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Title: Alick's cave
or, On the cliff
Author: Catharine Shaw
Release date: September 1, 2026 [eBook #79494]
Language: English
Original publication: London: John F. Shaw & Co., Ltd., 1908
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79494
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ALICK'S CAVE ***
Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration: Margaret would steal in and sit down close
to her mother's knee . . . and listening too.]
[Sequel to "Alick's Hero"]
_Alick's Cave;_
OR,
ON THE CLIFF.
BY
CATHARINE SHAW
AUTHOR OF "ALICK'S HERO," "SOMETHING FOR SUNDAY,"
AND EDITOR OF "SUNDAY SUNSHINE."
NEW EDITION
JOHN F. SHAW & CO., LTD.
_Publishers_
3, Pilgrim Street, London, E.C.
[Illustration]
CONTENTS.
[Illustration]
_CHAPTER I._
SALOME
_CHAPTER II._
A SHADOW
_CHAPTER III._
ON THE SURFACE
_CHAPTER IV._
IN THE CAVE
_CHAPTER V._
ON THE ROCKS
_CHAPTER VI._
CLAUDE
_CHAPTER VII._
SALOME'S SLATE
_CHAPTER VIII._
MARIAN'S SUNSHINE
_CHAPTER IX._
ON THE HILLSIDE
_CHAPTER X._
MARGARET'S LEGACY
_CHAPTER XI._
AT THE TOWERS
_CHAPTER XII._
A PURSE
_CHAPTER XIII._
MARIAN'S CLASS
_CHAPTER XIV._
RECONCILED
_CHAPTER XV._
LIONEL'S DESIRE
_CHAPTER XVI._
A FAREWELL
_CHAPTER XVII._
IN LONDON
_CHAPTER XVIII._
SALOME'S TEA-PARTY
_CHAPTER XIX._
LILIAN'S PEACEMAKER
_CHAPTER XX._
"THE RECOMPENCE OF THE REWARD"
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
ALICK'S CAVE.
[Illustration: "Blessed are the poor in spirit:
for theirs is the kingdom of heaven."]
CHAPTER I.
_SALOME._
"SALOME!"
"I'm listenin', child, my lovey."
"Salome, has mother told you about Lionel and Marian?"
"Nofing as I know on, dearie."
"Then she hasn't been up here since Aunt Ella came over?"
"Why no, Master Charlie, dear. Why should she come up?"
"Then I shall tell you the news," burst forth Charlie, colouring with
excitement. "Marian and Lionel have got to come and stay over here for
ever so long, because—because—"
Salome turned her head round, and looked in the glowing face, and put
out her dark hand.
"It's not a secret, lovey dear, is it?" she asked gently. "The dear
missis wouldn't mind you tellin' me, would she?"
"Why no, nursey dear," laughed Charlie. "She said, 'Run off and tell
Salome, if the news has not got to the nursery yet, Charlie; she will
be very sorry though.'"
"That's all right then," answered Salome, settling herself to her work
and preparing to listen. "I'm one as like news very much, lovey, if
'tis all right for me to hear it."
"Well," pursued Charlie, "you know Marian and Lionel have been staying
here since Saturday because it was Alick's birthday, and he wanted to
have them particularly?"
"Why of course I do, Master Charlie. Haven't they been running in and
out of this nursery, a kissin' of the little ones half the time?"
Charlie laughed.
"Teasing them too," he added. "But any way, Salome, when I was sitting
with mother just now (you know the others are all gone for a walk),
who should come over the grass and round the garden way but Aunt Ella.
She had thrown a cloak over her head, and her face was all white and
scared. She beckoned mother to the window, and said she would not come
in. Mother went to her, and begged her to enter, but she waved her
hand, and looked more miserable than I have ever seen her. And then she
said, bursting into tears—
"'Claude has scarlet fever; the doctor has just been, and says so.'"
"Then mother caught up a shawl that was lying there, and went out on to
the verandah, and they stood talking for ever so long. At last she came
in, saying, as she closed the door upon Aunt Ella, 'It's so hard not to
kiss you, but I suppose I must not.'
"Aunt Ella shook her head vigorously, and said, 'Then you will detain
them when they come? It is "very" good of you, Greta dear.'
"And then she hurried away, and mother sat down by the fire, as if she
were quite tired out."
Charlie paused. Salome's handsome, dark face was turned towards him
intently, and for once her work had fallen from her busy hands.
"Poor dear, poor dear!" she murmured. "What good thing de dear Lord
know all 'bout it. Poor dear, poor dear!"
"Then," pursued Charlie, "I came over to mother, and asked her why she
was sad, and she began to cry too, like Aunt Ella.
"'Is scarlet fever very bad, mother?' I said.
"'Very, very bad, dear.'
"'Is Claude very ill?'
"'They do not know yet. But it is so sad for them to be shut away from
everybody.'
"'Will they be?'
"Mother nodded. And then, wiping her eyes, and kissing me, she said
more cheerfully:
"'You will be pleased with one piece of news, Charlie. I have asked
Marian and Lionel to stay with us for a long visit. You will like that.'
"'I wish it were Claude though,' I said; 'for he is nearer my age.'
"And then I was sorry; for mother looked disappointed. Salome, I wish I
weren't so selfish."
"Well, lovey, tell de dear Lord so. That's de best way as I knows of to
get things right."
Charlie pondered. His Indian nurse's advice was always good. Ever
since he could remember, she had been the same. Love shone out of her
beautiful dark eyes; loving words came from her mouth. Charlie put his
hand into hers confidingly.
"Does de dear missis want me, lovey?" she asked suddenly.
"No; she's gone out in the garden to find father. Do you think it will
be nice, having them to stay, Salome?"
"If de Lord has sent dem, child, you may 'pend on it as He 'll make it
all right."
"Yes," said Charlie soberly; "only, you see, they are different from
us, and—"
"Don't you be upset, lovey; you jest know what I say is de trufe. De
ways of de Lord is de very best ways. Don't you worry yourself 'bout
'em."
Just at this moment Ruth and Sydney, who had been listening
open-mouthed to the conversation, began to grow tired of the little
sermon with which their dear nurse often ended a talk, and proceeded
to the other side of the room, to go on with their interrupted play.
Charlie sprang up, and went after them, while Salome took her work
again, and went on with it industriously.
There were three houses on the top of the downs at Leesworth, which
stood, as a little colony, all to themselves, quite apart from the
village under the cliff.
One had been there for generations, and was called The Towers. In it
lived Courtenay Malden and his young wife, both now away in India.
Belonging to this was a large garden, two or three fields, coachhouse,
and stables, with coachman's and gardener's cottages attached. It stood
on the summit of the hill, and the ground sloped away from it on either
side, a steep lane leading from it to the beach beneath, some eight
minutes' pleasant walk between red cliffs and overhanging trees.
Then there was The Cottage, as it was called, adjoining Courtenay's
garden, and belonging to him, which had been done up a year or two ago,
and turned into a gentleman's house. Though the rooms were extremely
small, the rent suited Mr. Chantry's small income, and his wife thought
that the long, low nursery, built out over extensive kitchens and
laundry, amply made up to her for the confined space of the other
chambers. Sometimes she confessed to herself that a peep of the sea
would have been very refreshing to her, but when she looked out at the
sweet country lane in front, she was so grateful for the peaceful home
which was provided her that she felt she ought not to wish for anything
else.
In the old-fashioned garden belonging to this cottage, Mr. Chantry, who
was very delicate, employed himself whenever the weather allowed. He
had been ordered to spend as much time as possible in the open air, and
now, from such time in the morning as his health permitted him to rise,
he was to be seen busily working. Sometimes Mrs. Chantry would take her
sewing out, and sit by his side; and he would look up at her from his
weeding, and say:
"Greta, this is the happiest piece of our life, after all."
