and tell you so? Why did he leave us all this time!"
"Jack," she answered gently, "I expect it was because he was so disappointed at not finding the fortune," and then she told him all the story of how she had found Ralph.
"Has he asked after me?"
"No, not yet. You see he is very ill."
"Not asked after me! And been here all night!" He was rather glad to have this fresh reason for anger.
"You must not take any notice of that. Remember how ill he is. Sick people cannot be expected to be thoughtful. Get dressed now, and then come and tell him you are glad he has come home."
"But I'm not glad—and I don't want to see him."
"Jack!"
"No, I don't; and I won't see him," bursting into angry tears. "What's the good of a father like that! To stay away from us and never write us a letter, and only come back 'cause he's ill!"
"It was I who brought him back, you must remember."
"What will all the fellows say! I've told them——"
"Never mind all that. You can tell them your father has had disappointments, and they will be sorry for him."
"Not they, they'll sneer. Oh, mummy, I am so wretched!"
She tried to soothe him, but the angry spirit had got hold of him too much. "Come and see him, there's a dear Jack. You will be sorry for him when you see how ill he is."
"No, I won't. He's been cruel to you—cruel!"
"Jack," standing straight up and speaking very firmly, "I am grieved, deeply grieved, at your unloving spirit. You had better get dressed and go at once to your aunt's and remain there till you have a more forgiving spirit. How could I tell your father that you refuse to see him!"
It was the first time there had been a cloud between them. Each felt it keenly. Phebe went away with a heavy heart. The burden had more than doubled during that quarter of an hour. How gladly she would have entered the Golden Gate just then! It seemed as if now both husband and son had failed her. Entering the sick-room her eyes fell on the silver star, and the old motto came again to mind: "We rely on Thee." "I do," she murmured, "God is with me; He is working all things right."
"Nanna," exclaimed Jack, when he got downstairs, "I can't find my cap." His eyes were too full of tears to see it.
"Well, you don't want your cap before you have your breakfast."
"I don't want any breakfast."
"Don't want any breakfast! What nonsense! Where are you off to?"
"To aunty's; mummy said I must go at once."
"Mummy did not mean you to go without your breakfast. Of course she will want your aunty to know quickly of your father's return; but there's not so much hurry you cannot have your breakfast."
He had been trying hard to keep back the tears, but could not succeed. "Oh, it's not that," he exclaimed. "Mummy is displeased with me, and is sending me away."
"Jack," said Nanna, putting her hands on his shoulders and trying to look into his eyes, "do you mean to say you are going to desert your mother just at one of the darkest moments of her life?"
"I don't want to go—she sent me away," freeing himself from her detaining hands.
Arriving at his aunt's he was obliged to tell her the whole of the story. She felt inclined to share the boy's anger and resentment in the first moment of excitement, but, afterwards viewing the matter from the mother's standpoint, her words were very similar to Nanna's.
"No doubt you are disappointed, but didn't it strike you your mother must be disappointed, too? I think you've done wrong, Jack, not to stand by her and make things as easy as you could for her."
Poor little Jack! Everybody seemed against him!
"What did Mrs. Colston say to you?" the aunt continued.
"Just what you do," he answered, and then sighed deeply.
"Ah! I thought she would. Your mother must be as disappointed in you as you are in your father, and I'm sure Mrs. Colston would say we disappointed God as much as we disappoint one another."
In less than an hour love for his mother had overcome all pride, disappointment and anger, and he was back home again.
Nanna met him with a smile. "Well done, Jack; you've scored a victory, I can tell it by your face. Mummy will be delighted! Jack, dear, it will do your heart good to see her loving patience. She makes me think of God. Her patience and love are just like what His must be—only, of course, His are bigger. I tell you what you must do when you go upstairs. Don't make any note of your father's funny ways; take notice only of how your mother's trying to win him——"
"Should I go upstairs now?"
"No, your father's dozing. Sit down and have some breakfast. I don't suppose you ate much while your burden was on you. Jack, have you ever heard of St. Bernard's Hospice?"
"Yes, I've seen a picture of it."
"The monks go out with their dogs in the winter to see if they can come across anybody perishing in the snow. They are love-missionaries. I think this house is a hospice just now. Your mummy's found a poor perishing soul, and she's brought it home to get it ready for heaven."
"Is father going to die?"
"Yes; I'm afraid he's not long for this world—the doctor says about a week; so you and I have got to do all we can to help mummy."
"What can I do?"
"A lot. Do what mummy does; show all the love you can."
It was not until Ralph had finished his breakfast that he asked: "And how are the children?"
