scornG. G. MantonShe turned away with a scornful smile.
G. G. MantonShe turned away with a scornful smile.
G. G. Manton
She turned away with a scornful smile.
Perhaps it was because his thoughts so often wandered in that direction that his face seemed to have grown harder, his mouth sterner.
"Four months!" he murmured, "twelve months in a year—say, forty years—long years! Forty years like these last four months!"
"Forty years, forty years!" rang mockingly in his ears.
Suddenly he paused.
"Forty or a hundred, I will never give in!" he said, and his mouth looked almost cruel in its set sternness.
Spring had come. A soft, warm, early spring that brought all the tender flowers peeping out before their time.
And in the warm, trying spring Hugh Michelhurst fell ill of a low fever.
At the end of May he rose from his sick bed, and refused to be an invalid any longer.
But his strength was gone from him.
One day he walked out into the country, and his love was strong on him, so that he bowed his head, and felt weak as a child. And suddenly a scent was waftedto him on the breeze. He stood and lifted his head to meet it, and his face worked. On a little cottage red roses glowed before their time. He had seen none since he was in the old garden at Ancelles. He stretched out his arms. "I give in," he said, and he turned and retraced his steps the way he had come.
In a little sunny path amongst the roses he found her.
"My darling—my darling—I will live here always—only live with me——"
His voice broke; he could say no more.
With a little fond cry she nestled close to him.
"No, no," she whispered, "I will come away to your London as you wish."
They sat on the steps leading to the second terrace, and the water nymph seemed to smile down on them as she bent to take her dive. They sat side by side, and mademoiselle's pretty head rested against his shoulder.
nestledG. G. MantonWith a little cry she nestled close to him.
G. G. MantonWith a little cry she nestled close to him.
G. G. Manton
With a little cry she nestled close to him.
"But,petite, you love your home so——"
"My home is wherever you are, monsieur."
"You did not think so once,chérie."
"Ah! but then you were 'shall' and 'must'"—pouting—"and now—now you are different."
He smiled tenderly. He thought he understood now.
"We will live part of the year here and part in London. There, my little one—will that do?"
"Ah, yes, perfectly!"
"Come now for a little walk," he said, for he had something in his mind.
He stopped in one of the twisting paths down which they had so often wandered, and looked at the old château.
"That ivy is too thick to be healthy," he said, "but" (sighing), "you like it—it must stop."
Now that same ivy had been the cause of their biggest quarrel before that last biggest one of all.
"It shall be cut," cried mademoiselle, smiling up at him, "and at once!"
He looked down into her eyes adoringly.
The scent of the roses wrapped them round with softest sweetness.
He smiled at her tenderly.
Yes, he understood now. He had found the way to rule her.
anniversaries
April claims an anniversary which all Englishmen are presumed to honour. April 23rd is St. George's Day, and St. George is the patron saint of England. Yet he was not, so far as we know, an Englishman. He is said to have been a centurion in the army of Diocletian, and to have been roasted alive for pulling down a copy of the decree ordering the infamous persecution associated with Diocletian's name. That distinction is disputed in the interests of another person; but the fact remains that St. George was held in conspicuous honour by the early Church. His particular place as the patron of the English dates from the Crusades. The story of George and the Dragon has no relation to the incident which couples him to the English. Some authorities have identified this St. George with a certain George of Cappadocia, Arian Bishop of Alexandria; but Mr. Baring-Gould rejects with indignation the proposal to confound the patron saint of England with a heretic. We are on the ground, not of legend, but of history, in recalling St. Anselm, Archbishop of Canterbury, who was born about 1033. His day is April 21st.
chapel(Photo: A. F. Colbourne, Canterbury.)ST. ANSELM'S CHAPEL, CANTERBURY.
(Photo: A. F. Colbourne, Canterbury.)ST. ANSELM'S CHAPEL, CANTERBURY.
(Photo: A. F. Colbourne, Canterbury.)
ST. ANSELM'S CHAPEL, CANTERBURY.
ShakespeareWILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.(The Stratford-on-Avon Portrait.)
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.(The Stratford-on-Avon Portrait.)
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.
(The Stratford-on-Avon Portrait.)
WordsworthWILLIAM WORDSWORTH.(From the Tablet in Grasmere Church.)
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.(From the Tablet in Grasmere Church.)
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
(From the Tablet in Grasmere Church.)
St. George's Day has memories of other people than the legendary slayer of the dragon. On April 23rd, 1564, William Shakespeare was born; on April 23rd, 1616, he died. These, then, are anniversaries which cannot be overlooked by any person who values literature. Our pride is qualified by the thought that all the world of intelligence has taken hold of Shakespeare; he is the possession of educated mankind. Cervantes does not come of our stock, but in passing it may be permitted to remember that he died on the same day of the same year as Shakespeare. It was on St. George's Day, 1850, too, that William Wordsworth, poet laureate, died. The body of John Keble, the poet of the Oxford Movement, was laid to rest in Hursley churchyard on April 6th, 1866. He was deeply influenced by Wordsworth, but his name still more definitelysuggests another English poet—the saintly George Herbert. He, too, belongs to this month, for he was born on April 3rd, 1593.
