healing
By The Rev. Hugh Macmillan, D.D., L.L.D.
W]We are accustomed to think that the healing virtue there is in herbs and trees was meant only for man; that herbs and trees were created with these virtues in them for the special purpose of curing our human diseases and ministering to our human wants, and for nothing else; that God had man in view in the beginning when He gave these medicinal qualities to plants, and apart from man's use of them they serve no other purpose.
]We are accustomed to think that the healing virtue there is in herbs and trees was meant only for man; that herbs and trees were created with these virtues in them for the special purpose of curing our human diseases and ministering to our human wants, and for nothing else; that God had man in view in the beginning when He gave these medicinal qualities to plants, and apart from man's use of them they serve no other purpose.
Now this, which is a common, widespread idea, is an altogether erroneous one. For if God meant these vegetable qualities and products exclusively for man's use, the questions may be pertinently asked, Why were they so long undiscovered; and why do they occur in places often remote from human habitation, and waste themselves upon the desert air?
It is true indeed that God designed them as remedies for man's ailments, that He prepared beforehand the cures of human ills long previous to the necessity for these cures arising. But this law of mercy was a comprehensive one, and had a two-fold object in view. God in the first place created the plant complete in itself, adapted to its own circumstances and requirements; and in the second place, it is through this perfect adaptability to its own wants that it becomes generally useful in nature, and ministers to the necessities of other created things. It is because the plant heals itself first by the remedy which it grows and produces by its own powers that it becomes a medicine to the animal world, when any members of that world are placed in similar circumstances and exposed to a similar disease.
Why, for instance, does the Peruvian bark tree produce the bitter principle in its bark from which we have prepared the valuable medicine called quinine? Is it not because that bitter principle is necessary to preserve the health of the tree itself in the wet, malarial districts where it grows? The Peruvian bark tree grows its own quinine, and administers it to itself, as it were, in order to prevent a disease in itself caused by the marshy places where it is found, similar to fever in the human subject. The willow grows beside rivers and streams which are apt to cause exhalations and breed influences that are noxious to the well-being of the tree. It has therefore developed in its own bark a febrifuge called salicin, which protects it from these noxious influences and maintains its trunk and branches and foliage in vigorous health and beauty. And it is because the quinine is good for the tree itself in malarial places that it is good for the fever which human beings take in such places; and it is because the salicin of the willow guards the tree from the injurious exhalations of marshes and river banks that it is a specific for rheumatism in man, which is produced by the same causes.
The same benefit which the medicinal principle developed by itself works in its own constitution it confers upon man when subjected to the same evil. And so it is with all the herbal medicines. They have a purpose to serve in the economy of the plant that yields them before they can minister to human sickness and disease. Sugar was not meant in the first instance to sweeten man's cup, but to store up food for the plant in order to enable it to flower. Tannin is created in the bark of the oak tree, in the first instance, not for the purposeof helping to make leather for man's shoes, but for the purpose of preventing mildew and fungous growths from settling on the bark of the tree and so decaying it. Scent is produced in flowers and shrubs that grow in watery places, not for man's gratification in the first instance, but in order to deodorise the air and make it fit for these scented flowers and shrubs to breathe and to preserve their vitality and vigour. Aromatic fragrance is yielded by the grey shrubs and herbs of the dry desert, not that the garments of the human passer-by might smell pleasantly of it, but that it might regulate the temperature, and keep the plants cool in the burning heat of the noonday and warm in the freezing cold of the night air.
Such instances might be multiplied indefinitely. Indeed, it may be regarded as a rule of nature without exception that, whatever properties plants possess that are useful to man, these properties, in the first instance, are not only useful but indispensable to themselves. And it is because they serve necessary uses in their own economy that they are found so necessary in the economy of man. Each plant that grows in circumstances where it is likely to be injured by the soil or climate develops within itself the antidotes and remedies against these unfavourable circumstances. It is a physician that heals itself first of all, that adapts itself as perfectly as possible to the peculiarities of its own place of growth. Nature and it are harmonious: they help each other. The qualities that are beneficial to itself are equally in the same way beneficial to other creatures; and it helps the world because it has first helped itself. It imparts health all around because it looks first after its own health.
