When Jean was told, she marvelled at Miss Lorraine's composure.
"I have always wondered," she said simply, "why you did not come together before."
And this was the general opinion of their friends. The Colonel came as often as he generally did to the house, but his anxious care and thought for his numerous protégés was most touching, and once Miss Lorraine broke down.
"Why do the good people all go first?" she exclaimed. "You can't be spared, Philip. It is such a test of our faith to believe that it is for the best!"
He smiled, and shook his head. It was easier for him to feel resigned to his fate, than for her; but she never uttered a complaint again, and outwardly was the same bright, brave soul that she had always been.
It was just at this time, that Jean's picture was accepted for the Royal Academy. She could hardly believe in her good fortune at first, and then was quite cast down, to think that neither Miss Lorraine nor Colonel Douglas would ever see it hanging there. They were both delighted at her success, and the Colonel said, "You will go ahead now, Jean. I predict that picture will make your name."
"It is all owing to you," she said gratefully.
TOWN FRIENDS
"Friendship is the great chain of human society."—J. Howell.
THE marriage took place very quietly one bright frosty morning. Only Mrs. Talbot, Jean, and Colonel Douglas's best man were present. It was their wish to have it performed privately.
Jean's eyes were full of tears, when the parting came. The Colonel looked ill and worn, but his face was illumined with peace and content, and his wife was perfectly oblivious of everything and everybody but him.
As they drove away, Mrs. Talbot turned to Jean.
"That is a marriage that must have Heaven's blessing on it!" she said. "Philip is lucky to have won her at last, when he needs her most. He ought to have been married to her, years ago. I never could understand it. It seems an irony of fate, doesn't it? That they should be allowed such a short time of wedded bliss. But Frances is a sensible woman to have done it. She will be an invaluable nurse to him, and I really could not have left my family to go with him."
Jean felt very forlorn, when they had gone. Mrs. Douglas had let her house to a friend, and Jean was in lodgings with an old servant of hers, who had a house in a quiet little street at the back of the church in Kensington High Street. She was away most of the day, but in the evening, when she came back to her empty rooms, she realised how lonely a girl could be living in London. It was a good thing that she had her interest in Sunnie's picture just now. That occupied her thoughts and attention.
One afternoon, she was walking back to her lodgings, when she met Charlie Oxton.
He greeted her delightedly.
"I've been round to your house and had such an experience. Six young ladies drinking tea with their mamma. You could have knocked me down with a feather! They were all most gushing, and when I asked for your address, tried to look shocked. So, then I explained, I was your cousin and had a perfect right to go to your rooms and have tea or lunch, or dinner as I happened to want it. And I added, 'I'm from the Colonies, and I'm accustomed to straightforward, simple dealing.' And then seeing from their looks they didn't approve, I hooked it."
"But," said Jean, who could not help smiling at this characteristic speech, "I don't intend to offer you hospitality in my rooms. It is one of the things Miss Lorraine begged me not to do. Dear me! I shall never call her Mrs. Douglas. You see she didn't much like my living by myself; but girls do it as a matter of course now, and I am in no ways peculiar. Only I have to be very circumspect in my conduct."
"Bother take circumspection! Let us go and have tea somewhere. I hate English conventionality!"
Jean took him to a favourite tea-shop of hers.
"You have heard that my picture has been taken?" she said.
"No, really? Hearty congratulations. Rawlings must come up. He remembers the crimson rambler, and said only the other day, 'Miss Jean's fortin' be long in comin'. Well, her tooked her way agen the master an' me, and her be bound to suffer!'"
"Do you think they will sky it? Or stuff it, in some dark corner? I'm so anxious, that I long to go and beard the whole lot of them in their den. Who hangs the pictures, Charlie?"
"I'm hanged, if I know! What a rum affair this is of the Colonel's! It has all been done so rapidly that I can hardly believe it. What brought him to the scratch? Why on earth, do two old parties of that age want to spoon? I thought she was too sensible a woman for that sort of thing!"
Jean's eyes flashed.
"She is too sensible for you to discuss at all. I daresay, you can't understand it. They are both of them above and beyond you altogether, and I'll ask you not to mention their names before me, unless you do it respectfully!"
Jean's flashes of temper always amused Charlie Oxton. His eyes twinkled.
"You're awfully handsome when you're roused. I haven't the bump of veneration. Was born without it, they tell me. But I don't want to talk about them. It was quite 'promiskus'! How are your country friends? Awfully good sort they are!"
"I heard from Chris this morning," said Jean, relapsing into calm again.
"And that dreary old brown room you were painting. Is it finished? Has that been offered to the Academy? No? That's a pity. They'll lose something. Are you doing any portraits now? Because I think I could get you some commissions."
"I'm open to any offer," said Jean.
"But you won't paint me."
"No, you're too uninteresting. I like to paint good-looking people."
"Now that's what I call downright wickedness of you art people. You're all for outside show. Dress Vice up in beauty, and you'll paint her! The truly virtuous and intelligent of the earth count for naught. Why do you paint portraits? To perpetuate the individuals after they've gone the way of most men. Why should the homely good folk not be remembered, as well as fashion's beauties?"
"I quite agree with you," said Jean, "and as a matter of fact they often are—if they can afford it. It is only rich people, who order life-sized portraits in oils. But real good people will leave their lives and influence imprinted on the hearts of those who love them, and they will need no portraits to remember them by. The beauties who have nothing but their faces to recommend them, will need to have their pictures taken, if their friends wish to remember them at all."
"Poor Beauties!" said Charlie. "So now I know why you won't paint me. My life and influence has so imprinted itself on your heart, that you will need no portrait to bring me before you. Well—there's something soothing in that! But about this commission. It is an old chap who has been making his pile in Australia. He has had some funny ups and downs, but now he has settled down as a family man and bought an estate in Berkshire, and he wants to decorate his walls with the orthodox oil portraits. His wife vows she won't sit for the biggest painter living, but he is determined to have his own visage on his walls, and I undertook to sound you on the subject."
"I might not give him satisfaction," said Jean, slowly.
"Bless your heart! Anything would satisfy him. I believe I could sketch him off myself. A bald head, two keen far-seeing eyes, smug placid self-satisfied smile, thick plebeian nose, and very big prominent ears. White shirt front and red tie. Place him against a marble pillar, with an Italian stuccoed villa in the background, let his fat hand with two huge rings rest on a greyhound's head, and there you have him!"
"It doesn't sound enticing!"
"But, my dear girl, you don't paint because you like it, do you?"
"Of course, I do."
"I thought you were making it your profession."
"So I am."
Charlie looked at her and shook his head. "You'll never make your fortune," he said.
Jean laughed gaily.