HerbertGEORGE HERBERT.
GEORGE HERBERT.
GEORGE HERBERT.
RaikesROBERT RAIKES.
ROBERT RAIKES.
ROBERT RAIKES.
George Herbert was related to Lord Herbert of Cherbury, whose friends included Thomas Hobbes, of Malmesbury, one of the most distinguished of English philosophers. Hobbes was born on April 5th, 1588. The philosophy afterwards associated with the names of Locke, Hume, and Priestley owed much to Hobbes. Hume himself—philosopher, historian, and servant of the State—was born at Edinburgh on April 26th, 1711. Charles Darwin, philosopher and naturalist, died this month (April 19th, 1882). Few Englishmen have attained to wider fame; few have ever more profoundly influenced human thought.
BenBENJAMIN FRANKLIN.
BENJAMIN FRANKLIN.
BENJAMIN FRANKLIN.
Robert Raikes, in virtue of his work in prisons and his share in the foundation of Sunday schools, deserves long to be held in memory. Born at Gloucester, he died there suddenly on April 5th, 1811. Could Raikes have looked into the future, with what astonishment and joy he would have marked the development in the extent and spirit of this work, which is indicated by the existence ofThe QuiverMedal Fund and its rewards to veteran Sunday-school workers! A more modern and a greater philanthropist also belongs to April. Anthony Ashley Cooper, seventh Earl of Shaftesbury, was born in Grosvenor Square on April 28th, 1801. In and out of Parliament, with a zeal which no opposition and no disappointment could repress, "the good Earl" worked for the cause of the oppressed, the poor, the sick, the sinful. He did much directly; perhaps more by the stimulus of his example.
EarlTHE LATE EARL OF SHAFTESBURY.(Photo: Russell & Sons, Baker Street, W.)
THE LATE EARL OF SHAFTESBURY.(Photo: Russell & Sons, Baker Street, W.)
THE LATE EARL OF SHAFTESBURY.
(Photo: Russell & Sons, Baker Street, W.)
Of institutions associated with the month of April, the Royal Academy is one of the most conspicuous. The Society of Incorporated Artists held their first exhibition at the Society of Arts, Adelphi, on April 21st, 1760. From this there sprang the Royal Academy. The first exhibition of the Academicians was held in Pall Mall on April 26th, 1769. The British Museum has its association with this month, for it was on April 5th, 1753, that Parliament granted the sum of £20,000 to the daughters of Sir Hans Sloane, in return for the collections which were the basis of the museum's vast treasures. The National Gallery also has its link with April, for it was on April 9th, 1838, that the present building in Trafalgar Square was completed and opened.
April has many memories for citizens of the United States. On April 17th, 1790, died Benjamin Franklin, politician, economist, and natural philosopher; in April, 1861, began the long struggle between the Northern and Southern States; and on April 14th, 1865, Abraham Lincoln, perhaps the most striking personality hitherto produced by the great democracy, was shot by John Wilkes Booth.
galleryA VIEW OF THE NATIONAL GALLERY.
A VIEW OF THE NATIONAL GALLERY.
A VIEW OF THE NATIONAL GALLERY.
depths
By the Very Rev. W. Lefroy, D.D., Dean of Norwich.
"Thou, which hast showed me great and sore troubles, shalt quicken me again, and shalt bring me up again from the depths of the earth."—Psalmlxxi. 20.
"Thou, which hast showed me great and sore troubles, shalt quicken me again, and shalt bring me up again from the depths of the earth."—Psalmlxxi. 20.
HHuman history had seen but its infancy when the announcement was made that man was "born unto trouble, as the sparks fly upward." And ever since the home of the Arab chief was devastated; ever since the day that Job's heart was broken by the intelligence of the Sabean slaughter of his sons and daughters, followed by a conflagration which stripped him of property, and made a pauper of a prince; ever since, the dreary wail of woe rends the air, and the requiem of life sobs and sighs like Eliphaz the Temanite, "Man is born unto trouble."
Human history had seen but its infancy when the announcement was made that man was "born unto trouble, as the sparks fly upward." And ever since the home of the Arab chief was devastated; ever since the day that Job's heart was broken by the intelligence of the Sabean slaughter of his sons and daughters, followed by a conflagration which stripped him of property, and made a pauper of a prince; ever since, the dreary wail of woe rends the air, and the requiem of life sobs and sighs like Eliphaz the Temanite, "Man is born unto trouble."