All this is obvious. The plant could not exist at all did it not develop those qualities which would minister to its welfare and adjust it perfectly to its environment. But in human economy we fancy somehow that the law is less strict and more irregular, and can be violated at times with impunity. We think that a man can perform the part of a physician, and cure others, although he cannot cure a trouble that afflicts himself; that he can restore others to health while he himself is unhealthy. We can separate between a man's skill and his personality; and, indeed, there are many cases where a physician who is dying slowly of some incurable disease can yet, by his knowledge and cleverness, so treat his patients that he may heal their diseases and restore them to health and strength. But we are usually suspicious of a doctor endeavouring to cure others when he himself labours under an uncured disease. We reason naturally that his first concern should be himself; and if he fails in doing good to himself by his skill and medicine, when his interests are most of all concerned and the motive for healing strongest, how can he hope to succeed in the case of others, strangers and comparatively indifferent to him? We should not accept with implicit confidence a so-called remedy for baldness forced upon our notice by a person whose own head was in that condition. We should expect him to operate upon himself in the first instance with success, and then we should feel disposed to venture upon a similar use of it. The proverb says that "He who drives fat cattle must himself be fat"; and upon the principle involved in that common saying he who would heal others must himself be a specimen of that active, vigorous health to which he wishes to restore others. In no work, indeed, is the personal equation of more consequence than in the work of the physician. Three-fourths of the elements that enter into all diseases are spiritual, and three-fourths of the remedies that must be used for them must also be spiritual. The personal appearance, character, and manner of the physician himself are most important factors in the cure of disease. Confidence in the doctor is more than half the cure; and therefore what the doctor is in himself is of great consequence.
In the spiritual sphere the physician can only heal others as he heals himself. He himself must be an exemplification of the saving health of God's countenance if he is to do good to others. It is just as true in the affairs of the human soul as it is in the case of the plant—that the quality which is beneficial to the soul itself is equally beneficial to the world. It is noticeable, however, that there are exceptions to the rule in the spiritual world as there are exceptions in the natural human world. Just as there are cases of physicians healing bodily diseases in others while their own disease is unhealed, so there are cases where a man is the means of saving others while he himself is unsaved.
It is not, indeed, a matter of supposition, but of certainty, that a man may do good while he is not good. Hundreds of instances could be given, in which persons have been the means of quickening, comforting, and building up souls in the Lord, while all the time they themselves were strangers to the power of truth and ignorant of the love of Christ in their hearts. Ministers have preached the Gospel for years, and have been wise in bringing souls to Christ, and yet have themselves been castaways in the end. Members of churches have been zealous in every good work, and yet have known nothing of godliness but the form. The very commonness of this thing increases its sadness. Wethink the case of Moses leading the Israelites to the border of the Promised Land while he himself was forbidden to enter peculiarly pathetic; but its pathos is in reality far less touching than the case of the man who brings others to the fountain of life while he himself is perishing of thirst, who is like a guide-post pointing the way of salvation to others while unable himself to take a single step.
But though instances have unquestionably occurred in which signal beneficial results have followed the preaching of the Gospel by ungodly men, this is not the normal order of the Divine procedure. It is personal experience of religion as an inward life, as a living power in the heart, that imparts unction to active Christian effort, that adds conviction and power to testimony and commendation. He is the man to do spiritual good to others who is able to say with the Apostle, "That which we have heard, which we have seen with our eyes, and our hands have handled, of the word of life, declare we unto you, that ye also may have fellowship with us." He is the man to say to others, "O taste and see that the Lord is good," who has himself tasted, and from his own enjoyment can say, "Blessed is the man that trusteth in Him."
It is an unchangeable law and constitution of our nature that we cannot desire blessings for others which we do not really desire for ourselves, the blessedness of which we have not known ourselves. When we feel the value of our own souls, and not till then, we shall feel the value of the souls of others. When we see the Lord ourselves, and not till then, we shall desire that every child of man shall see Him.
It is on this account that our Lord says to Peter, "When thou art converted, strengthen thy brethren." "Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou Me? Feed My sheep; feed My lambs." If we are saved ourselves, we shall be best fitted to save and benefit others. There is a virtue in true holiness, there is a secret charm in the wisdom that cometh from above, which wins our hearts, and inclines us to embrace a religion which yields such blessed fruits. The man who eminently possesses and constantly exhibits these qualities becomes quick and powerful in acting upon the minds of those around him.
The best way, then, to do good is to be good, and to have such a Christian character as will of itself communicate good. Be yourself what you wish your family, your friends and neighbours, to be. "Physician, heal thyself." God needs physicians, many physicians; for there are many destroyers spreading the influence of their ungodly life—a deadly infection—around, and adding to the disease and misery which man's sin first brought upon the world. Let us act as fellow-workers with the Good Physician in bringing back health and strength and beauty to a plague-stricken world; and for this purpose let us qualify ourselves more thoroughly. Let us apply the Gospel remedies anew to our own case which we recommend to others, that our own profiting and healing by these may be made manifest to all. Let us ask God to search us and see if there be anything that would prevent us from doing all the good that we might, any defect of manner or disposition of heart that might cause the way of truth so far as we are concerned to be evil spoken of; and let us ask the help of the Divine Spirit to get it healed. So that thus being made every whit whole ourselves, we may diffuse a healthy atmosphere around us and make others partakers of our saving health.