They had four children—Alick, aged seventeen; Charlie, eleven; Ruth,
six; and Sydney, three years old. They had lost two little ones during
their long residence in India. Salome and a little maid completed the
family.
The third house was Sunnyside, built by Courtenay for his invalid
father's use, in the field adjoining his own garden, but a little lower
down the hill, nearer the edge of the cliff. In this lived Mr. and Mrs.
Malden, Lionel, Marian, Claude, Muriel, and Leslie, varying in ages
from sixteen to eight years old.
As Salome sat at her work on the day on which the story opens, the
occupants of the nursery heard voices approaching, and Charlie
exclaimed:
"There they are!"
"Who?" asked Ruth.
"Alick and the others."
"I hope they will not come up here bothering."
"Hush, dearie," said Salome, turning round.
"They 'do' bother," added Sydney, in his little, distinct voice; "and I
don't like botherin'."
"Of course you don't," laughed Charlie, "but the best thing you can do
is to put up with it as well as you can, Sydney. They don't mean to
tease you."
Sydney looked unconvinced, and before long the three young people about
whom they had been talking were heard running up the stairs, and came
quickly into the room.
The first to enter was a girl of about fifteen, tall and robust, with a
fresh, sweet face, which looked as if care sat but lightly on it. This
was Marian Malden.
Behind her came her brother Lionel, and following him Alick Chantry, a
head taller than his cousin, with slight, graceful figure, and earnest
face.
"Oh, Salome, have you heard?" asked Marian, coming over and kneeling
down by the nurse's side. "Is it not dreadful? What will poor mother
do?"
Salome's peaceful eyes turned towards the young, fresh face, but she
did not at once reply.
"I call it a horrid nuisance!" exclaimed Lionel. "It's just how things
happen. Here were we going to have jolly Easter holidays, and now
everything's upset."
"But we shall have some nice times here," put in Alick. "We often do;
and when once we know that Claude is going on well—"
"Oh, of course he will! That's not it a bit," said Lionel. "But here
are we, shut off from all our games and books, and even clothes, and
obliged to be mewed up in this little cottage, with nothing on earth to
do."
Marian looked distressed. Her hand, which was resting on the nurse's
knee, fidgeted nervously with the strings of the pinafore which Salome
was mending, and her face turned red and uncomfortable.
"It is dreadfully unfortunate," Lionel went on, "that we were out for
this walk, instead of having gone home first. Then mother would have
had no excuse for exiling us; as it is, as we have not been home for
three days, it would be daft, I suppose, to go. But, all the same, it
is a great bore."
"But—" said Marian, anxious to stop her brother.
"I suppose we shall have to make the best of it," pursued Lionel
loftily; "and so we'll say no more about it. But things always seem to
happen 'contrairy.' If I particularly want to do anything, sure enough
something prevents."
Salome smiled silently over her work, and Marian's eyes, which were
fixed on her face, looked enquiringly.
Alick had turned on his heel after a glance at his cousin, and had
walked out of the room, with an annoyed shrug of his shoulders.
"What did you so particularly want to do?" asked Charlie, breaking a
rather awkward pause.
"I wanted to enjoy my Easter holidays. I had planned to have a lot of
boating, and father had promised to get me a bicycle."
"You will be able to have the boating all the same," said Charlie.
"Yes, but not half such fun as if there were our own house to run in
and out of. One thing I know, when Claude gets out of this horrid
fever—"
Salome raised her face, and put out her hand gently.
"Dear young master," she said gravely, "I don't think as de dear Lord
would like you to say 'dat. We've got to submit to Him. Them as will be
led, He leads as tender as tender, but them as want to be drove—"
"Do you mean that I want driving?" asked Lionel, turning red.
"Don't you think as you're anxious to go this way and that way, as
pleases you best, Master Lionel?"
"I certainly do," he answered, trying to laugh off his displeasure.
"Don't you think that the pleasantest?"
Marian listened intently for the answer. She so often thought her own
way was best, and found out afterwards that she was wrong.
"I have learnt not," answered Salome humbly. "It can't be learnt all at
once, but if we're 'willing,' de dear Lord takes us in hand, and then
it's all right wid us."
Lionel picked up his cap, and walked over to disturb the little ones at
their play.
Marian got up, and bent her head to kiss the smooth, dark cheek.
"Oh, Salome," she said, "what a way on the road you've got!"
"Me, dearie?"
"Yes; it looks very, very far off to be able to be sure the Lord's way
is best. I wish I could jump right over to it."
"Well, dearie, we can't 'jump' to nothin'. It's just a step at a
time—followin' on. If you take what He sends to-day, you'll find as
you'll be a step nearer home to-morrow."
Marian's face gave a little flash through one or two tears, and she
went to seek her aunt with a very tender hope of doing to-day what came
next.
"Aunt Greta," she said, when she found her aunt, sitting somewhat
dejectedly by the fire in the dining-room, "do you want a new daughter
for a little while?"
Mrs. Chantry looked up, brightening in spite of herself at the bright
tone.
"Because I mean to try to be one, if you will have me. I cannot think
what dear mother will do without me, but since she has decided it so, I
mean to make the best of it. It would be poor gratitude to you for your
kindness in having us, to keep on lamenting that we are not at home."
"Dear child, you know how glad I am to be able—"
"Yes, auntie. So now that's all settled, what are you going to set your
new daughter to do?"
Marian's homely face was quite brilliant for a moment.
Mrs. Chantry looked round the room with a sigh; it was disordered
enough to make any one sigh.
Marian hastened to pull the tablecloth straight, and began to pack
Sydney's bricks into their box.
"Aunt Greta," she said, as she passed the back of her aunt's chair,
bending down, and speaking shyly, "will you not go up and see Salome?"
"Why, darling?"
"She would give you some medicine."
"Medicine?" echoed Mrs. Chantry, wondering.
"Don't you know the sort of medicine she always carries about with her?"
Mrs. Chantry smiled and roused herself.
"We all might," she said, as she went to the door.
And then Marian was left alone to her untidy room.
Meanwhile, Alick, disgusted with his cousin's selfishness, had gone to
his own chamber, and shut himself in.
Like Charlie, he felt this illness at Sunnyside a great blow to him.
Setting aside the risk and sorrow to all there, the actual thwarting of
his plans, and having to make room for Lionel in their narrow abode,
meant a great deal of annoyance to orderly Alick. As to Marian, he did
not at the moment give her a thought.
He looked round on his dear little domain.
It had been all very well for Lionel to share it for two days, which
had been specially set apart as a special holiday, but how to put up
with his cousin for two months (had not Salome said something about two
months?) he could not conceive, and paced up and down his room in sore
vexation.
Alick's life flowed on in an even, uneventful way just now, and the boy
confessed to himself, or hardly knew that he confessed it, that it was
rather tame and dull.
More than two years ago his beloved step-cousin, Courtenay Malden,
had been married, and had brought his young wife to the large house
which overshadowed Alick's little home. And since that time, his whole
interest had been centred in the doings and sayings at "The Towers," as
it had been called for longer than any one could remember.
After a year of cloudless happiness to the young pair, as well as the
little circle to which they belonged, and on whom they lavished all the
love of which they were so full, a little cloud had fallen upon them
all.
A tiny baby came to grace the happy home, but soon it was found that
she had not the health of ordinary babies. And when her parents were
suddenly called to take a journey to India, on the death of Margaret's
father, the little frail girl was taken with them. She had hardly been
kept alive where she could have every care at home. And when she became
exposed to the changes incident to a journey, she quietly sank. They
were but a week from port when her little body was laid beneath the
waves of the Indian Ocean.