Nor can we allow ourselves to question the dictum. The infant's wail precedes the infant's weal. The cry of helplessness is heard in the cradle. The child's deep sigh anticipates the child's sweet smile. And although sunny childhood sometimes passes as if the pitiless law of hereditary trouble were suspended, yet no serious thinker can hesitate to accept the proposition, that trouble is in the ratio in which life's meaning and purpose are experienced, or divine love accepted and enjoyed. If a man has no trouble, it is because he has not yet practically realised the significance of existence. He is still free from those social, domestic, and personal influences, the derangement of any of which brings agony by day and sleeplessness by night. Or, again, it may be because he has learnt the loftiest and yet the lowliest lesson from his Lord, by accepting the Gospel of Gethsemane, "Thy will be done." But excepting the persons so classified by social isolation or spiritual resignation, there is not on earth an exception to the law of the human race being "born unto trouble." Yea, more. Constituted as we are, we live in the presence of the grim enigma, that the object which gave us the highest joy can give us the most excruciating sorrow. Nor can that existence be anything else than mournful whose happiness or misery depends upon any earthly object.
This statement may be illustrated by every condition in life—domestic, physical, intellectual. The genius across whose mental firmament the lights and shadows of history travelled, and by whom they were arrested, analysed, and grouped in their course; the great brain of the great worker whose intrepid excursions into the realms of the past and the present, with a view to tabulating the rise of civilisation—the patient and profound Mr. Buckle, is absorbed by mental enjoyment. He lives, and moves, and has his being in men and manners, among maps and manuscripts. He makes a grand discovery. He keeps the secret for twenty years. He repairs to Damascus to recruit for literary service. He is stricken with fever, and dies with the words of his intellectuality on his parched lips, "My book, my book! I shall never finish my book!" Here his highest joy was his keenest sorrow. So in physical life. There have been men who seemed at one time as if they were created without nerves. Their arms were brawny, muscular, and mighty. Their limbs were firm and fine. They seemed God's highest type of organic life. They rejoiced in their strength and in their youth. But disease assailed, or dissipation punished, and retribution appeared in feebleness, exhaustion, and debility. Youthful feats were forbidden. The sports of the pastrecalled a youth of virtue and purity; and then came the sigh which told that, even physically, the source of our joy becomes the spring of our sorrow. And need I elaborate details to establish the place of this doctrine in domestic life? Do we not know this from the gloomy history of the orphan child, the widowed mother, the bereaved sister, brother, friend? You know that to love dearly means to have a skeleton in your house. The object of your love causes a thousand smiles to play in your eye, and to break on your countenance; but the shade of that object is mocking your mirth, and is only waiting a few rounds of the clock to compensate mirth with misery.
Nor is this all. There are sorrows far more terrible than those of sickness or the cemetery. A living sorrow defies rivalry. It has a fearful pre-eminence in woe. A wayward, wild, debauched youth; an estranged husband; an embittered, irascible, worldly wife; a stormy, or, what is far worse, a sullen home; these are amongst the darkest illustrations of the doctrine, that our sighs are in the track of our smiles; our delights become our dangers; yea, it sometimes seems as if affection became idiotic, and then, like the raving maniac, we laugh and cry together. So we are "born to trouble." This being so, it is important to listen to testimony concerning the remedy which troubled souls have found efficacious. If we have one such man, able and willing to give his fellow-sufferers a cure for care, it is surely prudent to hear what he has to say. Accordingly, let me ask you to follow me while I try to establish a cure for all afflicted souls from the experience, conviction, and anticipation of a royal mourner. I invite you to come with me to the side of a man like one of us. Listen to him struggling up the great altar-stairs of faith sustained by love, and, as he peers into the Unseen, he speaks as if to one warm with life, charged with ardent sympathy, and he says, "Oh, what troubles and adversities hast Thou shown me; and yet didst Thou turn and refresh me!"
The first step in this study is to be clear as to the nature of the troubles God showed David. There was, then, the personal and the spiritual trouble of backsliding, consequent upon his murder of Uriah for his base purpose. And here we must discriminate. The trouble of David about Bathsheba was not sent by God; God permitted it; but in the heartless and cold-blooded plot in the tyrannical insolence and diabolical dastardliness of its execution—in the coarse, callous, and criminal height of its succeeding guilty rapture—it was of Satan, of sin, of David. For three-quarters of a year David played fast and loose with God and conscience; and it was when Nathan scared him that God showed him the trouble. Then came anguish, remorse, penitence. Then came the sorrowful sighing of the soul—all the greater in the awakening because it had slept so soundly and so long. Then came that lamentation over lost virtue, the penitential Fifty-first Psalm. It is the expression of a man lacerated by conscience. He seems to bleed at every pore. The agitation and alarm and agony are piteous beyond description. He appears in this psalm to look in every direction, and the ghost of his crime haunts him. Within, without, above, below, behind, beyond, he can see the furies of justice as the embassied troublers of his life. Original depravity, actual outrage, a heart black with the Egyptian darkness of fostered treachery, the warrior slaughtered by his mandate, the blood-guiltiness staining his soul, and then the wail ringing in the ears of God, "Cast me not away from Thy presence; and take not Thy Holy Spirit from me"—all these may be compared to a spiritual chamber of horrors, in which David found himself after the startling visit of Nathan.