The Sabbath is the best day for healing. Jesus asked the Jews, "Is it lawful to heal on the Sabbath day?" The reply might have been, "Is it lawful to do anything else but heal on the Sabbath day?" That day is set apart for healing the diseases of the world. It is the day of recreation—re-creating us and fitting us anew by its rest and refreshment of worship for the toil and travail of our weekday life. Let us bring to Jesus on this Sabbath day all the old infirmities and disabilities which have been a hindrance to the growth of the work of grace in the midst of us, and He will deliver us from them, and make us new creatures; and so—set free in newness of health and strength, with our palsied frame invigorated, our withered hand restored, our lame feet made swift in the way of God's commandments, and our world-bound spirit loosed from its infirmity and covetousness, and enabled to look upward where our true treasure is—let us seek to free others from their infirmities and diseases, and to make all around us strong in faith and health in the new life of God's service.
Let the tonic that has restored our own spiritual constitution be in all our words and deeds and looks, to restore the spiritual constitution of others. Let the perfume that neutralises the drought and cold of the world be exhaled from all our character and conduct, so that it may be the means of enabling all with whom we come in contact to resist the aridity and the coldness of the world too. Let each of us be so full of Christ's healing and saving power, so saturated with His salvation, as it were, that we ourselves may be Christ's best medicines. Let the words "Physician, heal thyself" be in the very forefront of our profession and of our life throughout all the years; and we ourselves in such a case will be among the most potent influences for good in the world.
pledged
By Katharine Tynan, Author of "A Daughter of Erin," Etc.
IBeside the Wishing Well stood Anthony Trevithick, pale and moody. His eyes were on the ground, and an old childish habit of biting his nails when he was perplexed or in trouble had come back to him.
Beside the Wishing Well stood Anthony Trevithick, pale and moody. His eyes were on the ground, and an old childish habit of biting his nails when he was perplexed or in trouble had come back to him.
"I beg your pardon," said Lord Glengall at his elbow. "I have returned for some things Miss Graydon left behind her."
"These?" asked the young fellow, pointing with his foot to the little heap of trinkets on the moss. But even in his anger he blushed for the unhappiness of the position.
Lord Glengall stooped and picked up the things, and stuffed them into one of the pockets of his rough coat. He turned as if to go away. Then he hesitated an instant and came back.
"There is no reason why we should be enemies," he said, advancing a step nearer.
"No?" replied Anthony Trevithick, lifting his moody eyes. "That depends."
"On what, sir?"
"On—a great many things," stammered the young man.
"You mean on whether I am prepared to stand aside and to sacrifice everything that you may have your will. I know the state of affairs, you see."
"I meant to seek you out and tell you, Lord Glengall. I ought to say, perhaps, that Miss Graydon is without reproach in this matter."
"Neither of us is likely to wrong her in our thoughts, I hope," said Lord Glengall. "The question is, whetheryouare without reproach."
"By what right——" began the younger man.
"Hush!" said the other, with a dignity that was more compelling than his words. "We are speaking as man to man. Miss Graydon has told me something of how affairs lay between you and her, but not all. Why did you leave her in the first instance in the position of a half-engaged girl?"
"Are you her ambassador?"
"She is dearer to me, I dare swear, than she is to you, though you will not believe it. There is no use in beating about the bush. If I think you can make her happier than I can, I am prepared to give her back her promise."
"Lord Glengall!"
A gesture silenced the words on his lips.
"Don't say anything, please. If I do it, I do it for her. And I shall only give her up to you if I am sure you are worthy."
"I don't say I am worthy, but I have a fairly clean record. As for that matter, I will explain. I was unwise, but I was not altogether to blame. My mother has a greatly loved young cousin. She has been in the house with us since her mother died some years ago. It was a scheme of my mother's that we should marry, though it was not openly expressed. I did not oppose it. I had no idea what love meant till I saw Pamela; but I had fetched and carried for Lady Kitty. Probably a great number of people thought we were engaged; and it seemed to me that I ought to set the matter straight before I was formally engaged to Pamela."
"It would have been better to have let Pamela alone till you were quite free."
"Yes, I know, but——"
"There; you are young. You can't be expected to be as deliberate as an older man. You meant to act straight by her?"
"I meant to come back in a week a free man. When I was called away to my uncle's sickbed, my mother made me promise not to speak, not to try to clear up things with Lady Kitty, till I returned. I did write to Mr. Graydon, but the letter never reached him." He blushed hotly and paused.
"Yes, I know," interrupted Lord Glengall. "When you came back?"
"When I came back, I found—Pamela engaged to you, and my cousin engaged to a great friend of mine. As it proved, she had never thought of me in that way; but her affection for my mother prevented her from speaking out."
"You should have written again to Mr. Graydon. You made Pamela unhappy."