News of this had but lately reached the homes at Leesworth, and even
the prospect of Courtenay's speedy return could hardly cheer Alick from
the sorrow he felt on the behalf of those whom he loved so well.
His mother, tender as was her love for her boy, sometimes felt with a
pang that his deepest interest and affection were centred outside his
home.
"It will all come right," his father would say consolingly; "it is not
as if Alick loved any one unworthy of him."
Mrs. Chantry tried to be satisfied, but confessed to herself a sense of
relief when Margaret and Courtenay had really started for India.
Now they were on their homeward journey, bringing with them Margaret's
widowed mother, whose health of body and mind had been shattered by the
blow of her husband's death, and leaving behind them in that sea the
tiny form on which for nearly a year all hearts had been set.
In all his life Alick had never spent such a sorrowful, unhappy three
months. The empty house at the end of their garden was but typical of
the emptiness of his life without Courtenay.
It was true he went often to read to Courtenay's invalid father at
Sunnyside, and found some satisfaction in fulfilling one of his
step-cousin's last requests; it was true that he walked frequently down
into the fishing village beneath the cliff to call upon Courtenay's old
men and women, but all seemed flat and dull. And he wondered at himself
for being out of sorts, and was angry at himself, but could not guess
why it was; nor did it occur to him to speak to any one of it.
His mother looked on and prayed. She knew not what else to do.
Salome looked on and prayed. She knew it was the best to do.
So Alick stood this bright day in March, and looked round on his
invaded room.
"I teazed mother, I do believe, to have Lionel here, when she was
hardly up to it, and this is what I've got for it," he said to himself.
"Here he is, to be my constant companion night and day for two months.
Well, I deserve it."
He sat down by his window, and pushed open the little old-fashioned
lattice. The sunshine came streaming in with the wind fresh from the
North Sea. He leaned his head on his hand, deep in thought.
"I wonder why all this has happened?" he asked himself. Then, pausing
even in his thoughts, he waited for a moment.
"It cannot have happened by chance; why, of course it cannot.
Courtenay's going away, their poor little baby, this illness of
Claude's, my unutterable loneliness—"
He turned from the window, and opened his little well-worn Bible.
He might have found out the reason there. He probably would, but at
this moment a step was heard outside, and Lionel entered abruptly.
"Aren't you coming down? I say, Alick, it's all very kind of Aunt
Greta to have us, but where on earth are we to fix ourselves? You have
only those two little bits of sitting-rooms downstairs, and these poky
bedrooms up here. Wherever shall we be all day?"
"There's the large nursery."
"Yes, but who would like to settle down with the babies?"
"We often sit there. The little ones play by one window, and we have
the other."
"Salome is always near that one."
"Well?"
"We can't talk, or anything."
Alick frowned. Unhappy, unrefreshed, because he had not drunk fresh
supplies at the Fountain of Life, he had no strength or spirit to
withstand to-day's annoyances.
"Don't you think so?" went on Lionel.
"I think we had better put up with it, and not be disagreeable."
Lionel whistled.
"I thought you'd have given a fellow a little better welcome than this,
Alick."
Alick got up and turned away.
Oh, for Courtenay to set him right, to talk it all out to; to be able
to explain his worries, and have the kind, generous sympathy in return!
The boy could have wept in his loneliness and despair. He had
"forgotten his resting-place." If he could only have found out how poor
he was, he might have asked to be enriched with the great riches. For
"blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
[Illustration: "Blessed are the poor in spirit:
for theirs is the kingdom of heaven."]
CHAPTER II.
_A SHADOW._
"HERE'S Mr. Alick's tutor called, ma'am," said Mrs. Chantry's little
maid that afternoon, throwing open the door of the dining-room where
her mistress was sitting with Marian.
Mrs. Chantry turned round hastily.
"Good morning, Mr. Fortescue."
"I am so sorry to hear this bad news," began the tutor.
"Yes, it is very bad news."
"Lionel came round to tell me about it just now. I had not heard it, on
account of its being Alick's birthday and a holiday. What do you think
had better be done with regard to their studies?"
"I have been thinking about it. It has occurred to me that, as we are
so short of room in our cottage, perhaps they might use Mr. Courtenay's
library. I am sure he would be glad for us to do so."
"Just so," answered Mr. Fortescue; "I had thought the same thing.
Lionel walked up with me— Oh, here he is!"
Mrs. Chantry explained to her nephew what they had been proposing, and
had hardly finished when Lionel burst out:
"Then, if we go to The Towers at all, why should we not take up our
abode there altogether? Marian and I could do finely together."
Mrs. Chantry shook her head; but Lionel continued:
"You see, Mr. Fortescue, there is not room for us here; and though it
is very good of aunt to have us, if we could clear out, it would be a
charity to everybody, I'm sure."
"I should not wish to 'take French leave' like that," interposed Marian.
"Nor I," answered Mrs. Chantry, "unless under great necessity. We
can make room for you here, and therefore I do not feel justified in
proposing it."
"I shall then. I shall go over at once, and ask mother," said Lionel.
Mrs. Chantry stopped him.
"Not with my permission, Lionel," she said decidedly. "I told your
mother that there must be no communication backwards and forwards
between you young people. What may be necessary to say, must be said
between us elders. You are not to go into your own garden even."
Lionel stared. His gentle aunt was speaking as he had never heard her
speak before.
"Am I to be treated like a baby?" he asked haughtily.
"You are to keep to the few rules that are made," answered his aunt
gravely.
"Certainly," said Mr. Fortescue, "you must see, Lionel, the necessity
of that."
"I see the necessity, but not the obligation," said Lionel. "Do your
rules allow of my writing to my mother?"
Mrs. Chantry thought for an instant.
"There can be no objection to that," she answered. "My sister can
answer through me."
"Not to get an answer myself?" fumed Lionel, freshly affronted.
"No!" answered his aunt.
He took himself off without further words, feeling even then that he
had gone beyond all the limits of respect due to his hostess, to say
nothing of that hostess being his dearly-loved aunt.
"It is a sore trial," said Mrs. Chantry, turning to Mr. Fortescue.
"Lionel should be better able to bear it," answered the tutor severely.
"Aunt Greta, I am so sorry," said Marian, looking up with burning
cheeks. "I cannot think how Lionel—"
"Do not distress yourself, my dear," answered her aunt kindly; "Lionel
will be sorry by-and-by."
"Shall we begin studies to-morrow, then?" asked Mr. Fortescue.
"I believe Alick said that was the arrangement."
"That is all right then. I only came over to ask that, and to condole
with you on the misfortune."
He took leave, and Marian and her aunt were left alone.
"Salome would not call it 'a misfortune,' would she?" said Marian
quietly.
Mrs. Chantry smiled.
"It is not a word I like," she answered. "I would rather feel it was
'permitted,' Marian."
"Aunt Greta—" Marian hesitated. "Do you think mother will wish us to
take up our abode at The Towers?"
"We shall see what she says; that is, if Lionel asks her."
"I would a great deal rather be here, auntie."
"I like to have you, dear."
Just at this moment, Mr. Chantry came in—a tall, pale man, whose health
had been greatly impaired by a long residence in India.
"Well, my dear, is tea coming? Let us gather all our new family
together, and settle in as we are to be."
"Before it gets dark, I was going to see if I could get any news from
Sunnyside. I should like to know how Claude is to-night."
"I will go, my dear; you look worn out."
Mrs. Chantry made no objection. She felt indeed that she had passed
through a great deal since that morning-hour when her sister had come
to her over the grass.
"Tea will be ready then," she said, ringing the bell.
"I will make the tea, auntie," exclaimed Marian, springing up, "I
always do it at home."
By the time it was ready, Alick and Lionel came in, and Mr. Chantry
returned from Sunnyside.