"Not my pile, like your good friend, but I shall get along. I have no expensive tastes, and a simple life suits me best."
"There I'm with you! The more money you have, the more you multiply your responsibilities, worries, and accounts! I can tot up rows of figures, as long as they don't run into more than three or four figures; then I'm stumped! We have a good many tastes in common, Jean."
"Very few I should say," asserted Jean.
He chatted on, driving dull care away, persisted in loading her with flowers, when he left her at her door, and scolded her well, for not being willing to go to a theatre with him. He stayed in town several days, and each day, found him lying in wait for Jean as she came out of her art school. She was quite relieved when he left town. He made her promise to write to him, if she wanted commissions for portraits.
"I run up against a lot of people, am always looking up old chums and going to stay at their places. I'm not like you were—bound and tied to the old man. I told him I must have perfect liberty of action and speech, and he knuckled under, in no time. But I'm often in the way of getting you work, remember; and will be on the look out for a real out-and-out beauty for you! Drop me a line if you think better of my old sheep-farmer. He isn't a bad sort of fellow."
A few days after his departure Jean got the following letter from him—
"MY DEAR JEAN,—You should have seen Rawlings' face when I told him the news! He looked as if I were offering him a mixture of apple dumpling and squashed toads! A kind of proud disgust and of awed contempt showed itself in his smile. 'Ay, sir, if you be speakin' Gospel truth, I be pleased that the maid has not come to ruin. Her were allays so cocksure that her would do it, that I did feel 'twas the Almighty's business to teach her a lesson; but maybe the lesson will come. 'Tis from the top o' the tree, the fall be lowest! Go up to see it, sir? Well, maybe I shouldn't mind that, as long as it be a respectable, nice sort of a pictur! There are picturs, and there are picturs, sir, and 'tis to be hoped that Miss Jean have done her name and fam'ly credit. I be very pleased to hear that her have been doin' her best, but I've never rightly understood this Academy. 'Tis a school for young gents, I reckon; but tis not seemly for Miss Jean to be hangin' her pictur up on their walls!'""I can tell you, he'll be a proper treat in town, and we'll surprise you, when we meet you there. Take care of your little self, and for goodness' sake, guard the door of your lodging-house. What would happen to your reputation, if any male species—friend or relative—should leave their card on the doorstep! I gave the old man your news at dinner. I waited till it was nearly over, and then shot forth my explosive bomb.""It shattered him, you bet! But he didn't move a muscle. In went his eyeglass, and his glare was stony.""Have I not requested you never to mention that young person's name to me? Her actions are of no consequence or interest in my eyes, and neither ought they to be in yours.""'Hum!' I said, but I didn't plague him further.""Goodbye, my little cousin.""Your very plain but devoted""CHARLES."
"Absurd boy!" was Jean's comment. But she folded up the letter, and put it in her desk.
A short time after this, Mrs. Talbot came to see her.
"I promised Frances to look you up now and then, and I always consider you one of my brother's protégés—the only respectable one he has—excuse plain speaking, my dear! How are you getting on? Is your landlady attentive and obliging? You must come and dine with me one night. I shall be giving one or two quiet little dinners soon. By the by, do you know that Mrs. Gordon is coming up to town? She has taken a house in Chester Square for two months. She is bringing up that little child to a specialist. Dr. Fergusson has been planning it for a long time. I shake my head over it. He says she is strong enough for an operation now, which was talked about a long time ago."
"Really!" exclaimed Jean. "Is there any hope at all about her case? I fancied there was none."
"My dear, you know what doctors are! I believe myself, it will be a useless expense and trouble."
"But Dr. Fergusson must know. He would never let Sunnie suffer unnecessarily. And wonderful things are done nowadays. You have surprised me! I never thought Sunnie could be moved. How will she bear the long journey? When are they coming?"
Mrs. Talbot smiled at her excitement. "They will travel in an invalid carriage, of course, with every comfort. I believe they are to arrive to-morrow—I am not sure. Helen Gordon is an old friend of mine. Would you like to meet her again? I will send you an invitation to dinner the night I am expecting her, if you like."
"Thank you very much, but I don't know if Mrs. Gordon would care about seeing me again. She was very kind to me, but I'm a professional, Mrs. Talbot, and she only had me in her house for business. It is Sunnie that I would really like to see."
"Don't have any foolish pride. Mrs. Gordon will be glad to meet any of my guests. And as to Sunnie, go to see her, whenever you like."
When Mrs. Talbot left, Jean's feelings got the better of her. She danced upstairs to her dingy bedroom, put on her hat, and fled out into the park, with a song of thanksgiving in her heart.
Just when she was feeling most lonely, this news had been brought her. She could hardly believe that in a few days' time, she might meet the ones who were so constantly in her thoughts, and then she wondered how Sunnie would bear the journey, and whether she had any idea of what was going to be done with her.
For the next two days Jean haunted Chester Square. She hardly knew why she did it, but deep down in her heart, she had a secret hope that she might see Dr. Fergusson's tall, upright figure go in or come out of one of the houses. She felt shy about calling, for she did not feel sure of Mrs. Gordon's attitude towards her, but when the third and fourth day passed, and she heard and saw nothing of them, she resolved to venture. She knocked at the door in fear and trembling, and was more relieved than otherwise, when she was told that Mrs. Gordon was out. Then she asked for Sunnie's nurse, and was shown into the drawing-room. In a few minutes, the old nurse appeared, and her face was reassuring.
"Eh, dear Miss Desmond! 'Tis homely to see you, mem, in this great city. The bairn is just wonderfu', but she was awfu' upset by the journey, and we've had to keep her fearsome quiet. My heart misgies me ower this concarn, but 'tis the doctor's will and her mither's, and I'm ne'er the one to speak my mind agen it."
"Could I see her, do you think, nurse?"
"Weel, I'll no say ye mayn't, but the doctor's orders were that she mustna be excited, an' ye know what a bit o' quicksilver it is. There's to be a consultation to-morrow, an' I'm doubtin' if—"
"Never mind," said Jean, swallowing her disappointment bravely. "I will wait. I will leave you my address, Nurse, and then—"
She paused, for she heard a hasty knock at the hall door, and then a quick step that she knew very well.
In another moment the drawing-room door opened, and Dr. Fergusson walked in.
SUNNIE'S MOTHER
"What would I give for a heart of flesh to warm me through,Instead of this heart of stone, ice-cold whatever I do;Hard and cold and small, of all hearts the worst of all?"—Christina Rossetti.
HE smiled as he shook hands with Jean.
"You have found us out," he said. "Sunnie has been expecting to see you every day. Her mother was not sure of your present address."
"Can I see her," asked Jean, "or is it best not?"