"I thought he had not written because I said I would come as soon as I could. Then I was kept week after week, till the time turned into months. I am deeply sorry that I caused her unhappiness."
"This is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?"
"It is absolutely the truth, and nothing else."
"Very well, Sir Anthony, I believe you. If you had not been straight, I should have held her to the letter of her bond against you and the world, even against herself. Now—in her heart she has chosen you, and you are a fitter mate for her than I—I resign her to you."
"Lord Glengall!"
"I do not ask your thanks, sir. Make her happy—that is all. For the rest, I have one word of advice for you."
"Whatever it is, I shall act upon it."
"Go back to-night to England."
"Without a word to Pamela?"
"Let her be. I will say what is necessary. You will have to win her again, young sir. She is not the girl to change her lovers like her frocks."
"Perhaps you are right, sir," with hesitation.
"Go," said Lord Glengall, waving him away, "go! If you speak to her in her present mood, you will be sorry. Let her be free of both of us for a while."
"You, too, will leave her?"
"I shall leave her till all this is forgotten. It will be nothing new for me to set out for the ends of the earth at an hour's notice."
"You are, as Pamela says, the best man living."
"Stop!" said Lord Glengall, with a gesture as if he could not endure the praise. "Good-bye!"
"Good-bye," repeated Sir Anthony, turning away.
Several times as he went homeward Lord Glengall stooped to pat the shaggy coat of the terrier who still trotted by him.
pointingPointing with his foot to the little heap of trinkets.
Pointing with his foot to the little heap of trinkets.
Pointing with his foot to the little heap of trinkets.
"You don't know poetry, old fellow," he said once aloud, "but there was a poet named Shakespeare who wrote something about people coming back 'to push us from ourstools.' I am not good at remembering poetry; but that young gentleman we have just left has come back to push us from our stools—to push us from our stools."
The dog, as if he understood, thrust a sympathetic nose into his companion's hand.
When Lord Glengall reached Carrickmoyle, he went straight to Mr. Graydon's room. Mary was sitting by her father, stitching a piece of fine white stuff in the twilight.
"Ah! Glengall," said the invalid briskly. "Have you come in to smoke a last pipe with me? Come and tell me what prices were like at the fair to-day. Run away, Molly child, and rest your eyes, and let Glengall have your seat."
The two men lit up soberly, and smoked away for a while, discussing prices and cattle and crops in a desultory fashion.
At last Lord Glengall knocked out the ashes from his stumpy clay against the top bar of the grate, and stuffed the pipe into his pocket.
"I wanted to talk to you about Pam, Graydon," he said.
"What about Pam?"
"Only that I did the child an injustice in wanting to marry her. I am too old."
"Does Pam say this? Are you speaking for her?"
"Poor little Pam! There were some love-passages, Graydon, between her and your pupil Trevithick."
"I guessed as much, but how far the thing went I have no idea. I don't believe in probing into those things, Glengall. It is better to let them die."
"Had you any idea that the young fellow might possibly ask for her?"
"I hoped so once, not because it would be a good marriage for Pam, or anything of that sort, but because I thought him a good lad, and I believed in his father's son. I was disappointed that he turned out so different from my expectations."
"Would you be surprised to hear that he wrote to you about Pam immediately after he left, and that his mother intercepted the letter?"
"His mother!"
"Yes; she had other views for him."
"I wonder why she came here, why she troubled our peace, and forced her hospitality on Pam, who didn't want it?" said Mr. Graydon musingly.
"To make a parting between the lad and Pam more certain. She told Pam he was engaged to his cousin; and in other ways made the child's visit miserable."
"My poor Pam! I remember she hated to go."
"I am sorry the boy has such a mother."
"Yet I remember her a very noble-looking girl. I don't think she was made for mean things."
"Ah! well, we can let her be. She is sufficiently punished, poor woman, by her son's scorn. That must be a terrible thing to endure."
"And she is a proud woman."
"However, Graydon, we are not concerned with her. The state of the case is this: The young people were in love with each other, and were parted by a fraud. Under a total misapprehension, Pamela has engaged herself to me. Now that the misapprehension is removed, what is the clear course for me to take?"
"I should ask Pamela, Glengall."
"Pamela is at this moment in a mood in which it would not be safe to take her at her word. The only thing for me to do is to step down and out."
"Glengall!" said Mr. Graydon, laying a hand on his.
"Don't pity me just now, Graydon. Frankly, I'm not equal to it."
"Have you told Pam?"
"I shall tell her. Afterwards I shall go away till the nine days' wonder is forgotten."
"Glengall, I wish this had not happened."
"There is one way in which you can atone to me for its bitterness—I don't mind confessing to you that it is bitter."
"And that way?"
"You must borrow from me what will take you abroad. You must; it is for their sakes."