These were some of the troubles God showed him. And their cause introduced more of a domestic, not to say of a political, kind. The sin brought scandal and reproach on the Church of God. The enemies blasphemed. Then Jehovah, vindicating His character for justice before the world, avenging the atrocious murder of Uriah, sent a series of domestic afflictions upon David unparalleled in human experience. One scene—a nameless scene—has its miserable match in the brutal bestiality of the Empire, when the sceptre of Rome was in the hands of a corpse. But the other experiences are easily related. They are as the outcome of a curse which hung heavily on the royal house. Amnon, the eldest son, was slain by young Absalom, who waited two years for an opportunity. This severed Absalom from home for three years. He then, by a singular artifice, returned, and won the hearts of the people by his consummate and accomplished address, his handsome presence, and adroit demeanour. His aged and royal father's statesmen proved false to the king, and one in particular advised the murder of David and a revolution. At length the conspiracy grew in defiance and dimension. David was obliged to flee from the capital. His flight was far more humiliating than that of the French emperor from Paris. Napoleon had not to mourn over the treason of his son as the cause of his exile. This was David's anguish. He ascended the Mount of Olives and looked back upon the city of palaces he had founded and ornamented—the seat for a generation of his power, his glory, his happiness. He wasleaving it a miserable fugitive, driven forth by the nation he had established and the child he had reared. He could not, he did not, disguise his sorrow. With bared head and uncovered feet the exile began his pilgrimage, and every step the old king took recalled the crime and sin of earlier years, while it remained for one Shimei to load him with the bitterest and most contemptuous execrations. Then came the crisis. Such of the army as remained loyal engaged in battle with the revolutionary forces attracted to Absalom. David begged that his unhappy son might be spared in the conflict. The war began and issued in the success of the royalists. The first question of the venerable monarch was, "Is the young man Absalom safe?" He then learnt that order was re-established, but at the cost of Absalom's life. He was accidentally hanged, and while hanging he was speared by David's commander-in-chief.
These are amongst the troubles—political, domestic, and spiritual—which God permitted to fall upon David; and yet this very David has courage amid the havoc of holiness, the misery of exile, the torture of outraged parental affection, and political insurrection. That courageous confidence is in a person: he realises God. This conviction is unshaken amid his chequered life and history; indeed, all through the din of revolution, the grief of a homeless and worse than childless existence, there is one ever-recurring belief: "God my help," "God my refuge," "God my shield." In this belief he brings back to God every trouble God sent to him. Hence we have these psalms, written by David, as agony after agony swept in upon his soul. Nor did it seem to signify how different one sorrow might be from another. The old cry, the same cry, is raised to a personal God. When Saul sought his life through jealousy; when Jonathan was slain in battle; when he himself had fallen into sin, and then was aroused—now by the whisperings of reclaiming grace, now by the booming billows of divine justice; when he bowed his head in shame, and the fierce light that beat about his court gleamed on his dark soul; when he tottered up the heights of Olivet, an impotent outcast, betrayed by his courtiers, deserted by his troops, and exiled by the unnatural rebellion and heartless perfidy of his son—in these experiences, so fearful, overwhelming, and varied, he saw God showing him the trouble. As the hand that sent it was ever the same, so from the heart that received it there arose ever and anon the same plea—"Have mercy upon me, O Lord"; "Make haste to help me"; "O Lord, make no long tarrying"; "I am poor and needy"; "O be not Thou far from me, for trouble is near at hand." And then, as if realising the apostasy, desertion, and faithlessness of his friends and forces, he adds, "There is none to help."
We know how these earnest and anxious entreaties were heard: "Thou didst turn and refresh me"; "Through Thee have I been holden up ever since I was born"; "My mouth shall speak of Thy salvation all the day long; for I know no end thereof." But further. This acknowledgment of God as a "very present help in trouble" is followed by a prophecy, and that of nothing less than the resurrection—"Thou shalt bring me up again from the depths of the earth"; so that David's sorrow, when brought humbly and heartily to God, was followed by divine refreshment then, and hope of resurrection hereafter. And a well-founded hope it was, because the trouble sent by God produced a grand moral result when laid before Him Who sent it. It had a purifying influence which made his mind speed on to the resurrection day. In its anticipation he was but yielding to the influence of a life higher than that he lived before his sorrow, and which sought enjoyment and exercise loftier and still loftier. This he, by faith, foresaw, in the anticipation of that rest to which his trouble sent him, and for the appreciation of which his trouble purified him.