"I don't think it will hurt her a bit, only you mustn't stay long, for her sleep forsakes her at present, when she is too talkative."
"Perhaps Mrs. Gordon would rather I did not see her to-day."
"If you have my permission, it will be all right."
His smile was bright as he looked at her, and then he led her upstairs and opened the door of a large front drawing-room. There, on her couch by the window, was Sunnie. She did not turn her head or hear their entrance, for she was busy talking to her bird.
"If you were let out of your cage now, Dicky darling, would you know how to fly? Or would you have quite, quite forgotten how to, all these long, long years? But I think I know the secret, Dicky. I shall soon fly somehow, and they're going to make me either fly on earth, or else fly to heaven!"
Jean's eyes filled with sudden tears. Then, she stepped quickly across the room, and knelt down by the couch. Sunnie's arms were round her neck in an instant.
"My darling painter! You've come at last. Now I'm quite happy; and isn't it a wonderful happenings my being in London!"
"Now listen to me," put in Dr. Fergusson, as he pulled out his watch and shook it sternly in front of Sunnie. "Ten minutes' talk, and then Miss Desmond must go; those are my orders. She will come again another day."
Sunnie looked at him, a little saucily. "We shall have to talk very fast then, for there's ten million things, I want to tell her! This isn't my first visit to my painter in London, is it? You remember how I came before?"
She looked up at Jean with one of her mischievous glances.
"I've been to London very often since you've been here! I left my body behind, as I told you it was too hindering and stupid! Cousin Leslie never knew how I came—it was just a secret between me and you—and now I've come like everybody else does, by the train, with luggage, and it's a much stupider way, and it tires one so."
"But I love to see you here, Sunnie," said Jean, with her hand caressing the golden curls. "It has been such a pleasant surprise to me."
"And where has your little ill lady gone to?"
"Far away. She has a husband now, and doesn't want me."
"That's a pity! Cousin Leslie and me often wants you; we shall never get husbands and leave off wanting you!"
Jean laughed merrily. "You can't tell, Sunnie. You are safe from one for a long time yet, but he may turn up one day!"
"Let me tell you a nice little plan of mine," said Sunnie, with an old-fashioned air. "I've thought of it for a long time. You must come to us soon again, and instead of my picture you must paint Cousin Leslie. Yes—" here she held up one small finger at the doctor—"you're not to confusion me by laughing! My painter shall do you, and I'll tell you how to sit. I shall have you sitting in a chair, and you'll be smelling a bunch of violets, and your hair must just be long enough, to curl up at the edge like I love to see it, and I'll put my fur rug over your feet, and you must be reading a book, and just looking up and pretending not to laugh. And do you know what the picture shall be called?"
"Let me see," said the doctor. "I should think it might be 'The Versatile Wonder.' I am to be smelling, and curling, and cowering under a rug, and sitting, and reading, and looking, and pretending. Don't you think I might be talking, and playing the piano, and walking, and—"
Sunnie stopped him severely. "You're to listen to me—this isn't your ten minutes! It's mine and my painter's. The picture shall be called 'The Man We Love.' And my painter shall write it underneath, and send it to the 'Cademy, and it shall be put next mine. That's what it shall be called, for it's quite true, isn't it?" She turned her blue eyes upon Jean for confirmation.
Certainly. Sunnie was good at bringing about embarrassing situations.
Jean's cheeks flushed crimson. She tried to pass it off.
"I'm afraid. I shall never get another picture into the Academy, Sunnie."
"No; but tell me, isn't the name of it nice. We do love him, don't we?"
Jean's eyes caught the doctor's. His sense of humour was stronger than his sentiment fortunately, and she laughed aloud meeting his amused glance.
"What man or woman don't you love, Sunnie?" he asked. "We must wait awhile for this wonderful picture. My hair must curl first!"
The time was slipping by. Jean wondered if Sunnie was purposely keeping off the all-important topic. But in a minute or two, the child's face changed. A shade like the white clouds of a summer's day passed over it. She raised herself on her cushions, and took hold of one of Jean's hands with both hers.
"I'm going through a great thing this week," she said, dropping her voice almost to a whisper. "They say I sha'n't be hurt, and Cousin Leslie promises me I shall feel nothing, but I know it's a solemn thing, because mother's tears fell on my cheeks last night. It means, perhaps, that I shall get up and walk, like the palsy man who was dropped through the roof to Jesus. How I wish He would make me do it without any doctors! I love Cousin Leslie, but I've seen three strange men, and one had glasses that made him look like an owl, and they've poked me about so!"
Jean felt the little hot hands that were holding hers so tightly, begin to tremble. Dr. Fergusson had moved to the other end of the room, and was looking out of the window. She bent and kissed Sunnie on the forehead.
"It will be all right, darling; Cousin Leslie will be there; he won't leave you. And Some One else will be there, too. I am quite sure Jesus will."
The child's blue eyes glistened. She nodded her head gravely. "Yes, I shall shut my eyes, and tell Him to take me straight to heaven, if it hurts too much."
Then, in an unusually brisk and cheerful little tone, she remarked aloud, "And so you see, when p'raps you see me next, I shall be walking downstairs and opening the door to you, and I shall say, 'Come in; Miss Margaret Gordon has left her sofa, and you'll never see that Margaret Gordon again. Quite a new one is speaking to you now.' My dear painter, tell me true, which will you like best—the new strong walking Sunnie, or the little old sick one?"
Jean's time was up. She clasped the child to her for a minute, and tried to steady her voice.
"My Sunnie, as I know her, will never change," she said, and then she wished her goodbye.
In the hall, Jean turned to Dr. Fergusson, who followed her out.
"Tell me," she said impulsively, "is there any risk?"
"Not much," he said; "not enough to give me an anxious thought, but I don't know what the after effect may be. She is so nervously strung, and so excitable. Her mother and I have talked about it for a long time, and it is entirely her wish that the attempt should be made."
"If anything happened to Sunnie, I should never forgive you."
Jean's tone was fierce with emotion.
"Her mother would certainly not forgive me."
The doctor straightened himself as he spoke, and his features became set and hard.
Then he looked at Jean and his tone softened. "Physicians are only God's instruments," he said. "Little Sunnie is in better hands than ours."
"When is it to be?"
"The day after to-morrow."
There was silence; then as Jean held out her hand his eyes met hers.
"I will let you know the result as soon as I can, but it will not be a sudden cure. Very, very gradual. Goodbye."
He turned back hastily, and Jean went out into the street feeling very depressed, and more lonely than ever.
All the next day, she painted away with feverish eagerness. It was wonderful, the tight hold little Sunnie had taken of her heart; she tried to banish her from her thoughts, but her sweet little pathetic voice kept ringing in her ears—
"They're going to make me either fly on earth, or else fly to heaven!"