"Very well; if there is no other way. I shall repay you, I hope."
"You have plenty of time before you to grow rich in. When you come back next spring, you must finish yourmagnum opus."
Mr. Graydon rubbed his hands in boyish cheerfulness.
"I shall feel equal to tackling it after a change. I'm afraid I've been vegetating, and the mosses and mildew have grown upon me. You have lived, Glengall, while I was growing into a worthless old block."
"It is you who have lived," said Lord Glengall. "You have lived naturally. When I die, it is the end of my line, and I shall have no one to close my eyes."
When he found Pam in the drawing-room alone, a little later, he drew her to him, and kissed her hair where it clustered over the white forehead.
"I have brought your pretty things, Pam," he said, fumbling in his pocket.
"And you have forgiven me?"
"I have forgiven you, dear."
He fastened the little chain about her neck and the bracelet on her wrist.
"You will wear them for me, Pam?" hesaid. "I should not know what to do with them."
"And my ring?" said Pam, wondering.
"I have taken back the ring. You are free, Pam; free as air."
free"You are free, Pam; free as air."
"You are free, Pam; free as air."
"You are free, Pam; free as air."
"But I don't want to be free."
"You did yesterday, Pam, and you will to-morrow. I have seen Sir Anthony, Pam. He is guiltless, and will come again."
"I do not want him to come," cried Pam with a great sob.
"I sent him away because I was afraid if he came to you now you would make him and yourself unhappy. He hated to go, but he went. He will come again. You will be good to him, Pam, because you love him. Now, good-bye, my dear. I shall come back when you are married."
Pamela's hands were over her eyes, and she was crying quietly.
"Another thing, Pam," he said. "I have arranged with your father. He is to winter abroad."
"Sylvia will see to that," she answered. "Miss Spencer has made it easy for her. At least, we need not take that from you."
"You have given me great happiness," he repeated. "And now, good-bye, my dear, good-bye."
A day or two later Carrickmoyle was startled by the news that Lord Glengall had sailed for Australia.
"I wish something would happen," said Sylvia; "it is the longest summer I have ever known."
Sylvia was wearing black for Miss Spencer, who had passed away peacefully afew weeks after that talk with Pamela. When the legal formalities were completed, Sylvia would bechâtelaineof Dovercourt; but her interest in her inheritance seemed very slight.
"By-and-by," she had said, "I shall be glad to know that I have money to do things with; but just at present I can only remember what it is that has made me rich."
marry"I thought you were going to marry him, Bridget."
"I thought you were going to marry him, Bridget."
"I thought you were going to marry him, Bridget."
"Why not have Mr. Baker or Mr. St. Quintin to tea quietly?" suggested Pam. "I am sure they are longing to come, and they would cheer you up."
But Sylvia would not. She preferred to wander from the house to the garden with the dogs at her heels, or to stray from one room to another, having a desultory chat with her father, who was now up and about, or with Mary, cheerfully sewing her bridal clothes, usually ending up with a visit to Bridget in the kitchen.
Bridget quite agreed with Sylvia about the dulness of the house, and suggested the same remedy for it as Pamela had done.
"Have a bit of company, child," she said. "Sure, her that's gone (the heavens be her bed!) 'ud be the last to grudge the young what's natural to the young, let alone that I hear young Mr. St. Quintin's that mopy that they say 'tis to horse-racin' he's took, wid the design of breakin' his neck by way of divarsion."
"Don't talk such nonsense, Bridget," said Sylvia languidly. "The horse is not born that could unseat Mr. St. Quintin. He can stick on like grim death. But I don't feel that company, such company as I could get, would be any good to me. I don't like young people, Bridget."
"Well, sorra such a house I ever was in," said Bridget, scandalised.
"Never mind, Bridget dear," said Sylvia, who had temporarily lost her taste for sharp argument with Bridget. "I suppose I was born old."
"Listen to her," cried Bridget, "an' she wid the lightest feet, aye, an' the purtiest face in the barony! Between you and Miss Pamela, me heart's fairly bruk. There's Miss Pamela, that ought to be goin' to be married a week from next Tuesday, goin' round as mopy as a chicken wid the pip. I never seen such goin's on anywhere I was."
"It certainlyistime," said Sylvia again, "that something should happen, and, short of marrying myself, Bridget, I'll do anything to bring it about."
"Indeed, then Mr. St. Quintin's a pleasant young gentleman," said Bridget, broadly smiling, "though an imp of mischief. 'Tis meself'll not forget in a hurry how he whipped the steps from undher Grady whinhe was pickin' the morello cherries, an' never purtended he heard him bawlin' melia murther, an' the ould rogue, as he was contrivin' to slip down by the trunk, caught by a twig in his breeches an' held there! As I said to Mr. St. Quintin, I hoped he thought then on poor Mary that's gone, that often he made suffer, the crathur!"