His wife looked up in his face, fearing to ask, but he spoke at once.
"There is no change to be expected at present, my dear; and your sister
says you must not be anxious. Claude has slept nearly all day, and the
doctor has not yet been again."
"How did you find out?" she asked.
"I tapped at the window where Uncle Malden sits, and he answered
through the glass."
Lionel stood listening, and as they took their seats at the small table
he said to Alick, in a low tone:
"What a plague that Claude is! I hope he'll make haste and get well."
"I hope so indeed," answered Alick gravely.
After tea Alick, Lionel, and Marian set themselves down to study at a
side-table, Lionel covertly complaining how small and inconvenient it
was, while Marian besought him in a low tone to behave properly, and
Alick whistled to himself an impatient tune.
Mrs. Chantry sat by the fire working, and teaching Charlie his lessons.
And her husband paced up and down the narrow space left to him, in
the restlessness of confirmed ill-health, which often came on with
increased discomfort in the evening.
After the lessons were put away, the young people got out a game in
which all joined, Mr. Chantry sitting down, and looking relieved to
have something to turn off his thoughts from himself.
When Alick and Lionel went up to their room and the door was shut,
there was silence for some little time. Alick got out his Bible,
finding the place, and putting a chair by the wide window-sill sat down.
"Look here, Alick," began Lionel, "are you and I to have a kind of feud
while I am here?"
"Not that I know of; that is, if you'll make the best of things."
"That's nice for you to say, but if you were turned out of house and
home, and stuck into a little place like this, when there's a great
empty house with nobody in it—"
"Where?" asked Alick.
"Courtenay's."
"Oh! Well, anyway, mother has not thought of that; and it makes
everything horrid to have you so complaining."
"I thought of it, but Aunt Greta would not even let me ask mother about
it."
"Then I suppose she had her reasons. Anyway, Lionel, do let me read;
for I'm tired enough of all this, and we have a tough day with Mr.
Fortescue before us."
Alick turned towards his Bible, and Lionel was forced to be silent,
though he rustled about his things in a disturbing kind of way.
As Alick read, he began to think over the frame of mind he had been in
all day. He blamed his cousin for it; for if Lionel had not been so
disagreeable, all would have been right, he argued to himself.
As his eyes ran over the familiar words, his thoughts chased each
other backwards and forwards, first accusing himself of impatience
and unkindness, then excusing himself with the plea of justifiable
indignation at unprovoked rudeness.
Without taking in the sense of any of the sacred words, he closed the
book, and knelt down to pray.
Used to be alone, with the exception of sleeping little Charlie, since
the time when he and Courtenay had sometimes shared the same room in
the old days, he could not forget the presence of his cousin, and he
could think of nothing to say. Still he justified himself, and still
the warning voice of conscience whispered that, however tempted he had
been, yet he had failed of his high standard.
At last, ashamed to rise from his knees without one prayer from his
heart, in despair of any other, he repeated slowly,—
"'Our Father, which art in heaven,'" and went on mechanically till he
came to the words, "'As we forgive our debtors.'"
Then he paused, and raised his head for a moment. His eyes rested on
his cousin's dark form, standing between him and the light, and he
almost hated him for being there—for making all his life dark and
miserable. Then came as a flash—
"'Neither will your Father . . . forgive your trespasses.'"
"I can't be sorry; he is in fault, and not I," he said bitterly to
himself, and buried his head in his hands again.
He knelt on. Lionel quickly got through his undressing and short
prayers, and jumped into bed, and still Alick felt he could not be
sorry.
At last, just as he was almost giving up the struggle, those words came
over him—
"I dwell in the high and holy place, with him also who is of a humble
and contrite spirit, to revive the spirit of the humble."
With one beseeching inward cry for help, he rose and went over to the
bed.
"Lionel," he said, in a smothered voice, "I'm sorry I've been cross to
you, and have not welcomed you more kindly; will you forgive me?"
"Eh?" asked sleepy Lionel.
Alick said it again more clearly, though it was very hard to do it
twice.
"Oh, all right!" answered Lionel. "Aren't you coming to bed? It's ever
so late."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
[Illustration: "Blessed are the poor in spirit:
for theirs is the kingdom of heaven."]
CHAPTER III.
_ON THE SURFACE._
THE next morning Alick rose with the sense of a clearer atmosphere
around him.
He and Lionel did not exchange many words while dressing, but he saw
that his cousin was still as cross as ever. This he felt hard; for had
he not made a great effort last night? And ought not Lionel to have
been ready to meet him half-way?
With a mental shake of himself, he threw off his thoughts, and went
down to breakfast looking brighter than he had done for weeks. But he
was conscious that all was not yet quite right with him, and that he
was very ill-prepared for a battle, should any conflict come upon him.
His mother stood by the fire just lifting off the kettle, and as she
glanced in his face, she saw something which made her heart rise in
thankfulness.
He came up and kissed her, and she put her hand on his shoulder with a
sweet look.
"Better to-day, my boy?" she asked lovingly.
"Rather," he answered, half smiling. "Why, mother, you see without
being told."
"My eyes like sunshine," she answered quaintly; "so I am glad when it
comes."
"Have you heard from Sunnyside yet, mother?"
"Not yet. Alick, cut the bread, will you? We shall be late, I fear."
"'I' am going to do that," said Marian, entering at the moment.
"You are not going to take 'my' duties, Miss Cousin," laughed Alick.
"I'm quite willing that you should help mother mend the socks!"
"Oh, your lordship will condescend to allow me to use a thimble then!"
she answered, watching him take the knife and begin upon the loaf.
"Yes, thimbles and looking pretty are the best use of girls."
"Then I can only have half a use," said Marian soberly. "But I
consider, Alick, that you have very low ideas indeed."
"How?"
"I consider thimbles only a part of a girl's life."
"Of course. Her first finger is not her whole self."
"Her 'second' finger."
"Well, her second finger, if you like. But it is one of the chief ends
of a woman to work well."
"You are speaking on the top of things?" asked Marian, looking up
enquiringly.
Alick laughed a little. "I'm not going very far underneath, for
certain. Like this bread, we are cutting off the outside; but crust is
good."
"Well then," said Marian, who was all this time quietly setting the
room in order, in a very different way from that which the little maid
had considered perfect when she left it that morning, "I disagree with
you entirely, Alick, about even the crust of girls."
"As how, Miss Cousin?"
"Partly about looking pretty. Of course, that must depend on how you
are made."
"And on how you make yourselves."
"I don't see that."
"I do. Mother says—"
"Oh, 'I' say, do I?" laughed Mrs. Chantry. "Please, Alick, give out
your own opinions in this serious conversation."
"Mother says," pursued Alick with a twinkle in his eye, "that if a girl
has neat hair—"
Mrs. Chantry's glance rested for a moment on Marian's beautiful soft
light braids, and she smiled.
"That is possible, at any rate," said the girl.
"And a gentle, cheerful, good face—"
"That is a thing to be earnestly desired, but, Alick, you are going
below the 'crust' now—"
"And a truthful spirit that shines out of the eyes—" pursued he, not
heeding.
"But all this does not make prettiness, and that is what you started
with, Alick. You had better get back to the thimble; you know better
what you are about there."
"Do I?" asked he, amused.
"You are quite right, Alick," interposed Mrs. Chantry; "I agree with
you entirely. In my estimation, a girl who has a kind, cheerful face,
neat hair, tidy, suitable dress, and a clean frill, is refreshing to
look at. And whatever her face may happen to be, her friends do not
think of that, but of the love that shines out through those familiar
features. I have seen the homeliest face of an old woman made perfectly
beautiful by the Christlike spirit that irradiated it."
"But then you get beneath the surface again," said simple Marian.