When the following day came, she absented herself from the studio, and though she made a pretence of doing a little painting at home, she spent most of her time in pacing her two rooms. Her heart felt bitter against Mrs. Gordon.
"Why should she urge this so much? Does she really care at all for her child, or is her invalidism a bore to her? I suppose Dr. Fergusson can be trusted, but he may have been overpersuaded by her."
If Jean had been a witness of a scene the evening previously, she would have judged Mrs. Gordon less harshly.
She had been sitting by her child till she fell asleep. Sunnie had been restless and wakeful, and it was ten o'clock before she dropped off into the sound slumber her mother waited for. Then Mrs. Gordon rose to leave the room. Turning round, she found that Dr. Fergusson was standing behind her chair, looking meditatively at the little sleeper.
She looked at him.
"This time to-morrow it will all be over."
"Yes," he said; "and God grant it may be successful."
"I want to speak to you. Come into the drawing-room."
Her voice was abrupt, yet before she went she bent down and kissed her child passionately.
Dr. Fergusson looked at her curiously, as he followed her into another room.
He closed the door, and then she turned and faced him. There was a light in her eyes, a tremor about her firmly pressed lips, that showed that this was no light matter to her.
"Tell me again, Leslie, am I risking her life?"
"I can only say, I think not."
"But you are not sure of it being a success? We have the best surgeons, they are hopeful, and you are so. It must, it must be a cure!"
She sat down with her face towards the fire, and though her hands were lightly clasped on her knees, the doctor noted how they trembled, and how nervously she was working her fingers in and out of each other.
After a minute, she said, without looking round—
"Sit down, Leslie, and listen to me. You will not despise me; you know how I love her!"
She stopped, as if she could not go on, and then it seemed as if her tongue was loosed.
She spoke rapidly, choking back more than one dry sob.
"Sunnie is the only bit of joy that God has left me. He has tempered that. I see her suffer, I know how much she misses. I see other healthy, happy children, and remember what she was when she was born."
"I never forget, never for one moment, day or night, what she might be and what she is. She is reconciled to it, but she is not natural, not child-like—she—don't be shocked, God is weaning her from me to Himself. I do not love Him; how can I? She does. Her interest is in the Unseen—mine is not; she loves me as she does her nurse, not as she does God!"
"And, Leslie, listen to me: she is my child—I must have her; she is all that is left to me. I want her to rise from her sofa, to shake off all her unnatural goodness and devotion, to leave it with her cushions and couch, and to come out into the world with me, her mother! Listen! I have stood aside all these years seeing you, and even strangers, gather, round her couch and amuse and interest her hour by hour. I have sat downstairs in my lonely drawing-room and heard the music and the laughter overhead. My heart is too full of passion and bitterness to join in it."
"The child knows I have no sympathy in her pretty fancies and conceits. Life is too real, too horrible to me to pretend to look at it with her innocent eyes. So I have looked on, as I say, and seen her turn to you instead of to me for her amusement and entertainment. Don't mistake me, I have never grudged you one hour you have spent with her. I am grateful, deeply grateful to you for doing what I could never do. I don't know if I am grateful to you and to her nurse, for making her so religious, but I am grateful to you for making her little life a bright and happy one."
"But now—oh, how can I tell you? Ever since you told me there might be a chance of her recovery, that she might, if this operation and treatment is successful, be able to stand and walk, and even be like other girls, how I have hugged the hope of it to my heart, how I have resolved to have my way and will with her, should she regain her health! I am desperately anxious, Leslie, about to-morrow's result! I feel I am staking my all on it, but if we win, my child shall be mine, ten thousand times more than she has ever been! I shall come first with her. I will take her out, and let her mix with other children, and clear her mind of all these morbidly religious fancies."
"Don't think I want to make a clean sweep of you, but I am tired of being in the background; I am tired of feeling my child is more saintly than I am! I want her to drop to her mother's level, to turn to me for wisdom and counsel, to think of earth and all it can give her, and be a little companion to me. A cripple child may well be a saint, but a healthy one, never!"
This passionate revelation of a soul that had shut itself away from others for so long startled its hearer.
Yet as he listened, Dr. Fergusson pitied more than he condemned. He knew that the trouble in her life had made her bitterly rebellious against the One whom she considered had cruelly afflicted her. It had soured and embittered her whole nature, and her very silence and reserve had helped her to nurse her resentment in secret. The flame of anger and bitterness had burnt steadily all these years, eating away all that was good and wholesome in her nature, and Helen Gordon had given way too long to the evil powers in her soul to be ashamed of owning now her passionate feelings and motives.
For a moment there was silence, then the doctor spoke.
"Helen, I can hardly believe it is you that is speaking! If these are your sentiments, may God in His mercy take little Sunnie from you, before you have time to injure her soul!"
The mother sprang to her feet.
"You are cursing me, Leslie!"
"Far be it from me to do that, and yet I can almost feel for the first time in my life, the power and the force of the Master's words: 'But whoso shall offend one of these little ones which believe in Me, it were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and that he were drowned in the depth of the sea!'"
There was a dead silence for a minute. The passion died out of Mrs. Gordon's eyes. She resumed her seat, and Dr. Fergusson gently put his hand on her shoulder.
"Helen, your love for your child will save you from trying to ruin her."
Mrs. Gordon remained silent.
"You are a little unhinged by your anxiety; you do not really mean what you say."
"I mean every word of it," she said huskily. "I don't know why I said it, though!"
"I want to ask you a question." Dr. Fergusson's tone was very grave. "Have you ever prayed since your husband's death?"
She looked straight at him as she replied shortly, "Never."
"Then I want you to do so now, with me. Don't speak. I tell you, I will not undertake to see little Sunnie through this operation, unless you kneel down with me and commit her into God's care and keeping."
"I cannot pray to One whom I have lost faith in!"
"'If we believe not, yet He abideth faithful,'" quoted Dr. Fergusson sadly. "You are a miserable woman, Helen, and in your misery, you are actually contemplating dragging your happy little child—as you express it—down to your own level. Is this a mother's work? Do you see what your wild words signify? Look back to your own childhood, and remember your absolute, unquestioning faith, your confidence and love and trust in God above. I knew you in those days, and I remember. Let us kneel together, and ask for that old faith to be given back to you. God is love. He understands. He pities, and He will forgive."
In another moment, Dr. Fergusson was on his knees in that drawing-room, and yielding to his almost magnetic influence, when again he put his hand on her shoulder, Mrs. Gordon followed his example.
His few quiet words had shown her herself in a startling light.