So we have here in the spiritual world an instructive and encouraging illustration of what frequently occurs in the physical. We have purification by pain; refreshment out of ruin. So have I seen this grand law asserting the governance of its God in those Alpine crags on which the stars seem to pause. There on those storm-scalped peaks the climber feasts on the panorama spread by God's own hand, in winding river, sapphire lake, everlasting hill, sentinelled by a forest of pines, dressed in the matchless sombre of Alpine green or shrouded by the spotless snows of heaven. I have witnessed the troubles of the atmosphere. The bursting rain-cloud hangs low, the light recedes, the darkness deepens, the wind moans; and then the full-toned thunder roars, and the long lines of fire, angular and electric, leap from fissures in the firmament. The artillery of the elements is deafening, and its echoes rumble in the distance like the mutterings of imprisoned spirits. The storm is over. The calm succeeds. The clouds become brighter and brighter still. The sun peeps out here and there in a rift of the heavens. The air is fresh and keen and pure. The vegetation is bright and green. The rivulets and mountain torrents ripple and rush rejoicing. As we see this, we are reminded of the analogies of God's government; yea, if we could put apreacher on every peak, a tongue in every valley, Nature would minister to grace, and from each would come the response of the royal poet to the call of God. The world physical would raise the ecstatic antiphon to the world spiritual: "O what great troubles and adversities hast Thou showed me, and yet didst Thou turn and refresh me!"
But these words have a still richer meaning in their bearing upon the religious fortunes of the Hebrew race, the Messianic glory of the Redeemer, and the present and future position of His believing people. I believe that Israel's troubles are to issue in Israel's refreshment, and even in national resurrection. Her captivities and dispersions, her degradation and exile, are but the preludes to her rise, return, and splendour. God has sworn it; His word is bound to it. His promise is as certain as though it were performed. But we may merely mention this as a conviction, in order to pass on and recognise in these words the history of Jesus Christ. From that cradle and cottage home; from that carpenter's bench where He toiled; from that country, with its hills and dales, and lanes and lakes, where He preached; from the Temple which He glorified and abrogated; from the cross where He died; from the tomb which He vacated; from the throne of mediation, where He sympathises, intercedes and governs; from earth below, and heaven above, the voice of Jesus sounds o'er land and sea, filling angelic souls with adoration, and human hearts with hope, announcing, "O what great troubles and adversities hast Thou showed Me!" He was betrayed, despised, and rejected. He looked for some to have pity on Him, but there was no man; neither found He any to comfort Him. He was maligned and misunderstood. The malice of His enemies omitted but one sin in their resolve to blacken His character, and it remained for the patronising blasphemy of Renan to insinuate that one as possible. He was accused of deceit, though infallible; He was slandered as a drunkard, though immaculate; yea, the detraction of His foes did not spare Him the agony of being charged with the commission of a sin as disgusting as it is brutal—that of gluttony. He was arraigned as a felon, and died as an impostor. But beyond all was the sin of which these were but the symptoms. This was the trouble, "great and sore," which God showed Him. This was the agony of agonies to the sinless, spotless Lamb of God. Its fell pressure is the meaning of the tradition that Jesus was often seen to weep, but never once to smile. To this trouble we trace the overpowering experiences of the fainting, prostrate Christ in the garden; of the wailing and woe-bearing Christ on the cross. Yet there was the refreshment; there was behind it all the unchangeable love of God the Father—"Therefore doth My Father love Me, because I lay down My Life that I might take it again." There was the satisfaction of His soul, in saving the race He died to redeem by representation; there was, above all, the guarantee of that redemption in being brought "from the depths of the earth again."
And if we were to follow the history of His Church, that history would be a living commentary on the experience of David and of David's Lord: divinely sent trouble, divinely sought and divinely sent refreshment, issuing in spiritual resurrection. Is not this the account many have to give of sorrow, succour, and salvation? You were weak: you are now strong. You were "choked with cares," and sought relief in a flood of tears: you are now able to leave the burden of your cares with Him Who "careth for you"; while your eyes, once red with agony, are now bright with praise, gratitude, and hope. Remembering what you were, and now recognising what you are, you may adopt the language of David, "I am become a wonder unto many, but my sure trust is in Thee"; or, taking a fuller view and a finer tone, you will ring out the litany of deliverance, and chant the song of praise and blessing, "O what great troubles and adversities has Thou showed me; and yet didst Thou turn and refresh me."