"There's only one left down here."
"Which one?"
"The boy."
"Well, it's a comfort it's the boy. I expect Washington is a fine lad by now!"
"Washington!"—the name slipped out involuntarily, it sounded so strange.
"Yes, Washington; that's the lad's name, and the one I mean to call him by. You can fetch me up the books now."
Going downstairs she caught sight of Jack.
"Mummy," exclaimed the lad, rushing towards her, "I'm so sorry I disappointed you! I couldn't stop away from you. I'll do what you want me to do, and I'll stand by you through thick and thin, that I will. You'll see if I won't," and the bargain was sealed with a hug and a kiss.
He was received back without one word of reproach. "Jack, if your father calls you by your other name you must not express any surprise. I can get along fine now you are with me."
This little rift in the home-music had puzzled as well as troubled Phebe, but all at once it struck her that God perhaps meant her to see a parable in it, and that was how it was to work good for her. "Perhaps Ralph got away from God as Jack went away from me, because things weren't as he wanted them. But he'll get back again to God, as Jack has got back to me." And the parable comforted her, and inspired her. For God can take even the wayward doings of a petted child to teach His lessons and do His work.
Jack made his way upstairs at once. "Good-morning, father," he said in his cheeriest tone, "it must be nice for you to be home again."
"Yes, nicer for me than you, I suppose"—the words were snappish, but Ralph looked at the boy with a kind of look which plainly said: "You will do."
The business books were brought, but he was far too weak to master them: "I'll attend to them when I'm stronger," he said.
But each new day found him weaker.
If ever a man lived in an atmosphere of love Ralph Waring did. How much of the old love had revived it would be difficult to say, if even any had. But it was a love which was willing to forego self to the utmost, and what love could be richer, more Christlike, than that?
It was a true testing-time to Phebe. It was not easy to relinquish every thread of work in which she had been so deeply interested, and it was harder still, after being her own mistress so long, to submit patiently to that dictatorial voice! It was as though the Great Gardener had taken His cherished plant on to a bleak moorland to see how its blossoms would thrive where the winds blew all around it.
All the town soon knew of Ralph Waring's return, and many were the comments on it. Some said it was "mighty good of Phebe to take the rascal back again," and showed how loving her heart was. Others said it showed that Ralph still loved her in spite of her having driven him from home, and that he could not die in peace away from her.
It was not till the last day came that there was any proof that love had conquered. The doctor's prophecy had not come true, for he had lingered week after week, and even on this last day there seemed no change, except in manner and voice.
"Phebe," the tone was even stronger than usual, but quite startling in its tenderness, "my life has been a failure. I see it all so plainly now."
"This part may have been so, dear; but you must remember this is not all." She had a great longing to soothe and comfort him, but the moments were too precious and solemn to allow her to cover up the truth, however much she might be tempted.
"Yes, but the future must be a good deal according to what the past has been."
"Yes, maybe; but I love to think that out of all our tangles God can produce a beautiful design if we turn to Him with all our hearts."
Ralph sighed heavily. "It has been self all along with me. It was a good thing God did not let me succeed. How I have fought against my failure, what it has cost me to be here receiving all your kindness, knowing all about your success, you can never tell—never!" and for the first time in all her life Phebe saw tears rolling down his face.
"Poor Ralph! I am grieved for you, dear!"
"I know you are," taking hold of her hand and kissing it. "It has cost me a struggle to acknowledge that God has led me right. If I had been other than a bankrupt soul He could not have had mercy on me. He was obliged to bring me low. But I thank Him for it. You do forgive me the wrong I did you?" and he looked so wistfully at her.
"Of course I do, a hundred times over," and she stooped to kiss him, her hot tears mingling with his.
"Dear Phebe——" But strength had gone. With one hand clasping Phebe, and the other his boy, and with Nanna gently wiping the cold sweat from his brow, he passed to the other land. His last words were: "Phebe, come with—me!" But he had started on a journey he was obliged this time to take without her.
In a very few weeks after Ralph's death the whole affair of his return seemed but as a dream, so much had life resumed its old aspect for all in Phebe's household. But the calm was not to last long; there was first to be two big pieces of excitement, and then, as the young folks say in the old game of "Family Coach," a general "change" round.
One glorious spring evening Jim Coates paid Mrs. Waring an unexpected visit.
"I thought you were at Exton," exclaimed Phebe. She knew that Hugh Black had started work there on a very large scale, and that he had given Jim a good berth.
"Yes, I was there; but I have come over specially to see you. I said to my mates, 'If there's anybody that can help us it's the Little Missis. And I mean to go and ask her, that I will.' So I've come."