And then the strong man by her side poured out his soul in earnest, almost heart-broken supplication for her. It was a prayer that seemed to bring God Himself down to wrestle with the powers of darkness that surrounded the soul of one of His creatures.
And Leslie Fergusson knew that there was a desperate issue at stake. He knew that the woman beside him had come to a crisis in her life. If ever her pride was to be broken down, and she was to take the place of a supplicant instead of an injured sufferer, if ever her darkness was to be turned into light, and her rebellious discontent transformed into the peace that passes understanding, that time would be now. It was no wonder that he wrestled in prayer, no wonder that his soul rose in all its strength and importunity, and laid hold of the Hand that moves the world.
As Mrs. Gordon listened to the effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man, she felt indeed that it would avail much.
Let us leave them. If the woman with seven devils in her was brought to the feet of her Saviour, and rid of her tormentors, would He be less ready to receive and pardon one who was likewise brought to His feet by one of His servants?
When Dr. Fergusson came out of that room, he looked worn and exhausted, but there was a light in his eyes that told of victory.
And that night a tear-stained, repentant woman knelt long at her bedside acknowledging her sin, and worshipping the One she had wounded so sorely.
SUCCESS
"Defeat thou know'st not, canst not know;Only thy aims so lofty go,They need as long to root and growAs any mountain swathed in snow."—MacDonald.
"GOT through splendidly and is doing well. There is every hope for her.—L. F."
This was the contents of a note brought to Jean about four o'clock in the afternoon, and the relief was unspeakable. The following day she inquired at the door, and the old nurse saw her for a moment.
"The doctors are very pleased, mem. I canna say so much for meself, for the bairn is just prostrate. If I only ken rightly what they've been doin' to her, but 'tis the muscles and nerves they've keep it blatherin' over, an' whether its untwistin', or cuttin', or lengthenin', or shortenin', a body canna tell. The bairn is to be keep it terrible quiet. An' she lies like a lily, puir wee thing! One o' those wenches from the hospital is helpin' me, but she be a puir feckless critter, an' I'm no gaun to be trappit by sich a wean as her, for her head be so haughty as her brains be sma', an' I'll learn her a few trifles yet, forbye we've seen the last o' her."
But it was many days before Jean could see Sunnie, and meanwhile she had a great pleasure.
One afternoon, Dr. Fergusson met her out, and told her that his mother was coming up to town for a week or two.
"She will be at the Windsor Hotel, and will be so glad to see you. She told me to tell you so. I hope you will be able to go."
"Indeed I will," said Jean, with bright eyes. And she took the first opportunity of paying Mrs. Fergusson a visit.
She found her in a private sitting-room, looking as well and handsome as she had seen her before. She welcomed her very kindly.
"My goddaughter spoke so much of you that I was anxious to see you again. I have to thank you for making her come to me."
"I was so glad she went," said Jean. "She did enjoy it all so."
"I could see she did. She is a happy, unselfish girl with old-fashioned ideas of home and duty. I hope to see more of her. We quite missed her bright, cheery personality when she left us."
They talked a good deal of the McTaggarts, and then of Sunnie, and finally Mrs. Fergusson said—
"And how are you getting on? If I remember, when I saw you last, you were more interested in Miss Jean Desmond than any one else. Now she seems to have disappeared. Is she always in the background?"
"I hope she will be," Jean said, laughing and colouring. "I don't think there is anything interesting to tell you about her."
"Are you still portrait painting?"
"Yes, I am making that my study, but I am working under a master still; I have so much to learn."
"And are you going to make it your life work?"
"I don't know. Sometimes I think not."
Jean's tone was a little wistful. She added—
"I want to be of real use in the world, Mrs. Fergusson. I want to help those who are in need of help."
"Have you many friends in your art world?"
"Very few. I had some, but they came to grief in Paris—or rather the wife did. And I never have cared to make any since."
"I should have thought amongst art students that there was many a chance of befriending those less fortunate than yourself."
"Yes," said Jean thoughtfully, "there must be. Thank you for the suggestion. I will try."
When she rose to go, Mrs. Fergusson placed her hand affectionately on her shoulder.
"I must see more of you, dear. If you are in lodgings, you must have lonely evenings. You must spend some of them with me. Can you dine with me to-morrow night?"
Jean accepted gladly, and every detail of that evening at the "Windsor" remained long in her memory.
She arrived clad in her best evening gown, a white crêpe de chine with bands of gold embroidery, and a bunch of yellow roses at her breast.
Very sweet and bewitching she looked, and when Mrs. Fergusson, who was talking to her son, saw her enter, her keen bright eyes dwelt on the doctor's face as he greeted her, and she said to herself—
"I never thought she was so taking. I am beginning to suspect Leslie's silence and indifference about her."
It was a cheerful little dinner-party. Jean enjoyed seeing the mother and son together; their conversation was out of the ordinary, and she listened with intense interest when topics of the day were touched upon.
Dr. Fergusson saw her home.
Jean for the first time since her drive with him to Strathglen, saw and heard him out of Sunnie's presence. He was a different man. His light badinage and humorous gaiety were entirely put aside. A stern gravity and keen alertness of thought and speech were now his characteristics.
Jean felt awed, almost afraid of him.
When she parted with him, she said a little timidly—
"Thank you so much for coming with me, but I ought not to have troubled you. I am accustomed to go about alone."
"My mother has old-fashioned notions, and I have inherited them," he replied, with a smile that swept away every line of sternness from his face. "Good-night."
Jean went into her lonely rooms that night with a sense of warmth and protection such as she had not felt since Colonel Douglas and his wife had left London.
A few days afterwards, she went to see Sunnie. She found her apparently unchanged, her little face perhaps slightly whiter and more transparent in texture, but her shining eyes and dancing smile were still undimmed and undaunted.
Mrs. Gordon was sitting by her, and as she turned to greet her visitor Jean wondered at the subdued sweetness and gentleness of her smile.
She had the same erectness and dignity of carriage, but the cold hardness, the determined set of lips and brows, had disappeared.
"If you will stay with Sunnie for half an hour or so," she said, "I will go away, for I have a good many letters to write."
Jean gladly acquiesced, and Sunnie stretched out her small hand to take hold of hers.
"I shall hold you tight all the time, and then you won't be able to go. Shall I speak first or will you?"
"I will listen," said Jean, laughing. "Your little head will be lightened, if I let you relieve it."