This present refreshment is a prophecy of future resurrection. It leads all the afflicted children of God on to the grand climax in sin, sorrow, and all the trouble to which we are born. Then the cup of universal affliction shall be full. The waters of our pilgrimage shall be sweetened, and changed into the bright, clear, rosy wine of immortality. Then farewell, sorrow; farewell, weakness; agony, ache, desolation, and sin, we bid you a final and a glad farewell. Then shall rise upon this scene of change and uncertainty, where pain and pleasure are so intermingled and combined, the sun that knows no setting, the everlasting day that knows no night. Then shall the children of God, the "children of the resurrection," gathered from every known and unknown region, race, and age, rise to the rapture of the saints, and, defying the immeasurable weight of all the ocean's pressure—for the sea shall give up its dead—shattering the manacles with which corruption had long bound the germ of incorruption, they shall "in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye," greet the Saviour Who loved them, with a greeting worthy the Lamb that was slain; worthy the grandest event in the annals of earth and heaven; while high above the din of the last crash of worlds, yea, louder than the storm which marches on the ruins of creation, shall rise the anthem of royal and even wretched and relieved experience—"Thou hast brought me from the depths of the earth again."
Child
By Scott Graham, Author of "The Link between Them," Etc.
OOn Saturday night, in that same week, Harold sallied forth at dusk, with a bulky brown-paper parcel under his arm, containing a pair of boots which he was taking by stealth to a humble cobbler in a back alley to mend.
On Saturday night, in that same week, Harold sallied forth at dusk, with a bulky brown-paper parcel under his arm, containing a pair of boots which he was taking by stealth to a humble cobbler in a back alley to mend.
Just because he fervently desired not to meet anybody he knew, as he turned a corner he almost ran into the arms of May Burnside; who, on seeing him, appeared confused. He stopped and tried to conceal his parcel as well as he could, whilst talking volubly; and May stammered and fidgeted, like one detected in a guilty enterprise. Her aunt had that day presented her with half-a-crown; and, wishing to make a frock for Doris, she was on her way to buy some wonderful material she had seen marked fourpence three-farthings in a cheap, common shop she would not have cared to enter by daylight. Miss Waller would have fainted at the idea of her niece being seen going into Whittaker's, where everything was ticketed "Alarming Sacrifice!"
So, the boots weighing on his uneasy conscience, and the fourpence three-farthings on hers, they continued to blush and stammer until Harold summoned up courage to say that it was rather late, and, if Mrs. Burnside was going home, he would escort her, if she wished.
She hesitated, loth to lose the chance of bargain, and then said—
"My aunt is dining out, so I need not hurry back; and I wanted to go to a shop—Whittaker's, do you know it? I buy rubbish there occasionally."
He did know the shop, which was close to the alley wherein dwelt his old cobbler. "If you don't mind," he said eagerly, "I'll leave you a moment, whilst I do an errand hard by, and meet you when you've done your shopping."
So he went off, delighted at solving the problem of the boots; for no man appears to advantage when hugging a clumsy parcel. Having duly effected her purchase, May rejoined him, and, as they strolled towards Victoria Square, informed him that they were starting for London on Monday. "I know I shall hate it!" she added, with a sigh.
He sighed too; but what could he say or do, bound as he was, hand and foot? "Julyisrather hot for London," he answered discreetly. "Lulu wrote yesterday, and may I suggest, if you have leisure, she would be delighted if you called to see her? I will give you her address. The flat is very tiny, of course, but——"
"But infinitely preferable, I am sure, to Victoria Square!" retorted May bitterly. The burden of life seemed intolerable that evening.
"Are you, then, so unhappy there?" he asked, startled. "How I wish——"
He checked himself hastily, and May stifled a sob which rose in her throat. "Very few people are quite happy, it seems to me," she said, trying to speak calmly. "There is always something."
"Yes, but you—youought to be happy, if there were any justice in the world!" he burst out impetuously. "You deserve a sunny, sheltered life, free from worry and care. Will you believe it is the hardest of my trials to be able to offer you nothing but barren sympathy?"
"It is very good of you to sympathise withme," May murmured gratefully. "So few people do. They look at my clothes, and decide that anybody dressed as I am, and living in Victoria Square,mustbe happy. 'Lucky Mrs. Burnside!' they call me."
He remembered how enviable, in the early days of their acquaintance, May had seemed to him, and thought how mistaken are the judgments of this world. A great pity swelled his heart as she said "Good-bye"; and he tramped back to his dreary rooms doubly depressed, both on her account and his own. How he longed to be able to free her from her shackles, and offer her a happy home, independent of Miss Waller!
"I must say, May, nobody would think you were going to London to enjoy yourself. Do, for goodness' sake, try to look a little more cheerful!" said Miss Waller sharply, as they took their seats in a reserved first-class carriage on the Monday. Mr. Lang, to May's great relief, had returned to town three days before, so they were spared his company. "You are the most ungrateful girl I ever knew."
Grumpy"Do try to look a little more cheerful!"
"Do try to look a little more cheerful!"
"Do try to look a little more cheerful!"
"I'm sorry you think so, aunt, but——"
"It would serve you right if I washed my hands of you entirely," continued the irate spinster. "But I am too kind-hearted; my sense of duty restrains me. I should be better off now, if I'd been more selfish and less considerate for others. But I'm well aware it's useless to expect gratitude inthisworld."