"Are you in trouble? You know I will do whatever I can for you."
"I know you would, Mrs. Waring, I know you would. But, thank God, it's not anything that is speciallymytrouble; it has to do with all the lads. They are threatening to come out on strike. They're just mad against Mr. Black, and I thought you might go and see him for us, he would listen to you. It would be no good me going; the lads say now that I'm afraid to open my mouth against him."
"But I should not know what to say to him!" put in Phebe, feeling somewhat aghast at the newrôlewhich was being thrust upon her.
"I can soon tell you all about it, and then I know right well you'd know what to say—no one better. Mr. Black's got hisself into a kind of a corner. He's promised to have the work done by a certain date, and now he sees he can't do it. P'raps he got the job by making out he could do it quicker than others, I don't know about that: anyhow, he's in a fix, and the lads say he means us to get him out of it."
"But how could you?"
"Well, he wants us to work an hour a day extra."
"Yes, you could do that," put in Phebe again in a quick voice, feeling relieved at this easy way out of the difficulty.
"Yes; but what is he willing to pay us? We work ten hours a day now, and a long day it is at that heavy work, and to put another hour a day on to it without anything extra is what the lads won't stand."
"Do you mean to say he wants you to work that hour for nothing? There must be some mistake!" exclaimed Phebe.
"Oh, yes,—don't make a mistake,—he will pay us the usual money, of course, but the lads say that is not fair, if we work extra when we're tired he ought to pay us extra, specially when it's to get him out of a mess, and—my! he'll make a lot of money out of it too! And what I don't like," continued Jim, sinking his voice, "the fellows sneer at him so; they say he's been harder than ever since he's been a bit religious. 'That's what your religion does for a man!—makes him a bigger sneak than ever.' That's how they talk."
Phebe was silent. If the men did talk like that, then itwasher duty to go and speak to Hugh Black.
"And there is something worse still for you to hear," continued Jim. "Mr. Black says if the lads throw the job up, he shall put on a gang of Irishmen, and the fellows say if he does, they will never let them do any work, and there's sure to be bloodshed!"
Another silence. Certainly if she could prevent bloodshed it was her duty to do so! And it seemed to her, too, that the men's claim was a just one; if they were willing to help Hugh Black out of his difficulty he ought to be willing to pay them something extra.
"Are you willing for me to tell Mr. Black all you have just said?"
"Will you go, then?" asked Jim eagerly.
"Why, yes; how could I refuse?" The words came but very slowly.
"There now!" exclaimed Jim excitedly, slapping his hands vigorously on his knees. "There, I said you would, and the lads bet all manner of things you wouldn't; they even said you wouldn't because you couldn't afford to offend Mr. Black. But I told them to wait and see."
Phebe only answered: "Can you tell me exactly what the men would like Mr. Black to do?"
"Yes, I could, but I wonder——"
"Do not hesitate to speak out anything that is in your heart. But I wonder if I could guess what it is you wish to ask me to do! Is it to go and have a talk to the men first?"
"It is!" exclaimed Jim, more excited than ever. "How could you know what was in my mind?"
"Oh, very easily," replied Phebe, laughing.
"I know what the lads want, and you are welcome to tell Mr. Black all I've said; but it will be a heap better if you will talk to the men theirselves."
"Would they be willing for me to be their spokesman to Mr. Black, do you suppose?"
"Why, of course I am. They'd only be too proud if you would."
"When could I see them?"
"They have a meeting to-night——" Again he hesitated, feeling he was asking so much.
Phebe quickly answered, "I will go with you at once," and then added, "Ah, Mr. Coates, it is not the first time you have induced me to go on an errand I have shrunk from!"
"And this one," exclaimed Jim, his face all aglow, "is going to be as well-ended as the other one was, you see if it isn't!"
Half-an-hour's run by the train, and ten minutes' walk brought them to the place of meeting. Many thoughts passed through Phebe's mind during that short journey; how came it she should be led into such difficult positions?—how could she adequately deal with subjects so far removed from those of her everyday experience?
Several of the men were on the look-out for her; evidently her visit was expected, for a potato-basket had been turned up for her to stand on, and a chair provided for her to sit on. The men had gathered, about sixty of them, just at the junction of some country roads, and were standing under the shelter of a high barn-wall, for a rather cold wind was blowing.
Many a rough hand was stretched out in welcome to her, and though she was a stranger to some, no one seemed in the slightest to resent her coming.