"Yes," assented the child gravely, "it will. My head has got to be taken care of—it's the oldest part of me; for as to my body I don't understand it at all, it is going to be quite different and quite new again. Let me tell you, painter, dear. It was last week they made me stand, and two doctors besides Cousin Leslie were looking at me. And do you know, I did it! And it didn't hurt me, only I felt funny afterwards. And yesterday, they made me try to walk, and I actually could, holding nurses hand, only I felt giddy and it made me cry, and I told them I wasn't sure whether God would want me to, for that was going to be His treat for me when I got to heaven. It's all very wunnerful, isn't it? But I keep thinking I will wake up and find I have been dreaming. And then mother is so—so different. She came in one night and put her arms round me and cried, and said, 'Sunnie, we're going to live a new, life, you and I, but we shall have God between us.' I s'pose dear mother is so happy because I'm going to walk; she looks so pretty and young when she smiles."
"And when are you going back to Scotland, darling?" asked Jean.
"I don't know."
Sunnie raised herself up in her cushions.
"I want to go back, and I don't want to go back. I don't like the train. It will be years before I can walk like you, I expect; and oh dear! Oh dear! I should like to pull my soul out of my body, and put little wings on it and fly away! I'm afraid I don't like my feet. They seem so waggly, and make my back ache, and I've got to try, and go on trying, they say, to make them walk!"
Sunnie's brightness for one instant deserted her.
Jean could not bear to see the shadow on her face.
"Oh, Sunnie, think of picking the primroses in the woods when you go home, of chasing the butterflies, of running over the lawn, and playing with the dogs, of running messages for mother."
"Yes," put in Sunnie breathlessly, with burning cheeks, "of running down to open the door to Cousin Leslie, of running upstairs again, and showing him a little old empty sofa in the corner of the nursery, of driving in his high dog-cart along the roads, and perhaps riding a pony all by myself and jumping over hedges and ditches. Oh yes, it will be lovely when I can do it all; and till I can, as Cousin Leslie says, I can put my hands in God's, like the good Margaret did, and let Him lead me."
"Yes," said Jean, looking thoughtfully at her; "you will never be able to walk without God, Sunnie—I can't!"
Then they began to talk nonsense together, for Jean wisely determined to keep the child off the subject of herself, and she left her brimming over with her usual flow of fun and high spirits. She saw her often after this, and then came the eventful 1st of May.
Jean had the great pleasure of going to the private view and taking Mrs. Fergusson and Mrs. Gordon with her. Her picture was placed well, and several well-known R.A.'s congratulated her, on her first attempt. But she really enjoyed it most, a day later, after the public had been admitted and she slipped in amongst the throng. Mrs. Talbot accompanied her.
"I feel I am with a celebrity," she said, as they entered the room where the picture was. "It is quite on the line, my dear; you are fortunate. And what a winsome little creature she is! I foresee a good many mothers will ask you to paint their children after this. How did Mrs. Gordon like looking at it? I never have got her to dinner yet, she has been so wrapped up in that child. This operation is a wonderful one by all accounts; it will be a mercy, if the poor child is cured. It seemed so sad to think that property was lying waste, so to speak. Now a few years hence, Helen will be looking out for a suitable husband for her daughter. It is to be hoped she will keep her beauty, but after all, money is the attraction to most men nowadays!"
Jean listened to Mrs. Talbot's voluble talk, and wondered vaguely if Sunnie's recovery would be an unmixed blessing to her. Then, she was startled by hearing her name called, and turning round, met the beaming face of Charlie Oxton.
"Now, by Jove, this is lucky! Couldn't have hit it off neater! It was a sudden resolve this morning. I wired to you, but you've been out all day, so your landlady told me, and my wire is unopened. I called at your place a couple of hours ago. The sceptical Rawlings is here. I've brought him. Hush! See him opposite your production! I've hustled him in there and left him. He is a fish out of water, and though I'm getting no end of entertainment out of him, I don't like a perpetual grinning crowd dogging our footsteps. A pity your grandfather wouldn't come up. He's very seedy, has been in bed four days, and is crawling about looking like green meat!"
When Jean could get a word in, she introduced Charlie to Mrs. Talbot, but the latter soon moved away, and then Charlie edged up to the old gardener, and brought him to a quieter corner of the room, where Jean was sitting.
She had her hands seized and nearly shaken off her body.
"Eh, dear Miss Jean, this is a day! And ye looks near the same as when ye left us, only a bit finer in the garments! Well, to think on't! An' the pictur' be a very pretty one indeed, very pretty, quite like an ordinary. There was a little lass feedin' her dog in the Chris'mas al'mack Mary got from the grocer's, an' it be very similar to your pictur', very similar!"
"That's a tremendous compliment," said Jean smiling. "You mustn't make me too vain, Rawlings!"
"Eh, I hopes not, but ye always did say ye would do big things, Miss Jean. But now ye have climbed so high maybe ye'll be satisfied an' come back to us!"
"I've burnt my boats; I can't return," said Jean, and her smile faded away.
"This here town be a terrible place for a country-bred maid," went on Rawlings with a backward throw of his thumb to the gaily dressed throng behind them. "Why, where do all the folks come from? 'Scurshions up to London and back, I reckon. But I never seed nor heard such a stock! Their trailin' gowns a-switchin' round, the feathers, as big as a barn fowl's whole body, on their heads, their jool'ry an' chains a-rattlin' an' swayin' in the air, an' their sham flowers, an' their sham scents, an' worse than all, their bare necks showin' thro' ragged muslin! Why bless my soul, 'tis enough to scandalise a respectable person!"
"Now, Rawlings, look here, keep your eyes off the young women. I brought you up here to see the pictures; don't you be turning yourself into a critic of town beauties!"
Charlie's face looked very grave. Rawlings hitched up his shoulders, and taking out a red cotton handkerchief, mopped his forehead.
"The pictur's be worse than the females lookin' at them," he sighed. "I've had to turn my head in confusion four times in this very room! Miss Jean, the master be right. Artists an' sich like be a bad lot, they're no better than they should be, I be very much afraid. Your pictur' be very nice, but it be in bad company, an' I mind my copy-books at school, 'Evil communications corrupt good manners.'"
"Now, Rawlings, leave the poor pictures alone, and tell me of your garden, and of Mary and John and Elsie."
"Elsie have left us, Miss Jean. She actooly at her time o' life took a husban', an' he a common porter on the line! An' the house be not changed for the better, for the young maids won't work, neither will they stay, an' Mary gets pretty distracted. John be in poor health, he's goin' the way o' most, rheumatics an' lumbago an' such like, an' when he be better, I be worse, an' so we ups an' downs like a see-saw!"
"You must come home, and have some tea with me," said Jean. "I invite both of you."
Charlie's eyes twinkled.
"We accept with thanks, don't we, Rawlings? I'm like a young lady now; I have my chaperon!"
Jean took them both back to her lodgings, where they had a merry meal. Rawlings overflowed with good advice and warning, Charlie with his usual lighthearted fun.