"And so we must," said Mrs. Chantry, "however our talk may begin. We
cannot live 'on the top of things,' as Marian called it; at least,
earnest people cannot. Alick, that pile of bread will last all day. Set
the chairs, my dear, and ring the breakfast-bell."
At that sound, the rest came trooping in. Mrs. Chantry gave a tray,
already prepared, into Alick's hand to take to his father, who seldom
left his room so early, and then the business of breakfast began.
"I wish we could have heard," observed Mrs. Chantry, looking out of the
window abstractedly.
"He'll be all right, Aunt Greta," said Lionel. "I never knew Claude
turn up on the wrong side of anything; I cannot think why you are
anxious. I only wish he'd have had sense not to catch it at such an
inconvenient time."
Charlie looked up at Lionel with astonishment. "I do not see that it
was his fault, and it makes me feel horrid to hear you."
His big cousin merely glanced at him, and disdained to answer.
But Mrs. Chantry, who had hardly been attending to what had gone
before, now turned round, and said gravely:
"Lionel, my dear, I would prefer that you should keep all such
observations and repinings to yourself. Your little brother's life is
very precious to a great many of us, and I am sure you will be glad,
however this illness may end, that you had taken my advice and been
silent where we all must stand in awe, and learn how helpless we are
when we are under the chastening hand of God."
Lionel had flushed and then paled under his aunt's rebuke. Never till
yesterday had she rebuked him. What was this she said about "however
the illness ended"? How should it end? Claude was always strong.
Scarlet fever was not anything so very dreadful, was it? Plenty of
people got well from that. Why did his heart sink like this?
He was very silent, and but little more was said all through the meal;
for Alick had his own thoughts, Marian divided hers between annoyance
with her brother and sober consideration of what they had been talking
about before breakfast, and Charlie was rather dismayed at the silence
of the others.
The moment breakfast was over, Mrs. Chantry gathered the household
together for their morning reading. It had been a sore trial to her
when her husband's continued ill-health had forced her to take up this
duty by herself. But meeting it bravely, in strength which she sought
and received from above, she went forward in her quiet way. And now
daily, what had once been a trial, became a great blessing, and there
were many among that little household who valued the few moments in
which they stepped aside from the whirl of life, and took a peep into
the unseen and eternal.
This day as they knelt together Alick heard his mother say,—
"May we feel ourselves to be poor in spirit, that Thou mayest be
able to enrich us; and may we so mourn before Thee on account of our
sinfulness, that Thou mayest be able to give us Thy blessed comfort."
Alick heard, and bent his head lower, acquiescing in the prayer from
his heart, feeling that it was in some way connected with his thoughts
last night, but yet conscious that a proud wilfulness lurked within
him, and made him still feel injured by circumstances, which had
somehow combined to rob him of peace. He was not yet poor in spirit.
Still he joined in praying his mother's prayer, and rose from his knees
wondering how the answer would come. That an answer would come to every
true prayer, sent up from a humble heart straight to the great Giver,
he did not for a moment doubt.
Just as they were all separating, Marian, Lionel, and Alick, for their
hats, ready to start for lessons at The Towers, the postman came up the
path through the little front garden.
Alick was the first to see him, and sprang to the door. There was but
one letter, and that was for him. Yes, truly an Indian letter, in
Courtenay's bold, fair writing.
"Come along!" exclaimed Lionel impatiently. "You are never going to
open that now, are you, Alick? We are already behind time, and you know
how it upsets Fortescue."
"I never intended to open it," answered Alick, annoyed.
"Marian," called Lionel, "do hurry yourself. What a time you girls do
take!"
"I am coming in a moment," answered his sister from above; "go on
without me."
She was standing by Salome at the nursery-door. "I did so want to
know about Claude before I went into school," she said in a low tone,
looking wistfully into the dark, sympathetic face.
"He's in de 'Lord's' hands, dear missey."
"Yes, but I shall be thinking about him all lesson-time."
"Dear missey, you just 'member this. If de dear Lord wants you to know,
He 'll send you word; if He wants you to wait, can't you do as He
wants?"
"I'll try," she answered humbly, running down to join Alick, who stood
on the path waiting for her, Lionel having gone on.
"Have you had a letter?" she asked, as they quickly walked down the
garden behind the house, to the little stile which had been made in the
hedge which separated the cottage from the house.
"Yes, from Courtenay, but I have not read it, and do not intend to,
till I can do so in peace."
He spoke hardly, and Marian's eyes came back from his face disappointed.
"It is so difficult to learn to wait, is it not?" she said.
"Oh, that is not much waiting!" answered Alick lightly. "I know they
are on their way home from the telegram; it will only probably be
things personal to myself."
"Those are such nice letters."
"Yes; I don't care for descriptions of scenery."
Marian laughed.
"But you love scenery as much as any one, Alick."
"So I do, but not when you want to hear about those you love. One
assurance that they are thinking about you, is worth a hundred lines of
how beautiful the mountains looked this morning."
They had reached the steps of Courtenay's house—those wide, pleasant
steps on which his grandmother used to stand in her white cap and black
satin dress, the picture of a lovely old lady.
Alick saw it all now, as if it were yesterday; and he remembered in
the same moment all that had come and gone when Courtenay had been his
hero, and had stood out bravely for the right within these very walls.
The thought calmed him; and as he passed through the wide hall, he
could greet Mr. Fortescue with his usual pleasant smile.
"No news yet from Sunnyside?" had been the tutor's first question. "So
Lionel tells me."
And on the negative answer, the three settled down without another word
to the business of the day.
Marian, by her steady perseverance, had kept up with her brother.
But Alick, a year older still, had got far ahead, and now studied by
himself, Mr. Fortescue finding no pressing needful, and only having to
direct his thirst for knowledge.
They plodded on silently for an hour or two, and then a note was
brought in to the tutor, which he immediately opened.
"From your mother," he said to Alick, as he took in the sense of the
few lines. "She says she has seen Mrs. Malden in the garden, and Claude
has passed a restless night, but there is no particularly bad symptom."
Marian gave a deep sigh, while Lionel exclaimed, with a sound of relief
in his tone:
"That's all right then; I thought my aunt made it out too bad—"
Then, meeting Alick's eyes, he checked himself suddenly, and turned to
his writing again.
Mr. Fortescue was a very quiet man, and made no remark on the letter,
so again they went on with their tasks.
At one o'clock they put up, and prepared to go home.
Mr. Fortescue took leave, and the rest gathered near the window,
looking over the broad green garden to the raised walk at the end under
the elms, between which could be seen peeps of the sea, and the pretty
roof and chimneys of Sunnyside.
"I was born to be a gentleman," said Lionel, with a sounding sort of
sigh.
"I 'was' born one; not 'to be' one," said Alick, speaking in spite of
himself; but his cousin's pompousness was too aggravating.
"Why?" asked Marian. "I do not see what made you give us the benefit of
that sage remark, Lionel."
"Because I find this handsome house suits me a great deal better than
Alick's house."
"My 'father's' house, you mean," answered Alick.
"Suiting you well depends on the end to be attained," said Marian.
"What end?"
"Just having what is best for us."
"That's what I say. I find this decidedly best for me. I have felt in a
better temper ever since I entered it."
"That shows it is 'not' good for you," said Marian.
"You girls have no reasoning powers," said Lionel. "It's just the other
way."
Marian only smiled.
"We must not keep auntie waiting for dinner. What a lovely day it is,
Alick; just like Spring, isn't it?"
"Yes; shall we go for a walk on the shore this afternoon, when we have
done our lessons?"
"'I' can't. I must stay and see if Aunt Greta wants me. Besides, I
shall have to practise."