"I'll speak first and set the ball a-rolling," she said, in her bright way; "Mr. Coates has told me about the trouble you are in, and it is very good of you to let me share it."
"It does one good to hear her voice agin," said one old man in a very audible whisper, which was followed quickly by a loud "Shut up!"
Phebe went on in her calm, low, but incisive voice, commenting on what Jim had told her, and then she asked, "Who is your spokesman here?"
"Ford!" called out a score of voices, and a thick-set man came forward.
"What do you wish Mr. Black to give you for the extra hour?" she asked.
"A shilling."
"And if he agrees to that, what would become of the Irishmen whom you say are on their way here?"
"Let them go back to their taters," some one called out.
"Oirishmen are as good as ye are!" The accent was so unmistakable that a general laugh went up. But it did good.
"Of course they are," replied Phebe, "and sometimes a bit better, and it is for them I want to plead. If I take any sides at all it will not be for the rich"—a big cheer, and much clapping of hands—"but for the poor and unfortunate. Those men come expecting work; if Mr. Black agrees to your terms you ought to be willing to stretch out a willing hand to those Irishmen. You all know Mr. Black has made an error in his calculations"—cries of dissent—"hear me to the end and I am sure you will agree with me."
"We'll make them listen," called out a strong voice, followed by several others. "That we will!"
"No, friends," Phebe calmly answered, "I will only have a willing audience."
"You have! You have!" they all called out.
"I am going to ask Mr. Black to give you fifteenpence for that extra hour, on condition that you are willing to work 'shifts' with these Irishmen. Couldn't you manage that?"
"No," said Ford, "the days are not long enough."
"Well, what could you suggest that would show that you were willing to do the brother's part by these men, and also show Mr. Black that the English working-man was willing to do as he would be done by?"
Then there followed several little speeches of the usual Socialistic strain, to which Phebe replied: "Yes, I sympathise with you there, but those questions are out of order at this gathering. We must be practical."
"Tell us what you would like us to say to him," said Ford, and another round of cheers followed this suggestion.
Phebe paused for a moment to ask for guidance; the light from the blessed stars was very clear, but just then an added glory was given to the scene by the moon suddenly shining forth. The silver beams brought Phebe a message. "This is what I would suggest, friends," and as she spoke it seemed as if a sudden silence came over the men, "that instead of working the extra hour—for I am sure your day is long enough—you let the new men work with you, and that Mr. Black pay you a halfpenny an hour more than the usual rate—that would mount up in the course of the week; or, if that is not practicable, to work in 'shifts,' as I suggested before, which could very well be done with the aid of electric light. If he preferred the latter plan, I should still advise him to let you work the extra hour at the increased pay I mentioned. Of course this will greatly aid him in getting the work finished, perhaps long before the time. I am not, however, forgetting that the plan will shorten the job for you, but work will surely not be scarce this fine weather. Now, what do you think of my suggestions?"
"I think they'll do all right," said Ford.
"Do you all agree to them, and empower me to say so to Mr. Black?"
"She speaks fair enough," said one man.
"He'll never cave in to all that," called out another.
"But do you agree?"
A great shout went up: "We all agree."
"And will you go on steadily and quietly with your work till you hear from me again?"
"Yes, we all agree!" Every man of them must have joined in that shout by the noise they made.
They all wanted to shake hands with her before she left; several wished her "luck," but one old man said solemnly: "Eh, missis, you're a clever 'un, but you'll never get anything out of Hugh Black."
Before Jim started to accompany Mrs. Waring to the station he whispered to Ford: "There now! didn't I tell you she'd manage the men all right? I knew she'd handle them all neat enough! Trust the Little Missis for that."
"Yes," assented Ford, "she's just splendid, but she won't succeed."
The visit to Hugh Black was by no means so easy an affair as the one to the men had been. When he learnt what her errand was he could hardly believe it. "Whatever will those men get you to do next? I expect the next thing will be, you will represent them in Parliament. I shouldn't wonder, though, but that you'd do it better than the fellow who is there now. But to the point: what have those fellows talked you over to ask me?"
"I want you to understand, Mr. Black, they have not told me at all what to say; what I am going to say to you is my own suggestion, to which they agreed."
"If that is so it will make a considerable difference."
Her first endeavour was to get him to sympathise with the men in their hard toil. She scored a good point when she expressed her surprise that clever men like he was did not invent more machinery to save such heavy toil. "I feel sure you could do it if you tried." From that she passed on to the fact that the men had some time ago found out he was seeking to live his life on a higher plane than at one time. "'A bit religious' is the way they put it."
"Well, what if they do?"