"I thought you were going to marry him, Bridget," said Sylvia, with the same languid interest.
"Och, then, heaven forgive you, Miss Sylvia. Sure them was only my jokes. Not but what he axed me. 'The mischief bother you, man,' says I. 'Is it havin' me commit murther you'd be? Why, sure I couldn't keep me hands off you if I was lookin' at you every day, an' then I'd be tried an' hung for it, maybe.'"
"Well, I'm glad you're not going to marry him under the circumstances," said Sylvia. "But, all the same, it is time some of us made a stir."
And even then one thing that was to disturb the current of their lives was on its way.
The very morning after Sylvia's conversation with Bridget there was a large square envelope for Mr. Graydon, which somewhat exercised his youngest daughter's imagination.
"Come here, dad," she said, when at last he arrived at the breakfast-table. "I've been longing for something to happen, and I believe this is really a happening at last."
"It is my uncle's writing," said Mr. Graydon, as he took the letter and opened it. As he read it his face grew graver and graver.
"Poor old Uncle Charles!" he said, when he had finished. "His boy is dead."
Lord Downshire's letter was very characteristic:—
"My dear Archie,—I will not say you have scored again, but at least I have failed with the last card I held against you. My boy is dead. I don't ask for your sympathy or your pity. You, with your healthy girls, cannot appreciate what I suffer. I am racked in the spirit and the body, and I shall be very glad to leave a world that has lost savour for me. I heard indirectly that you were ill after you had been here; but, you see,youhave recovered, and it is my boy that is dead. You are my heir now, and I am too sick of it all to make another attempt to frustrate you. And there is no use continuing in enmity against you, so I shall make you an allowance proportionate to the condition of my heir. I shall not ask to see you, but Messrs. Lees and Saunders, of Lincoln's Inn—you will remember Saunders; Lees died last year—have my instructions."
Mr. Graydon put the letter into his pocket when he had read it.
"Something has happened, Sylvia," he said sorrowfully. "I am Lord Downshire's heir once more; and yet I would a thousand times rather be as I was, and the old man's little son living."
But the happenings of the day were not over.
Sylvia, going her pilgrimage to Miss Spencer's new grave, was aware of a tall young figure, which had something familiar about it, swinging along towards her. Presently she recognised Anthony Trevithick.
"Miss Sylvia," he said, "I am so glad I met with you. I want to see Pamela."
"Pamela!" with oddly upraised eyebrows.
"Yes—Pamela. I have stayed away as long as I could. I promised Lord Glengall I would give her time."
"Oh! that is how it is, is it?"
"Yes; didn't you know?"
"I guessed, of course, but Pam is not the old Pam. She has been as solemn as an owl, and as secretive, ever since.... When was it?... I really think it began about the time of your going away. She used to be the best of good company."
"What is this for, Miss Sylvia?" said the young man, touching her black frock.
"Ah! You do not know. Miss Spencer died a month ago."
"I am sorry," he said, with a sympathy which at once made Sylvia his friend.
"Does Pam know you are coming?" she asked.
"No. I was afraid to announce myself. Perhaps she will show me the door."
"Perhaps she won't, Sir Anthony. She's fond of you, you see."
"Oh, Miss Sylvia!" cried Anthony Trevithick, flushing delightedly through his tan.
"Oh, yes! she's fond of you. I'm not going to talk about her secrets, but I know how it is. I knew all along. That is why I was so vexed with her—when—— Never mind. You want to see Pamela, then? Well, just wait for me a minute outside this gate. I will come back with you then, and find Pamela for you."
"You are awfully good."
"Perhaps I'm glad to get rid of Pam. She's prettier than I am, though some people don't think so. Perhaps I'm afraid of her stealing my admirers."
"I believe it is only your goodness to me."
"And to Pam. She's not the same Pam she was a year ago. If you make her like her old self, I shall forgive you even that you left us forlorn and unsquired at that famous festivity for which you should have returned."
"Oh! Miss Sylvia, I shan't believe that."
She did not try Anthony Trevithick's patience by keeping him waiting long at the churchyard gate. She was gone only a minute or two before she returned, her basket empty of its flowers, and her face, which had gainedso much in character and sweetness during the year, a little overshadowed.
When they reached Carrickmoyle, she brought Anthony Trevithick through the sunny hall where the door stood, as ever, hospitably open, and into the big drawing-room. "Stay here till I find Pam," she said. She went upstairs two steps at a time in the boyish way he remembered. He listened with a smile on his face till the sound of the footsteps died away. Then he began to walk up and down nervously.
Pam sat in the window of her own little room with her chin in her hands, gazing over the summer-dark landscape, her air listless, and her eyes apathetic.