"I'll come!" volunteered Lionel. "It will be a change from that poky—"
Marian looked up anxiously.
"From being poked up so, I mean," stammered Lionel.
"I don't think I shall go," said Alick, hesitating.
"Why you proposed to a minute ago!" said Lionel.
Marian perfectly understood, and they walked in silence through the
garden, Lionel again hurrying on before.
"We have only an hour," observed Alick, "to get back again. Mr.
Fortescue is coming at two instead of half-past to-day."
"I wonder why that is?"
"He is going into Norwich. I fancy he has volunteered to get some
things for your mother, Marian."
"I cannot help wishing I were at home helping her, Alick."
"I am sure you must. But it is so nice that you do not fuss about it,
Marian."
"Fussing does no good."
"But that does not hinder people from doing it."
"No; I want to feel quite sure I am doing right in being here, and then
I should be satisfied."
Alick paused an instant, looking into her gentle, fresh face
consideringly.
"You feel it's right to do as your mother wishes, Marian?"
"Of course I do; but then suppose she wants me at this moment?"
The blue eyes filled slowly, and Alick's turned away.
"She did wish you to stay here, dear," he said very kindly; "she came
over on purpose to ask it. I'm sure mother said so. It would have been
an added care to have had you to think of."
"But there are the children and my father; she cannot be with them
both."
"The little ones have Martha, have they not?"
"Yes—"
"And Aunt Ella goes in and out with Claude, and waits on Uncle Malden
too. Because, don't you remember, she told mother it could not be
helped, and there was not much risk to uncle?"
Marian nodded. Her tears were falling down, one after the other, as
fast as they could.
"She could send for you if she needed you very much," suggested Alick
again.
But this made Marian cry more than ever.
They had come to the cottage door, and poor Marian brushed away her
tears and ran up to her room.
Alick stood at the bottom of the stairs looking after her, feeling he
had been but a poor comforter.
She came down in a moment; and as he took hold of the dining-room door
to open it for her, he whispered, "Marian, we must ask God about it.
He will make it right for you, if you ought to go; there's nothing too
hard for Him."
"Thank you," she murmured, nearly overcome again.
They were all seated at the early dinner—Mr. Chantry, and even the
little ones. It was quite a tight fit to sit to the table, but Lionel
had had enough of making disagreeables, and held his tongue.
"Did I hear you say you had a letter from Courtenay, Alick?" asked his
mother.
"Yes, mother; one came this morning."
"What does he say? How is poor little Margaret? And is Mrs. Bruce any
better?"
"I have not even had time to open it yet."
Mrs. Chantry looked a little surprised, but made no remark. When
Alick's voice took that tone, she knew all was not quite well with him.
"It was too precious for our eyes to even rest on," said Lionel.
"I never thought of your wanting to hear the contents, mother, or I
would have tried to make time to read it. Of course you would like to
know about them; I forgot that."
"Not till you are ready to tell me, dear; I am in no hurry."
"Mother is never in a hurry," said Charlie.
The moment dinner was swallowed, the three were off again to their
tutor.
And not a word was exchanged between them, except with reference to
lessons, till the clock struck four.
Then Mr. Fortescue hurried off for his train, and Marian returned to
see what she could do for her aunt.
Alick put on his hat and walked to the stile with her. Then, after he
had helped her over, he turned back, saying with a smile:
"Now for my letter and a ramble on the shore, Marian. Tell mother, if I
am not home to tea, she will know where I am; I won't be very late. Ask
her, like a dear mother, to keep my tea under the cosy till I come."
Marian nodded, and he ran off down the road.
He was rejoicing inwardly at having escaped without Lionel, when, at a
turn in the steep lane, he found him resting against a post waiting for
him.
"I thought you had gone home," he said somewhat ungraciously.
"Why, you promised to come down with me to the beach. What a changeable
fellow you are!"
"I never promised at all. However, we can go together, and when I come
to my cave, you must continue your walk without me; for I want to have
a little quiet."
"With your beloved letter?"
"With my beloved letter."
"Courtenay's only your cousin, and he's my brother; and yet I don't
make a quarter the fuss over him you do."
"Perhaps not."
"Why do you?"
"Simply because he and I have been thrown together by circumstances,
and suit each other."
"I should hope you did, but for my own part, I'd ten times sooner
Courtenay had never been my brother; he was always getting in the way."
"Lionel!"
"I don't mean anything dreadful. Simply that if he were just a friend
living in The Towers, instead of a brother, it would be nicer."
Alick was silent, too angry to be ready to bear with his cousin and
explain the matter to him, which would have done the younger boy good.
"I suppose we shall squabble along like this for the rest of the two
months," remarked Lionel comfortably, when their feet first crunched
the shingle of the beach.
Alick roused himself. "Courtenay will be home in a fortnight—I hope we
shall not indeed, Lionel; I cannot think what has come to us."
"It's you who are so disagreeable; I never saw you so obstinate before.
Mother used always to hold you up as a perfect paragon."
"I'm not a paragon now," said Alick with an inward groan, "whatever I
may have been then."
But he acknowledged to himself as he said the words that he had in
those days considered himself somewhat of a paragon; one of those who
knew his duty and did it.
"Is the tide going out or coming in?" asked Lionel. "You always know
the tides."
"I forget," answered Alick, with a weary sound in his voice; "any way,
it's a good way out, and we must be back in two hours or thereabouts.
It will be dark soon after six."
He was walking rapidly towards his favourite cave.
"You'll let me come too?" asked Lionel. "I won't speak a word while you
read your letter. Seriously, Alick, I won't quarrel, or anything; I
will sit still and go to sleep, if you like. It is so dreary all alone,
especially now Claude is ill. Do let me come."
"Oh, no," said Alick hastily; "I told you I wanted to be quiet.
Good-bye; we shall meet at tea."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
[Illustration: "Blessed are they that mourn:
for they shall be comforted."]
CHAPTER IV.
_IN THE CAVE._
LEAVING Leesworth on the left, and making their way under the
overhanging cliffs, the boys reached the Point, about a mile to the
right, which shut in the small bay in which the little fishing village
nestled.
Some time before high-tide, the water reached the Point, and in
consequence of this, the second bay on the other side of it, was but
little frequented, and was a favourite resort of the Chantrys and
Maidens, who liked to escape from the visitors who came to stay at
Leesworth in the season.
Of course, a few visitors wandered along the shore, and were as pleased
as they with the quiet little haven beyond the Point, where the clean,
fresh sand was so firm to walk on, and the fallen rocks so interesting
to climb over, washed as they were daily by the sea.
Among these rocks and openings in the cliff Alick and Courtenay long
ago had chosen one particular cave, which they called their own. It was
very secluded, and not easy to find by the unobservant, and for this
cause was much prized by the boys.
Lionel was only allowed to enter it on invitation, and they expected
him to be satisfied with his own cave, which was situated about half
a mile further on, and immediately in front of a ledge of rocks which
stretched far out into the sea, and were full of such marine treasures
as young collectors love.
This cave of Lionel's was close to the sands, and was washed out at
every high-tide by the waves. Indeed, every part of this piece of the
beach was covered at high-water, though there were some broken pieces
of cliff which, by a little climbing, would form a place of safety,
should the unwary be overtaken by the tide. In this case, however, they
would be imprisoned for some hours, as there was no way to reach the
upper cliffs, and those thus caught must remain patiently watching for
the subsidence of the waters.
Alick and the rest had once had this misfortune, and had considered
themselves quite romantic when at length, hungry and weary, they had
waded round the Point, unwilling to wait for the extra half-hour which
would have left them dry ground to walk upon.
So this March afternoon, Alick turned away from Lionel, and climbed
up the face of a pointed rock in certain footholds known to himself,
and quickly reached his cave, which looked down upon the beach and bit
of sea in front of him, just also taking in the very end of the reef
jutting out far into the sea.