"I want them to see that that bit is real," was her straight answer; "that God has something to do with your business arrangements."
He made no answer, and then she told him the two suggestions she had made to the men, and asked him which he preferred.
"You fairly take away my breath!" he exclaimed. "The last one is a splendid idea! I had never thought of that wrinkle! The men would never agree working side by side, but the idea of the 'shifts' and the electric light is a dazzling one. The wonder is, I had never thought of it myself."
"You think, then, the electric light could be managed?"
"Yes, easily enough. Why, do you know, I should get this contract finished in time to take on another I was thinking I should have to decline! I really ought to pay you for the idea—excuse me," seeing a flush come to her face, "but I am really indebted to you!"
"What may I say to the men, Mr. Black?"
"That I will have the two 'shifts,' and that if they will work the extra hour I will pay them the sum you have named to them. I could do no other after the help you have been to me."
"I wish," she said earnestly, "you had agreed to it out of sympathy with the men, and because you thought God would have you do so."
But he made her no answer.
Early that evening Jim Coates came to receive the message for the men. He lost no time in returning to his mates. They were assembled in the same place as before.
Of course the message was received with cheers. Some of the men could hardly believe their ears.
"Well, I never!" was all Ford and some others could say.
"And I am to tell you," continued Jim, "that when this job is finished, Mr. Black will have another job on hand."
Another cheer.
"And he couldn't have taken this job but for the Little Missis."
Still a louder cheer.
"But there is something else I have to tell you," went on Jim again, "which she said I was to be sure to remember. When you asked her to say what she would have us ask, she took just a moment to ask God for guidance, and at that very moment the moon came out. It was the clear moonlight which brought her the message about the electric light. She says that was God's answer. You know it was all along of the electric light made Mr. Black so pleased; it made the way easy for two gangs of us to be at work, and made it possible for him to take on the other job. So the Little Missis says we are always to remember God will work for us if we will let Him."
There was no cheering after that part of the speech, but the words, "God will work for us if we will let Him," rang in those men's ears for many a long day.
They were repeated to Mr. Black by Jim Coates.
"'God will work for us if we will let Him,'" Hugh Black repeated to himself, "how real God is to that little woman! I wish He were as real to me!" The moonlight never fell upon his path but the words came back to him, and they were always followed by the simple, earnest prayer: "Undertake for me, O my God."
Hugh Black was Mayor of Hadley that year. One day Jim Coates put a little packet into his hand in a very mysterious manner. It contained two pounds in sixpences and threepenny bits, and this little note:
"We'd like you to do something with this that would show our gratitude to the Little Missis.—A few rough Navvies."
"We'd like you to do something with this that would show our gratitude to the Little Missis.—A few rough Navvies."
He mused over it a few days, then he borrowed a photograph of "the Little Missis" from Bessie, had a coloured enlargement taken from it, then had it framed in carved oak, with the words in gilt beneath: "The Little Missis. Subscribed for by a few grateful admirers."
The next step was to ask permission to hang it in the Council Chamber, which was readily granted. Thus in the very room where she had been spoken of as "a woman whose husband had been obliged to leave her," the portrait of "the Little Missis" had a place of honour.
It was months before Phebe knew anything of this, and when she did, so many other things had come to pass that her mind seemed too full to either grieve or be glad over it.
Eighteen months had gone by since Ralph's death. Nothing of any unusual nature had occurred to Phebe or her household, except the completion of the Garden Scheme and the settling of the dispute between Hugh Black and his men. It had been a true resting-time, without any strain, without any need to study ways and means, and without any attempt to advance in any direction so far as outward things were concerned. And yet Phebe did not feel satisfied; there was something missing, life did not satisfy her in its present outlook. During Ralph's illness all her outside work had been given up, others had stepped in and carried it on, and she had never got back to her old place again entirely. This was not through any unwillingness on her part, it was simply that the way did not open up.
While Ralph was away there had always been a sense of strain and tension which had buoyed her on and on. Now that was removed, and there was no necessity to be on the alert, there had crept over her a weariness and lassitude.
"Nanna," she suddenly said one day, "I am going to leave you."
"Going to leave me!—never!"
"Not for long, you dear; you may rest on that. But I have thought I should like to get right away for three or four weeks. I want to view my life from a distance—that is, if I can. If I get away from my everyday surroundings perhaps I could see it more clearly. I'm not satisfied with it."
"But you would take somebody with you? Your sister?"
"No, not my sister; I should be all the time viewingherlife if I did."
"Well, then, take Jack. I should not like you to go alone."
"Yes, I might take Jack."