And, with a heartfelt sigh for the wickedness of this generation, Miss Waller arranged the air-cushion more comfortably at her back, and, placing her daintily shod feet on the opposite seat, commenced to study a newspaper. May sat watching the deep-green summer landscape flit by, with pretty much the same feelings as a convict might experience while going down to Portland guarded by warders. The knowledge that Mr. Lang awaited them at the end of the journey took all the colour out of the blue sky; and the sleek cattle standing knee-deep in water beneath the willows, seemed to mock her by their animal freedom from care. For herself, she cared little; but there was Doris to consider, and the thought of her helpless child harassed her throughout that miserable journey.
Enforced idleness is, to an active mind, the greatest misery conceivable. Harold Inglis had in him a vast capacity for work, and therefore found it doubly bitter to have to spend his days lounging about, waiting for the patients who never came. He was afraid to go out lest he should miss a summons, and unable to sit down to read or write, so continually did he find himself listening for a ring at the bell and Ann's voice announcing a patient. He could not even tranquillise himself withtobacco, for he had given up smoking on account of the expense.
He returned from an errand one afternoon to find an elderly manservant waiting with the intimation that Sir Edward Vane, of The Towers, was ill, and would like to see him. He knew Sir Edward by name as a wealthy and eccentric recluse, who lived alone in a big house just outside the town, and was liberal in doctors' fees. Not a little flattered, he promised to come immediately, and was about to turn in at the lodge gate at The Towers, when he encountered Dr. Selwyn, another local medical man, with whom he was acquainted.
"Been sent for by Sir Edward, eh?" asked Selwyn, with a broad grin.
"Yes."
"Wish you joy. You may not know it, but he's already tried every doctor in Beachbourne, and quarrelled with them all in succession. I wouldn't attend him again for any money. Good-bye, and good luck to you!"
In some trepidation, Harold knocked, and was admitted through a handsome hall into a spacious sitting-room, littered with almost every conceivable object. On a sofa reclined a grey-haired man about sixty, whose tanned face, speaking of long residence in the tropics, was disfigured by a look of fretful ill-health. A retired Anglo-Indian, distinguished in the Civil Service, Sir Edward had seen more of the world than most men.
"You're not in partnership with anybody here, are you?" he asked, when Harold had examined him carefully.
"No."
"All the better. A more wretched lot of impostors than the Beachbourne doctors I never came across. For years they've been tinkering at me, and, after all, I'm worse, instead of better. What are doctors for, if they can't cure one?"
Harold was discreetly silent. Sir Edward had a complication of maladies, beyond any medical skill to remedy.
"My father lived to be ninety," continued the invalid. "And why can't I?"
"I don't think, for my part, I should wish to be so old as that," diffidently returned Harold. "It must be so sad to outlive all one's friends."
"I have no friends," was the grim reply. "Only some greedy relations, eager for my money. I've a good deal to leave," he added, looking keenly at Harold. "And when I take a fancy to people, I'm liberal——They say here that I'm always quarrelling with my doctors; but it's the doctors who quarrel with me, and will air their own particular fads, instead of trying to cure me. Are you married?" he asked abruptly.
"No."
"A good thing, too; you've more time to attend to your patients. Hewett used to bore me talking by the hour about that ugly wife of his. Do you understand fossils, and such things? My room's in an awful mess, as you see, and I should like to have the specimens arranged a bit; but I can't trust the servants."
The place was indeed crammed with all sorts of curios, many exceedingly valuable. By continually asking for one possession after another, Sir Edward had ended by accumulating all his treasures in this one room, which he never left, save for his bedchamber adjoining. A most untidy place it was; the curiosities being heaped on chairs, shelves, and the floor, without any method.
"I am very fond of fossils; and if you wish them arranged, it would give me great pleasure to help."
"Hewett wanted me to make a clean sweep of them; interfered with the flow of his precious fresh air. Like his ignorance! Did he think I wanted to sit and stare at an ugly wall-paper all day when I was tired of reading?"
"Do you read much?"
"Yes; chiefly Sanskrit. Inmyday, Indian officials had to be not only gentlemen but scholars. Well," as Harold rose to go, "I'll have your prescription made up, and shall expect you again to-morrow."
"I will come, and hope the pain will be easier then." He detailed the treatment he desired, and was giving a few final directions when the manservant opened the door. "Miss Geare has called, sir. Will you see her?"
"Oh dear!" pettishly exclaimed Sir Edward. "She'll stay an hour, prosing about her dogs. For mercy's sake, don't go!" detaining Harold. "Help me to entertain her, and get her away soon! She was to have been my sister-in-law, having been engaged to my brother Adrian years ago; and since in an evil hour I settled at Beachbourne, I've been fairly persecuted by her."
In another minute the little lady tripped smilingly in.
"Well, Edward dear, how are you now? I heard you were not well, so I just came to inquire."