When they left, Rawlings wrung Jean's hand.
"You'd best come back, Miss Jean, before 'tis too late, for I've a fancy the old master be not with us for much longer."
"We will hope," said Charlie hastily, "that he'll live a long time yet, Rawlings. But even after his departure, Miss Jean might care to come back. Perhaps she would prefer the new master?"
There was a look in his eye underlying this audacious speech that made Jean blush. Then she threw up her head with a little of her old spirit.
"I left it, Rawlings, because I wished to. I never intend under any circumstances to return!"
"Ah," sighed Rawlings, with a shake of his head, "wilful maids be like weeds, ye can't keep 'em down nohow!"
TWO LETTERS
"Oh, righteous doom, that they who makePleasure their only end,Ordering the whole life for its sake,Miss that whereto they tend;""While they who bid stern Duty lead,Content to follow—they,Of duty only taking heedFind pleasure by the way."—Trench.
JEAN always looked back to that spring in after years, as a very happy bit of her life. She saw a good deal of Mrs. Fergusson, and then her son took her home, and Mrs. Gordon and Sunnie followed soon afterwards. Jean did not often meet the doctor. He had a good many engagements in town, and was generally away when she visited Sunnie. But the day before he went back to Scotland, she met him there, and when she left the house, he walked a part of the way home with her. She asked him then a question that had been continually in her thoughts.
"Will Sunnie's complete recovery of health change her nature?"
"Why should it?" he asked.
"I don't know," said Jean. "To me, she has been a child so different to all others, that I should hate to see her lose all her quaint individuality. She may, from constant association with other children, rub off the bloom. I can't express myself properly, but her invalid life has given her what an ordinary child's life could never give. And I don't want her changed."
"I think I know what you mean, but it would be rather selfish of us to want to keep her as she is, for our own gratification. It will be a much healthier life, physically and mentally, and I do not see why her spiritual life should suffer. I am not afraid of it." Then he added—
"I went to see her portrait the other day."
"Did you?" said Jean. "I sometimes wonder if I shall paint any one else with such pleasure, as I did that."
"You had a good subject," said the doctor. Then looking at her a little keenly, he asked: "Has this success of yours wedded you more than ever to your art? You did not appear to me to be entirely enamoured of it in Scotland?"
"No, I went to paint Sunnie's picture rather against my inclination."
"You are happier now?"
"Yes," said Jean, looking straight in front of her, "but it isn't my art that is making me happier."
There was silence; then she added a little hurriedly—
"Long ago, when first I knew him, Colonel Douglas gave me this advice. He said, 'Seek the best thing first.' I sought fame, for I thought then it was the best thing. Now I know better."
Another silence. Dr. Fergusson did not break it, neither did Jean. When she reached her lodgings, she held out her hand.
He took it, and kept it in his for a moment. "Then we are fellow-travellers now," he said, looking down upon her with a smile. Jean could not speak, and rather abruptly, he left her.
It was a warm day in June. Jean came in to tea, feeling tired and dusty. She found two letters on the table, and sitting down by the open window, she read the one that interested her most. It was from Mrs. Fergusson.
"MY DEAR JEAN,—Will you give me the pleasure of a short visit now that summer is here? I am sure you must be longing to get away from London dust and noise, and my old garden is looking very sweet in its young green at present. It was very pleasant to see as much of you as I did when I was in town, but our slight acquaintance has only made me wish to see you more, and I am hoping you may reciprocate this wish.""My son unites with me in kind remembrances.""Yours affectionately,""JANET FERGUSSON.""Let me know what date would suit you to come."
Jean drew a long breath of delight and longing. It seemed to her that at last, the wish of her heart was going to be gratified.
Mrs. Fergusson had a marvellous attraction for her, and though her note was not a long or gushing one, it showed her that she was wanted.
She sat looking out in the busy street, with a light in her eyes and joy in her heart. She saw again the sweet old Scotch house, and the graceful, clever woman who presided over it. She pictured the evenings that Chris had described to her so well, and could hardly believe that it was her good fortune now to be the favoured guest. Perhaps with the anticipation of walks and talks with her old friend, the idea of a renewed and closer intimacy with her "fellow-traveller" intermingled.
"Oh!" she sighed at last in deep content, "I can hardly believe it is true!"
After a little, she roused herself from her daydreams and proceeded to pour out for herself a cup of tea. It was then she noticed her other letter, and she smiled as she recognised Charlie Oxton's bold calligraphy.
She opened it.
"MY DEAR COZ,—Your grandpater has had a slight seizure of some sort; we have been at sixes and sevens, and the whole household has gone to pot!""John is the only one who keeps his wits and his legs. The young maid who was always fighting Mary has decamped, Mary is ill in bed—influenza and temper have overcome her. Rawlings is down with rheumatics. I'm in and out, up and down, bossing the show, but it's beyond my powers to cook and nurse, and dust and sweep, and the governor is conscious enough to express his determination to have no nurse or strange woman inside his house.""In our dire extremity, I thought of you, and asked the governor, if he'd like to see you. He cocked his eyebrows, pulled down his mouth, and grunted assent, which shows how very meek and mild and docile he has become! Will you take pity on us? My hay is just being cut, and my farm going to the dogs for want of my personal supervision. Wire reply.""Yours in a fix,""CHARLIE."
Jean's face underwent several changes as she read this.
"It is cruel to come now!" was her first comment. And then raged a conflict in her soul.
"Why should I go to him?" she thought. "He cast me out, he made my life a misery to me, and he expects me to return to my bondage with a thankful, grateful spirit! Charlie seems to think nothing of my wishes and my feelings. Two helpless men they are, and their one desire is to get a woman to put things straight. Any woman could do it! Why should I victimise myself? Why should I give up the greatest pleasure that has come to me since I have been in London? If I don't go to Scotland now, I have a feeling I never shall. I know how many visitors Mrs. Fergusson has coming and going, she will forget all about me, she has so many interests, and I want to—oh, I do want to go! Why should both these letters come at once?"
She got up and paced her room.
The old Jean would have had no difficulty in coming to a decision, but the Jean who had taken service under the Master who never pleased Himself, could not waive aside other people's needs so easily.
"Oh," she cried impulsively, "it is too much to expect of me. I am not an old, matured, self-denying Christian. I cannot give up such a pleasure, to go and look after grandfather when he hates me and has turned me out of the house. I should be too good to live if I did it!"
Then she sat down, and with her elbows on her tea-table and her chin in her hands, she went on wrestling with the subject.
It was a long time before she moved her position, but when she did, it was to get upon her knees.