Sometimes he was sorry that he could see anything but sea and sky,
though ever from to-day he was thankful that that bit of rock and beach
had come into his horizon.
He sat down. His cousin's retreating footsteps were the only sound
besides the gentle noise of the waves, to-day less distinct than usual,
as it was very calm for the time of year.
"He's going to his cave, or to the rocks, I expect; and we can join
company on his way back," he thought.
Alick's heart had smitten him a little at his cousin's forlorn tone,
and he made up his mind he would call to him when he should see him
pass the strip of sand which the mouth of his cave commanded.
He drew out his precious letter. It ran thus:
"DEAR OLD BOY,—We shall, I hope, soon be starting for home; and as
the letters take as long to come as we shall, you will probably have
a telegram to say we have started even before you receive this. But I
daresay you will want more information than a telegram can give.
"Margaret has written to mother and father, so that my letter to you
need not enter on plans and journeys and packings-up. I can write to
you yourself, and tell you a little about me myself. For, Alick, since
you and I parted, I have passed through a baptism of suffering, and I
am afraid I shall not come back to you the same follow who went away.
Perhaps I have been growing gradually unlike the same, ever since I
have had my precious Margaret to take care of. But anyway, love and
happiness do not alter one as sorrow and bereavement do.
"I have had to fight my battle alone, as all the great spiritual
battles of our life have to be fought. Not that Margaret has not been
everything any one could possibly be. She has been more to me and
better to me than I could have believed possible; but even then, in
spite of all that (for which I thank God inexpressibly), I have had to
walk through the valley of the shadow of death 'alone.' Alone, did I
say? That is just what I want to tell you. It was in that valley, when
my little treasured child was lifted from my clasp, and buried beneath
the waves, that I learned more fully than I had ever done before,
'"Blessed" are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted.'
"I said there was no comfort for me; I fainted, and did not believe
to see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. I felt cut off;
I laid myself down (so to say) in the depths, never to rise again.
"Then, after a long time, as it seemed to me, I cried unto the Lord
out of the depths, and He heard my cry. He put His hand under me, He
brought me up; He put His strength into me, where I had none; He walked
through the valley with me; He brought me out into His sunshine again.
And He not only did this for me, but He so filled me with the assurance
of His love and faithfulness that I could rejoice in His having done
the very best in taking my darling safe home, from every pain and care,
into His everlasting keeping.
"There, Alick; and if you have followed me through all this, you
will perceive that your Courtenay who went away can never come back.
Instead will come back one who has tasted that the Lord is beyond all
things better than our best thoughts, and who is humbled at his own
sinfulness, while he is lifted up by His great love.
"Alick, I would rather you should be aware of this. And how do I know
but that you, dear boy, may also have had some spiritual conflict while
I have been gone?
"I long to see you again; so does Margaret. Oh, Alick, you will like
to see Margaret with her poor suffering mother! Her tenderness, her
brightness, and forgetfulness of herself. No one would guess from
Margaret's sweet, cheerful face that within four months she had lost
her only child. But we know,—do we not?—that loving heart, which ever
was ready to put away its own care in ministering to others.
"This is the last letter I shall send you. Between now and our sailing
there will be nothing but boxes and packages.
"Alick, how shall I feel when I pass over the spot where our darling
lies?
"But she is not there; Margaret will not have me for a moment say she
is 'there.' 'She is safe with Jesus above,' she says to me whenever I
look sadly at the great ocean; and then I smile at her, and say she is
right. What can be better than to be safe with Jesus, Alick?
"Your ever affectionate step-cousin,
"COURTENAY MALDEN."
Alick sat for a long time after he had finished the letter, gazing out
upon the sea. His mind was in India, and he was living in his loved
step-cousin's life. He was so absorbed in thought that he lost all
sense of there being a place in the world called Leesworth, till a
little moving black figure among the distant rocks out at sea brought
him back, and with a start, he remembered there was such a person as
Lionel Malden.
With that came an inward sense of repulsion, which suited ill with the
peaceful thoughts which had been occupying him. How angry he had been
with him for joining company, how unreasonably angry and annoyed; and
then he looked over the feelings of the last few months, ever since
Courtenay had gone away, since the time when Lionel had been more
thrown into his company.
"I have almost hated him," groaned Alick half-aloud. "Though I asked
him for this wretched birthday of mine, it was more to get my own way
than because I wanted 'him;' and besides, Marian would not have been
asked if he had not come, and Marian and I are always such friends.
"Yes, I have at times almost hated him; partly because he makes me feel
bad. He stirs up all the bad in me and brings it out. Oh, dear! And
this ought not to be so, must not be so.
"What was it my mother prayed this morning? 'That we might so mourn
on account of our sin, that God might be able to give us His great
comfort'?
"I haven't mourned; I am as proud, as angry, as indignant with him as
ever. And yet—yet—God can't dwell with the proud heart, and I want Him
to dwell with me; I must have Him dwell with me. That is why I have
been so utterly wretched, because I have not got the humble heart in
which He can condescend to dwell. I see it all now, and no wonder I
have been cross and miserable and hateful!"
Alick buried his face in his arms. His sin swept over him like the
waves of the sea; he saw himself and his un-Christlike behaviour in
their true light; and as each fresh wave of remembrance washed up over
his soul, his head sank lower and lower, and his spirit sank in deep
mire, where there was no standing.
Then Courtenay's words, uttered with such a different sense, mourning
in such a different way, stole over him: "Out of the depths I cried
unto the Lord, and He heard me."
Alick took courage; he would cry unto the Lord too. Who was like the
Lord, who was ready to pardon, and plenteous in mercy to all that call
upon Him?
The conflict and despair were over; his foot was set upon a rock once
more.
He raised his head, peace shining in his eyes, though a great
humbleness filled his heart.
"'We love Him because He first loved us,'" he said with a deep sigh as
he rose.
And then he found his sleeve wet with the tears he had shed. He was not
ashamed of them, but then came another thought. Lionel! He must seek
Lionel, and ask his forgiveness for all his hard thoughts and cross
words. Forgiven himself, he must forgive.
He went outside on the ledge of rock and looked towards the reef. His
cousin was not to be seen, but probably he had turned homewards, as it
was already getting dusk.
"Perhaps I missed seeing him pass," thought Alick; "I might well have
done so as I was sitting. I will try and overtake him before he gets
into the house; he cannot have long passed."
He clambered down the rocks and hastened home. The tide had come up
very much, but he could still pass the end of the Point. Before he
turned it, he looked once more at the rocks, at least at so much of
them as were yet uncovered, but they rose up still and distinct against
the darkening sky. And then, only anxious to overtake his cousin, he
sped homewards, his heart full of deep repentance.
That he had been so loved as to be brought back from such ingratitude,
made him more humble than he had ever been in his life before.
The prayer had been answered. He had found the words true: "Blessed are
they that mourn: for they shall be comforted."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
[Illustration: "Blessed are they that mourn:
for they shall be comforted."]
CHAPTER V.
_ON THE ROCKS._
"WHERE'S Lionel?" was Alick's first question as he entered the
dining-room, and found he was not seated at tea with the rest.
"Is he not with you?" asked his mother, looking up. "We have seen
nothing of him."
"He was on the rocks, but I supposed he had gone home."
"He will be in presently," said Mr. Chantry. "Sit down, Alick; we have
almost finished tea."
Alick obeyed, but just as he was raising his cup to his lips, a thought
struck him, a thought which, but for his unkindness and repentance, he
would have dismissed as nonsense.
"Mother, I'll go and look after him, if you don't mind," he said,
rising.