"I'm better now, thank you," returned Sir Edward gruffly. "I've given Hewett the sack, and this is my new doctor—Dr. Inglis. Do you know him?"
"Oh, yes, he has been attending me. I'm sure he has done me good, and I hope you'll benefit also, Edward. You can'tthinkhow kind Dr. Inglis was to my darling Bijou when he broke his leg!"
"Having attended Bijou, it, of course, follows that Dr. Inglis will cure me," sneered Sir Edward. "How is the amiable Miss Pepper?"
"She's waiting outside with the dogs, as you said you wouldn't have her here. She's a faithful creature; I wish you liked her a little better, Edward dear."
"I never was fond of vinegar, Catherine."
"Oh, don't be so sarcastic, Edward! I never was clever; but you make me feel like a little girl again, when my governess scolded me."
There were tears in the watery blue eyes; but they did not seem to touch Sir Edward. "The remedy, my dear Catherine, is exceedingly simple," he blandly rejoined. "I know I'm a curmudgeon, unfit to associate with such an angel as you. Why then should you inflict upon yourself the unpleasantness of coming here? Why not stay away, to enjoy the more congenial society of Miss Pepper and the dogs?"
"So you don't want me, Edward? I think you're very unkind," returned Miss Geare, evidently wounded, but with a patient dignity Harold had not expected. He noticed that ever since she entered her gaze had wandered, at intervals, to an oil-painting of a fine-looking young man in uniform which hung over the mantelpiece. "But I know better than to take you at your word. You are all I have left—my dear Adrian's brother—and——" She broke down, and wiped the slow tears of age from her eyes.
Sir Edward gave an impatient sigh, and Harold interposed. "Allow me to remind you, Miss Geare, that my patient has had a very severe attack, and the quieter he is the better. Everything depends on that. I must go home now; and may I request the pleasure of your company to the gate, if you are ready?"
"Yes, do go home to Bijou!" fretfully murmured the invalid. And Miss Geare, after bestowing an affectionate farewell on the unresponsive Sir Edward, allowed Harold to politely conduct her to the lodge gate.
"Poor Edward!" she began, as they went down the drive, "he allows illness to sour his temper, and it's such a pity! But I take no notice—he's my dear Adrian's only brother, and I can't bear to stay away from the house. Did you see the portrait over the mantelpiece?—that was my Adrian. I was young, and pretty too, in those days, though you mayn't believe it——"
"I quite believe it," said Harold kindly, touched by the spectacle of this forlorn old age.
"Adrian was so proud of Edward. He was so much thought of in India, and is very, very clever—but not equal to my Adrian—oh, no; nobody ever could be as handsome and noble as he was! When I heard he was killed in the Mutiny, I thought I should die too; I think it must have killed something inside me, for I've never been the same since. I get confused, and I can't remember things——Yes, I'm coming. Very sorry to have kept you waiting."
The humble apology was to Miss Pepper, who, with a most unamiable countenance, was standing just outside the gate. Miss Geare hastily said farewell, and Harold could hear her companion scolding her vigorously as they went down the road. But, as he thought of the faded, antique love story which had ended so tragically, he could not but feel sorry for poor little eccentric Miss Geare—it was so evident that the best part of her had been buried in her lover's grave. Her eyes must have been rather like May's, he thought, before sorrow had given them that vacant expression; and then he wondered, for the hundredth time, what Mrs. Burnside was doing in London, and whether she thought of him as often as he did of her.
Arrived in London, all May's worst anticipations were realised; for Mr. Lang accompanied them everywhere, and she had not a minute to call her own. He assumed an air of proprietorship which made her blood boil. "You ought to do this, Mrs. Burnside—you should see that," he repeated from morning till night; and, as Miss Waller invariably pronounced all his suggestions charming, it was useless for May to rebel.
So London proved the same weary old story over again—a life of outward glitter and show, of softly rolling carriages, of sumptuous dinners, and reserved seats; and within, dust and ashes, and Dead Sea fruit! May talked and smiled, but it was mechanically; her heart was far away.
She asserted herself sufficiently, however, to declare her intention of calling upon the Inglis girls in their flat in West Kensington. She had written to Lulu, who sent her a pressing invitation to come on Saturday afternoon, when they were at leisure.
Miss Waller instantly denounced the scheme as a wild-goose chase, asserting that May was certain to lose her way. They were still discussing it when Mr. Lang came in from Palace Gardens, as he usually did first thing in the morning, ostensibly to ask what they wished to do, but really to order them about at his sovereign will and pleasure. "Well, ladies, what's the programme for to-day?" he began.
May turned round from the window of the handsome drawing-room for which her aunt was paying a small fortune, thinking, as themorning sunlight fell upon his podgy figure, that Mr. Lang grew uglier and more common-looking every day. "I have promised to go and see my friends the Inglises this afternoon," she announced firmly.