"Oh, God, it is Thy will I ought to be doing, not my own. Forgive me for thinking about myself so much. Help me to do what I know must be Thy will, and make me content and willing to do it."
The victory was won; and not giving herself time to ponder over her decision, she went straight off to the post-office and despatched a telegram—
"Coming by first train to-morrow.""JEAN."
It did not take long to make her arrangements, though it kept her busy for the rest of the evening. And very early the next morning, she started with a brave heart and cheerful face for her old home. She had written to Mrs. Fergusson explaining her circumstances. As she was being carried along in the train, she was tempted to begin pitying herself, but she quenched it.
"If Chris or Barbara had been in my place, they would have come as a matter of course, without any struggle or self-commiseration. I wonder whether I shall ever reach their stage—to think of other people, always and naturally, before myself! It must be difficult!"
When she reached the old familiar station and found no Charlie there to greet her, her heart sank.
She got into an open fly and drove along the flat marshes, smelling the salt scent of the sea, and wondering if the past four years had only been an interlude, and as she had lived for so many years in this dreary bit of country, so now she was going to continue to do the same for the rest of her life.
"I feel my independence and liberty fast oozing away!" she said to herself, and then she smiled at the thought. When she at last reached her grandfather's house, she found it unchanged—a little shabbier and drearier, that was all. She paid and dismissed her driver, for the hall door was open, and no one seemed about. Then she carried her small portmanteau into the hall, and met Charlie and the doctor coming downstairs. Charlie looked worried, his immaculate head of hair was ruffled, but as he saw Jean a broad smile of relief came over his face.
"Here she is, Doctor! You're a trump, Jean! Come right in, have a good square meal, and then you'll be able to tackle us all. All right, my good fellow, you go on; we shall weather through now without your nurse."
He dismissed the doctor in an airy fashion, then tucked Jean's arm in his, and marched her off to the kitchen, where Mary was sitting before the fire enveloped in shawls, and groaning audibly.
"Now you'll have to buck up, old lady," he said, taking hold of her by the shoulder. "Here's your mistress. A nice state of things she will find! Give her some food at once. Here! I'll forage in the larder. It's no use waiting for John. He's attending to his master, and heaven only knows when he'll be set at liberty."
He bustled off, and Mary, trying to rise, began to cry weakly.
"Oh, Miss Jean, 'tis terrible to find me like this, but I've just crawled out of bed, and the sink is piled with dirty dishes, and the floor hasn't been swept for a week, and there isn't even a drop o' hot water. Me that never let the kettle get cold from one year's end to another! Ever since Elsie left, there's been trouble on trouble, the master hasn't seemed to care how things go, and I'm that ashamed of your seein' the house so topsy-turvey, that I could sink to the door for shame!"
"Nonsense, Mary; I think you had better go back to bed. You arn't fit to be up. I'll see that things come straight. I shall have a woman from the village to help me."
Before Jean went to bed that night, she had worked wonders. The knowledge she had gained at Kingsford Farm when Chris was away, stood her in good stead now, and Charlie was lost in admiration.
She did not see her grandfather that evening. She went down to the village and engaged a capable woman to come the next day and take Mary's place in the kitchen. She cleaned out the kitchen and made Charlie work with her.
"You must help me to-night, and after to-morrow, we shall be straight. Why have you let things get so bad?"
"Why? Because those old fools, Mary and John, have fought half the village, and told me that there was no one fit to black my shoes for four miles round! They've refused to have outside help, and your grandpater has backed them up. Truth is, Mary is too old for the job; she ought to be in an almshouse."
"She is ill with worry," said Jean. "I believe she has a lot of work in her yet."
"Oh, it will be all right now you're here! As I told the governor, you never ought to have left him!"
"I was the best judge of that," said Jean a little stiffly.
"Don't sit up so! He ought to have given you a studio, and taken a pride in your performances. Take my word for it, my dear girl, it's a bad policy to have no relations at your back. I'm jolly glad you're home again in your rightful place."
"But," said Jean, with a blank look at him, "I am not going to stay here."
He gave her a wink.
"Don't you fret yourself! We'll settle it up in a very satisfactory way for all parties concerned!"
Jean said no more.
Charlie would not see her side, and she was too tired to argue the point with him.
The next morning, she interviewed her grandfather, and was shocked to see his weakness and general feebleness; but he did not seem very amicably disposed towards her.
"It's that boy's doing," he murmured. "He is so masterful. There was no need for you to come back, but if you make yourself useful, you may as well stay till I'm about again!"
Jean smiled, a little sore at heart. But she had no time to think about herself, there was too much to do, and she set to work as cheerfully as she could.
Old Mr. Desmond was astonished at the quick, deft way in which she made him comfortable, and put his room to rights. She proved as good a nurse to him, as she had been to Miss Lorraine. In a few days, the household was again a quiet, orderly one. Two young maids were engaged, and Jean superintended everything herself.
When Mary recovered, she was sent away for a holiday, and she returned with renewed strength and vigour to take up the reins in the kitchen. Then Jean had a little more leisure; she was able to roam out into the garden, to take walks with her cousin, and then it was that he informed her, he was going abroad again.
"I sha'n't be long—about three months—but I've got some land out there that wants looking after. I ought to have gone before, only I really didn't like leaving the old man; he's been very good to me! He's rather rum, isn't he? Told me this morning that as long as you kept in your proper place, he would keep you here. That's a woman's sphere, cooking, dusting, and looking after the house generally! And he thinks you're pretty good at it, do you know! I, of course, agreed with him." He looked at her with such twinkling humour in his eyes that Jean could not be angry.
"Directly he gets better, I shall go," she said promptly. "But sometimes I am anxious, Charlie. What does the doctor think?"
"Oh, he's a fool! The governor is getting old, and he had a pretty heavy stroke, but there's life in him for a good while yet. I told him I was off, and the arrangement is that you stay with him till I come back."
"But," remonstrated Jean in genuine dismay, "I really cannot. Three whole months! He doesn't really want me. I believe he thinks he is doing me a kindness in having me here, and I feel quite the other way. I must get back to my work in London."
"Rot! You can work, as you call it, here. I'll put that straight, and it wouldn't hurt to let your paints hang over for a bit. There's plenty else to occupy you!"
"Between you and grandfather," said Jean, with some spirit, "I feel I have no mind or individuality of my own at all!"
Charlie gave one of his hearty laughs.
"You're one of the best young women going!" he asserted. "But you're mistaking your vocation. You are born to rule a house, and make us poor men comfortable. You've a knack at it that dozens of married women would give their eyes to have! And the governor and I know when we're well off."
Jean felt powerless to plead her own cause with Charlie, and so before she half realised it, he had taken his departure, and she had pledged herself to stay with her grandfather till he came back.