"It is lonely, Sylvia," she said, scarcely turning her head as her sister entered.
"You never used to find it so," said Sylvia. "I remember the time when Carrickmoyle held all the delights for you."
"That was when we were little girls in short frocks, and led poor Mick into scrapes."
"Many a year ago," said Sylvia. "When you struck Anthony Trevithick with the sun-bonnet that was intended for the red cock——"
Pamela's heightened colour assured Sylvia of what she wanted to know.
"Pam," she said, "why don't you make it straight with Anthony Trevithick?"
"How do you know there is anything to make straight?"
"Rubbish!" said Sylvia, with quiet scorn.
"Oh, Sylvia!" said Pamela, "you don't understand. I am tired of love and lovers. I only want to be let alone. I have suffered too much."
"If you have, it's your own fault. You'd no business to take poor dear Glengall when you were in love with someone else, though how you could look at others in the same day with Glengall fairly bothers me. And now, why don't you write and ask Anthony Trevithick to come back?"
"I don't want him to come back."
"Yes, you do; you're crying your eyes out for him every night. Yes, you are. And why you let all this muddle go on without doing anything to prevent it I don't know. I could shake you, Pam!"
"What would you have done, Sylvia?"
"Well, supposing I was in love with a man and knew him to be in love with me, and supposing he went away and didn't write, I'd never think anything except that the letter was lost. If I could get at him, I'd write and ask him what it meant. If I couldn't, I'd go on believing in him, maybe till I was old and grey, and till I died, as some have done—if I really loved him, mind you."
"Perhaps you are right, Sylvia."
"There's no doubt about it, Madam Faint-Heart."
"But come," she said, after a benevolent scrutiny of Pamela; "come, you look very nice, unless you'd like to put on the pink sun-bonnet. Anthony Trevithick is in the drawing-room."
"Sylvia!"
"Yes, I know I ought to have mentioned it before, instead of talking nonsense. The poor young man's on tenter-hooks."
"Sylvia! Ican'tgo down."
"Yes, you can. You shall, even if I have to use force."
"Very well, Sylvia," said Pam, rising and trembling a little.
"Come, don't think about it. Do it quickly, as we used to take our cod-liver oil long ago. Let us run down the stairs. There, you poor little thing! your hands are cold. The run will warm them."
And, half-resisting, Pamela was pulled by force down the stairs.
Nevertheless, she entered the room with her head high.
"How do you do, Sir Anthony?" she began.
"Ah, Pam darling!" cried the young man, coming to meet her. "Don't give me any more cold words or cold looks. I haven't deserved them, and if you've nothing else for me I shall go away for ever."
"No, surely," said Pam, and her sweet voice had a little surprise in it. "You didn't really deserve any blame at all."
"But you did, for I asked you to trust me, Pam. I asked you to trust me, and your faith was brittle."
"So it was," said Pam.
"Well," said Sylvia, as she went out and closed the door. "It is plain these recriminations are not meant for me. Heigho! I wish Mr. Baker would come along just now, that I might have the satisfaction of refusing him. It is easy to see that Glengall is as completely forgotten as if he had never existed."
No one could say that Mr. Graydon's youngest daughter was not loyal to the absent.
Pamela Graydon had been Pamela Trevithick for three years, when one day in late summer Sylvia, still Sylvia Graydon, was entertaining a visitor in her London drawing-room.
It was Lord Glengall, a shade greyer, a shade leaner, but looking well nevertheless, and brown with southern suns.
"And so," he said, "we shall travel back to Ireland together."
"It will be a delightful and unexpected pleasure to have your company."
"You are glad to return, Sylvia?"
"Glad! It is no word for it. I am hungry for the velvety wind that blows across the mountains. I am so tired of these glaring streets, of parties, and dinners and luncheons, and functions of all kinds."
Lord Glengall laughed.
"To tell you the truth, I am amazed and amused to find your father in the midst of it all."
resistingHalf-resisting, Pamela was pulled by force.
Half-resisting, Pamela was pulled by force.
Half-resisting, Pamela was pulled by force.
"Papa! Oh, papa is the veriest Piccadilly lounger. He has returned to it all as freshly as if he had never left it. He discovered troops of old friends—without a misgiving—as soon as ever he came in for the title."
"He doesn't pine for Carrickmoyle?"
"Now and again. When the desire becomes very strong, he and I slip away to Euston some evening, forgetting all our engagements, and, for a few days, our new circumstances, at Carrickmoyle, where Bridget cooks our chops and makes us potato-cakes just as of old."
"I am glad to hear Bridget is still to the fore."
"She is not a day older."
"She never carried out her threat of marrying my gardener?"
"Mr. Grady is still a widdy-man, as they used to say in the dear country."