So the two started on their journey alone, and only Nanna and Aunt Lizzie knew whither they were bound, both of whom were strictly charged to keep the matter secret.
What the mountains are to the Swiss, the sea is to the islander. Phebe and her boy settled down at a watering-place on the east coast, the lad finding endless amusement and instruction among the fishermen, while the mother sat on the green cliffs under the shadowing of blossoming trees, watching the course of the distant river, and the great steamers passing by bound for foreign shores, but intent mostly with the study of the past and future. The steamers made steady progress, but the same could not be said of the personal studies. Day followed day, but no progress was made. She was just where she was when she first came.
"Show me Thy will, O God," she prayed. "Thou knowest my heart is willing for it."
One very warm day she had her sunshade up to keep off a darting sunbeam that would keep dancing on her book, and did not notice a gentleman taking a seat not two yards away from her. When it was nearly time to meet Jack for their evening stroll she suddenly became aware of her neighbour. Both sunshade and book dropped from her hands—only one word escaped her lips, and it was—
"Stephen!"
Not even in a moment's excitement would he have called her "Phebe" unless in some way she had given him permission, but here it was, and eagerly he grasped it. "Phebe!" and their out-stretched hands met in a tight clasp.
"What brought you here?" Phebe was the first to speak.
"I may ask the same," said Stephen. "But sit down again; this is a quiet spot, and I should like to talk to you." So they sat down again, but close together this time. "I came here," continued Stephen, "to have a quiet time to think things over and to know God's will. Not a creature in Hadley knows where I am. I have long wanted to ask you to be my wife, as I did years ago, and during all the years since then no one has taken your place in my heart—no one ever could. Whether you accept my love, or not, you are still, as ever, my queen." His voice had sunk to a whisper. He knew from the pressure of her hand that it was not likely she would refuse it. "I would have spoken to you before this, but I was afraid—I thought you shrank from me. Forgive me, dearest, if I wronged you."
"You have nothing to forgive. I only seemed to shrink from you because I feared"—it seemed so hard to get the words out, but he wanted to hear, so did not help her at all—"I feared lest you might not respond to my love."
"What, after waiting all these years! Never mind, you shall not reproach yourself. I ought to have shown you more of my heart. But, tell me, will you have this grey-haired fellow for your very own?"
They looked into each other's eyes, the answer was there plainly enough. "You know I will," said Phebe, "but I've nothing to give that is worthy such patient love."
"That is my business," he said, with a laugh, "so don't trouble about that."
"Shall I tell you what brought me here? I was so restless, I wanted to quietly review my life and plan something for the future. Only Nanna and Lizzie know where we are. Jack is with me. But I have been just as restless, and I prayed only an hour ago, 'Show me Thy will, O God.' God must have sent you to me."
"I'm sure He did, my Phebe." There was such a glad ring in the voice.
"If only we could be young again!"
"Look at the sky, dearest!" There were bars of light and dark in the western sky, and above these a flock of tiny clouds. Along the edge of the horizon ran a line of rosy light. Presently the bars merged into dark purple clouds, the cloudlets above took on a rosy light, the glory widened from below and from above, till the whole western sky was aflame with radiant beauty. "That is like our life, dearest," Stephen whispered, putting his arm round her as they sat. "All our clouds which memory may bring or the future reveal are going to be made beautiful, covered all over with rosy love."
"But it's evening, Stephen," she whispered, "the darkness is creeping on," and he felt that she was trembling.
"But we are together. Besides, no illustration can be strained too far: it's evening in the heavens but mid-day in our lives."
"Well I never!"—it was Jack's voice. (Was there ever stranger ending to a wooing!) "Are you two chums?" Evidently he was feeling very annoyed. His mother having failed to meet him at the appointed time and place he had come in search of her.
Stephen jumped up at once, seized hold of the lad with loving hands, and compelled him to sit down between them. "Yes, we're chums," said Stephen, in his old bright manner, "and we want to tell you how it came about."
Jack's face looked rather dark, and he muttered: "This is why, then, mummy wanted to come here so much."
"No, it was not," said Stephen firmly, and then he told him of their unexpected meeting, of how God had seemingly led them both on the path, and of his (Stephen's) boyhood love for his mother. And all the time Phebe said never a word, but sat looking at the two with eyes full of love.
"Ah!" said Jack, with a sigh of relief, "I don't mind now. I thought you'd been keeping it dark from me. But, I say, if you take mummy, you'll have to take me as well! Else what will become of me?"
"Of course I shall; the fact is, we'll all be chums together, won't we?"
"Rather!" said Jack. "I call this spiffin," and then their hands seemed to get all mixed up together.
The next day Stephen had a particular request to make. It was that, seeing he had waited for his love so long, they should be married at once, and Phebe felt she could not refuse him.
Nanna, Aunt Lizzie, Bessie, Reynolds and Jones were all communicated with at once, and on a given day the three establishments were closed, all assistants given a holiday, and the above-named individuals summoned to the ceremony. To please Jack he was allowed to give his mother away, and Reynolds was the bridegroom's best man.
Bessie—the Bessie of old!—was delighted. "This is what I call fine! I'm as happy as if I were being married to my dear 'Darling Jones' over again!" Nanna was just as radiant; her old dream after all had come true!
Once more during the honeymoon Phebe referred to the past. "If only we could have started our life together! How was it I was so blind? Why did not my heart respond to your love as it does now? Nanna was not nearly so blind as I was," and then she told Stephen of Mrs. Colston's guesses that afternoon in the old kitchen where the mangle was.
"I cannot answer your questions, dearest; but I am sure you are the richer women to-day for the trials you have had."
"Yes, Nanna said that day, when I told her I was a Christian, that to be a full Christian was a matter of development, that there were many creases in my nature God had to mangle out. I am afraid there are many creases still left."
"Yes, though we may be blameless before God our education is still going on."
"But I have been far from blameless. I have often thought if I had entered more into Ralph's ambitions it would have been better and his end would have been different. What if I should bring defeat into your life too!"
"Dearest! you have brought nothing but inspiration into my life. You are not to have these sad thoughts. I was not brave enough in the past to show my love, or you might have seen it in a plainer manner—and all would have been different. But we neither of us acted from selfishness. You considered at the time you acted rightly by resisting Ralph's restlessness. God will never blame us for not acting up to any light that was hidden from us. If we have made mistakes in the past God has forgiven us, and therefore we should put the past entirely from us."
"So we will," she answered, with a happy smile; "we are both making a new start, and we will let nothing hinder us."
When the time came for their return home, there was great excitement among many of the Hadley people. The honeymoon had been considerably lengthened at Stephen's request, for two reasons—first, to give Phebe as long a rest as possible; and secondly, to give time for the beautifying of the old farmhouse on the hill above the town. Bay-windows and a porch had been built out, the front garden had been relaid, several rooms refurnished, and all had been kept a grand secret from Phebe.
"I tell you what it is," said Jim Coates, "she shall have a welcome like a duchess, that she shall!" So instead of stepping into a cab as she expected she would do when she came out of the station, Phebe found a carriage-and-pair waiting them, and then at a certain bend of the road a whole body of men suddenly made their appearance, took out the horses, attached ropes to the carriage, and drew it along in triumphant style.
Just for a moment Phebe was quite startled; the idea suddenly presented itself that they were being captured by robbers—it was but for an instant—and then the sight of Jim Coates' face, and the triumphant look on Stephen's, made it all clear to her, and partly laughing, partly crying, she managed to exclaim: "It is too much—too much!—don't let them do it, Steve!" But it would have taken more than Steve to hinder that loyal little band of stalwarts, if even he had been willing, which he was not.
Wreaths of evergreens were stretched across the road, flags were fluttering everywhere; close to the house was a long banner, with the words in red letters, "Welcome home to the Little Missis and her husband."
As the men paused at the gate they had still breath enough to exclaim:
"Three cheers for the Little Missis and her husband!" and great hearty "Hip! Hip! Hurrahs!" rang out.
"But, Steve——" exclaimed Phebe, as she looked up at the unfamiliar-looking house, and then a second revelation came to her.
Steve answered her questioning look with a kiss on her cheek—and then there was another cheer.
Bessie and Janie were both standing at the gate, bearing a great basket of roses.
Bessie had decided that because she had not thought of scattering roses on the path at the wedding, she would do so at the home-coming.
"Yes, she shall walk on roses this time," Bessie exclaimed; "the other time she was married she had only cold potatoes. I mean to make up for that."
The idea of any one walking on cold potatoes fairly puzzled poor Janie. "I never heard of such a thing!" she exclaimed. "I'm sure she didn't when she came home. I was there, and ought to know."
"You know well enough," retorted Bessie, "what a cold welcome she got. Didn't I see you lay the supper-table? And didn't I tell you it looked more like a meal for an errand-boy than for a bride? Don't you remember that?"
"Yes," meekly answered the literal Janie, "but there were no cold potatoes messing about."