"But to return to your father. Themagnum opushas become an accomplished fact. You see, I haven't been so far out of the world as not to have heard that."
"Yes. It has been a great success. He is as much in request at learned societies and conversaziones as he is in fashionable drawing-rooms. To think of the years he vegetated at Carrickmoyle!"
"Happy years, Sylvia."
"I could hardly hope for happier."
"He will be in soon, Sylvia?"
"About half-past five," consulting a little watch fastened to her gown. "You can endure my company till then."
"I shall try to. But am I not keeping you from afternoon calls or something? I saw a carriage at the door as I came in."
"I have sent it away. I was rejoiced to do it. Papa will be simply wild with delight at your falling from the clouds like this."
"He hasn't forgotten me, then?"
"How should he? The only drawback about Carrickmoyle has been that we could see from it the cold chimneys of Glengall."
"Ah! we shall warm them," said Lord Glengall, beaming at her. "We shall have fine jinks if only you and your father will spend six months of the year at Carrickmoyle. I am no Londoner, and never shall be. But I shall be able to endure six months of solitude if I know I am going to have you for the remainder of the year."
"You will not long be left solitary. You cheated the country the last time by disappearing again before it had had time to rejoice over you. Your return will flutter the dovecotes for thirty miles around."
"You are very kind, Sylvia," said Lord Glengall simply. "But you have not told me half the news," he went on. "How is Molly?"
"Flourishing. Mick has got his company. He wouldn't leave the service on any consideration, and I think he was right. They are as much in love with each other as ever; and they have a beautiful boy."
"Ah! that is right. Molly deserved to be happy."
"She did, and so did Mick. Mick is a dear old fellow."
"And Pam, Sylvia?"
There was no consciousness in his voice.
"Pam, too, is a success. She has been a beauty for three seasons, strange to say."
"And it is a happy marriage?"
"Perfectly happy. They are ideally well suited."
"I am glad of that. How does Pam get on with her mother-in-law?"
"Fairly well, I believe. Lady Jane keeps herself to herself, which is lucky for Pam. I never took to that lady. But she is devoted to the heir. She wouldn't strike you, somehow, as a grandmotherly person, but it is so."
"There is an heir?"
"Yes; he is two years old, and he has a baby sister of seven months."
"Ah! how you young people have been making history since I left. I shall not know this new world of your making."
"You find me changed?"
"Lovelier, Sylvia."
"It is nice to have you say that."
"Still greedy for conquest, even though it is only an old fogey?"
"Ah!"—with more intensity than he thought the occasion demanded—"you never can be that!"
"You are always kind, little girl. When I look into your eyes, I fancy it is the old Sylvia I am talking to, and not a fine lady."
"It is the old Sylvia."
"The Sylvia I knew would never have worn this"—touching a fold of her dress.
"She would, if she could. It is only a Paris tea-gown. She was happier in the prints at sixpence a yard from Guirk's shop in Lettergort."
"Happier, Sylvia? What have you been doing with yourself since?"
"Growing old and faded with trying to occupy several houses at once and doing a great many things I detest."
She laughed at him from where she sat in her youth and beauty, and he laughed in answer.
"Where are the lads who used to be in love with you?"
"All married, except Algy St. Quintin; but he has long given up asking me. We are good comrades."
"No more than that, Sylvia?"
"No more than that. I wouldn't lose sight of him for anything. He is just the same imp of mischief, as Bridget used to call him. His coolness is phenomenal, and his impudence so deliciously incongruous with his cherubic boy's face."
"There is no one else, Sylvia?"
"There is no one else."
"Ah! you are so hard-hearted, child. Or is it that you will stay with your father?"
"Not altogether that. I've seen no one here I would marry."
"Yet you have met all sorts and conditions of men."
"All sorts and conditions, but not the right one."
"The right one will come."
"He might come—he may have come, and not have found me the right woman."
She looked at him an instant; then she suddenly blushed hotly, and her eyes fell and rested on the jewelled fingers in her lap. So full was her attitude of yielding and submission that it might well make the heart of a lover leap.
A sudden, bewildering idea came to the man before her. For an instant he was dazed with the shock of it. Then he stood up and paced the room in great agitation.
"Sylvia," he said at last, pausing before her where she still sat, a lovely image of submission, "Pamela was right when she did not marry me."
"She was right because she did not love you."
"How could she love me? I might have been her father."
"That is no reason. Love does not take count of such things."
"Ah, Sylvia! What has love to do with grey hairs?"
"If there is love, they are better than gold."
"Sylvia, do you know what madness you are putting into my head?"
"I cannot know unless you tell me."
Sylvia's eyes were raised to his with a flash of the old audacity.
"Perhaps I dare not tell you."
"Ah, do!"
"If I were a young man and you would do it, you might turn this work-a-day earth to Paradise for me."
"And why not now?"