So the roses were strewed on her path by the two young women, who though so different in character, had both learnt to love her with a wonderful devotion. But before Phebe trod on the roses, she stopped to kiss her friends, and then turning round to the group of men who looked very hot but very happy, she said: "You have done us too much honour, but may God bless you." They could see that her face was wet with tears as well as radiant with smiles and then another cheer went up for "the Little Missis and her husband."
Dear old Nanna was standing on the doorstep with Jack by her side.
"Welcome home, dear heart!" said Nanna, kissing her and giving her a motherly hug.
Jack stood patiently by till he thought Nanna had had her full share, and then gave her a gentle reminder with his hand that it was his turn now.
Did the sight of the loaded table and the gay, bright room bring back to her any thoughts of the past? If they did, no shadow from the past was allowed to linger.
In a month's time they were all fairly settled down. Jack, Mrs. Colston and Janie had all removed to "the house on the hill," and Aunt Lizzie had taken up her residence at the business establishment, there to remain, God willing, till Jack should reach his majority.
"Nanna," said Phebe one day, "do you remember telling me that a Christian is not perfected till death, that we have to be trained and disciplined? And do you remember what discipline I needed?"
"Yes, I remember it well. You see, I'm always thinking about it because I like to watch the process."
"I have been thinking God has ceased to do any training with me—could it be that He is disappointed with me?—that because I have not come up to what He expected, He has put me on one side."
"Why, dearie, what has put that into your head?"
"What discipline have I got now? Peace and joy and prosperity are with me in abundance."
"All God's training is not done by pain. Bless me, the flowers know better than that! The cold winds and rains make them bloom right enough, but the sunshine has a good share in the work as well. Instead of you having no training just now, the sunshine all round you is doing it as fast as it can. And if God sees you can stand the sunshine without getting puffed up, or careless, or proud—I know you will forgive an old woman's plain words—He perhaps has glorious plans of work for you in the future. He can discipline and train you by all this wealth He has given you."
"Trust you," replied Phebe, laughing, "for never giving me the ghost of a chance of being miserable. I never saw anybody like you for ruthlessly stripping away every shred of the blues!"
"Do you want to keep a few of the blue rags, then?"
"No, you know I do not."
"Dear heart," said Nanna tenderly, "there was a time when you had to search round for your bright bits: now you are surrounded with it, take in all you can get—rejoice and exult in it, and don't lose one bit simply because you have got so much."
When Phebe repeated this conversation to her husband, he added: "If God has crowned you with joy, sweetheart—and I hope from my heart He has done so—do not let anybody put a thorn in the crown God did not mean to be there. I would like to crown you every day myself with joy if I could—my queen!—my ray of glory!"
"But, Steve, be serious."
"I never was calmer in my life. You know I mean every word I say—say you do!"
"Yes, you loyal lover mine," linking her arm in his, "but you don't have a monopoly in love for all that," looking up at him with a smile on her sweet face. "Now, I want to ask you a very serious question."
"Ask on, my queen."
"But it is really serious."
"And so am I. What is it, darling?" bending down to kiss her. He never seemed to tire of proving to himself that she actually, after all the weary years of waiting, belonged to him, and he to her.
"If God were to call me home to-night," she said in a low voice, "I should not want to go. That cannot be a right frame of mind to be in, now, is it?"
"Yes, it is; a perfectly right frame of mind. If you were wanting to go home just now, it would seem to show you were not satisfied with what God had provided for you. When the call does come you may feel very different from what you do now. I never think we can be exactly sure what we should do under certain conditions—supposed conditions. It is only the present moment that we need to concern ourselves about, and I think we can both say we are ready this minute to do God's will. Don't you think so, sweetheart?"
"God's will for us just now is so sweet," she answered, "that I somewhat mistrust myself. But I can truly pray, 'Teach me to do Thy will, O my God.'"
"And that is everything," he exclaimed. "It is by our desires God judges us. And, sweetheart," again bending tenderly over her, "when the call does come, whether to you or to me, we'll clasp hands, if we can, to the last moment, and then we'll wait patiently till we clasp them again in the Sunny Land."
"The Little Missis" had been toe well trained for the sunshine to spoil her—it did but bring out still fairer beauties in her character; and no end of work came to her, or she went to it, whichever way you prefer to have it.
The Great Gardener had kept this flower for long years in an exposed position, where winds and frosts had worked their will; and many a time had He bent over it, with loving look but with firm hand, to shape it into more perfect form and fairer beauty.
And then He said: "I will put it into a sunny place."
He did so.
And there in that place of sunlight, by its very beauty it brought praise to His Name, and the winds which once had been so rough with it, bore its fragrance afar.