"My boy, he has taken care of himself hundreds of times; he will be in
directly, I hope."
"But the tide is coming in fast, and he will not want to be round there
all night; I doubt if he can pass the Point now."
"Do just as you like," said Mr. Chantry; "but he may have gone the
other way."
"No, he was on the rocks, I know, for I saw him, and he had not time to
get home before I came out on the beach. What I'm afraid of is, that he
may have gone to sleep in his cave. He said something about going to
sleep."
"Well, be off then," said Mr. Chantry, "for it is getting very dusk."
Alick was gone like the wind. How bitterly he felt now the careless
words he had uttered when he had parted from his cousin, how grieved
that he had disregarded his evident loneliness.
The mile along the sands had never seemed so long before. When he
reached the Point, the waves were gurgling and washing gently between
the stones at its base. In less than an hour it would be impassable.
He plashed through the water ruthlessly, regardless of boots or clothes.
Then his eye scanned the darkening line of white sand as it stretched
before him, but no moving figure broke its expanse. He pressed on,
half-angry with himself for being anxious, and yet conscious of that
ever-deepening water at the Point, which made his own situation
disagreeable enough, if not actually dangerous.
As he neared Lionel's cave, he called his name, hoping to save time.
But while he waited for an answer, he felt he was losing more than if
he had hurried on.
None came. The sea broke and fell, and ran back and came forward again;
but no other sound struck the ear.
Alick intended, when he reached the cave, to run in and beg Lionel's
forgiveness the first thing, but what was his dismay to find it
desolate and empty. The sand, even in that dim light he could perceive,
was untrodden—had not been touched that day, at any rate.
He went outside again, a chill fear creeping over him. He ran down to
the sand near the beginning of the rocks, and there were Lionel's fresh
footprints, in single row, leading direct on to the middle of the reef.
But he could not see any returning marks.
"Lionel," he called, following them a little way, and looking round in
every direction, "Lionel, are you there?"
Was it his fancy that made a voice seem to come back with the waves, a
sort of cry of pain?
Nonsense; he had fancied heaps of times that the sea sent back such a
sound. It was only that his nerves were out of order. Still, he would
call once more.
"Lionel, are you there? Are you in any difficulty?"
Surely it was not only the sea that answered this time!
Alick and Courtenay had a particular call, which they had sometimes
been annoyed with Lionel for using. It carried sound a long way, and
was so peculiar, that no sea-music could be mistaken for it.
As Alick advanced cautiously on to the broad flat rocks which stretched
in the middle of the reef, he bethought him of this call, and now he
shouted it as loud as he could. Then he listened intently. He need not
have done so.
Somewhere from the sea, as it seemed to him—around, beneath him, from
"somewhere"—came the answer back, twice repeated, then instantly
followed by, "Help, Alick! Help!"
"Where are you?" he called, standing as if turned to stone.
He had nearly reached the limit of the reef, and the water was dashing
up in white spray against the broken rocks almost at his feet. Lionel
could be nowhere on the reef, and yet—
"Here!" again came back to him with the rushing of the waves.
"Say where, Lionel," Alick called in despair. "I cannot see you, or
even guess where you are."
"Here, to your left!" called the voice, almost beneath him.
And then he groped his way over the slippery rocks in the direction
indicated, entreating, as he made his way over and round them, "Keep on
calling, Lionel; the waves make such a roar! Am I coming near you yet?
Are you hurt?"
Lionel called again and again, adding with terrible distinctness, "Make
haste, Alick; for I'm drowning!"
At last, Alick reached the edge of the reef, and looking down in the
direction of the voice, which seemed close beneath him, he could
make out in the darkness Lionel's face and shoulders emerging from
the waves; while one arm was raised high, holding a dripping white
handkerchief.
Alick, as he stooped down hastily to try to see more clearly, breathed
one earnest prayer for help half-aloud.
"Oh, help me!" he implored. "I don't deserve it, but don't let him
perish for my fault."
"Is anyone else there?" asked Lionel. "Quick, Alick, the waves have
taken me off my feet twice."
"One 'mighty to save,'" answered Alick solemnly. "We must look to Him;
for I don't see what to do. Can't you swim round?" he asked suddenly.
"I'm hurt, or I should have done that long ago."
"I could pull you up by your hands. Raise them up, Lionel, and let your
body float out."
"I can't; this hand is useless. Be quick, Alick!"
The entreaties for haste wrung Alick's heart.
"Be patient, dear boy," he said tenderly. "We shall have time, I
believe, if we hit on the right way. If I pull you by one hand, can you
clamber up with your feet?"
"My foot's crushed, that's just it."
"Foot and hand?" Alick groaned. "What are you standing on? For I
suppose you 'are' standing."
"A large rock. Oh, Alick, here's a big wave!"
He stretched up his hand, and Alick grasped it. Only just in time; for
the wave lifted him off his feet, and would have carried him away but
for that grip of his cousin's.
"There is no time to be lost, I see," said Alick, and he began climbing
over the edge of the reef.
"It's no use," said Lionel, "you'll never do anything, we shall both
drown. Keep up there, Alick, and stay with me till the last. Give my
love to mother. I wish I'd been better—"
But Alick was already clinging with both hands to the rock, and letting
himself down cautiously into the sea close to his cousin's side.
"Guide me to the rock you're on, Lionel, if you can, and do not fear.
Remember we've got a mighty Helper."
Lionel was so nearly off his feet with the height of the water that he
had but little power to help his cousin. The stone on which he stood
was however large, and by a little guiding with his one hand, Alick
safely reached it.
"Now, dear boy, make up your mind to a hard fight for it, and plenty of
pain, but you'll be saved yet if you can be brave. Lionel—I must say
it—forgive me, if we never have time to say any more. Do you?"
"Yes, Alick," answered the boy, holding fast to Alick's taller
shoulder, and feeling half-saved already.
"Now, Lionel, I'm going to lift you up and push you on to the reef, and
you must not shrink if it hurts you. That can't be helped. Just let
yourself go. Now for it."
He bent down till his face touched the water and grasped his cousin
round the legs, and then with all his might hoisted him up and up, till
he fell forwards on to the reef, his poor maimed hand under him.
"You're safe there for a few minutes till I can get up?" asked Alick
from the darkness.
"Yes," said a faint voice. "My hand—"
"That will be better soon."
"No," said Lionel, exerting all his strength; "here's my good hand
sticking out for you to take hold of—here—"
Alick caught it, and after a good many slips and plunges on the slimy
rocks, he found foothold, and at last reached his cousin's side.
"Now, Lionel," he said, "we are not all right yet. Can you walk at all?"
"No, but if you can help me, I can hop. I was doing that when I had the
second fall down there. Alick, I'm in such awful pain."
"Where?"
"My hand and my foot, but my hand the worst."
"We have not a moment to lose. Let me help you up; these rocks will be
covered soon. Don't you remember how the end near the shore gets under
water first?"
"I know."
"Can you walk so?"
"I'll try. Alick, you get me up on to the landslip, and there I'll lie
till you can get help."
"It would be easier to get you to the Point. I doubt if I can haul you
up the cliff."
"Is the water up at the Point?"
"It was, but only just there. I think we may get round."
They were hobbling along, but at every jump Lionel groaned with pain.
And when they were safely off the reef, Alick pulled up.
"Thank God!" he said. "Now I think we may feel you will be saved."
Lionel leant against him in silence, taking long breaths, hardly able
to repress his moans.
"Alick, I shall never reach the Point like this. Every shake of mine,
every jump, wrings both my hand and foot. It's impossible. How long do
you think it will be before the tide reaches the cliff up here?"
"Why?"
"Because you might get a boat."
"It runs in very quickly after it has reached the Point. I could not be
back under an hour. No, Lionel, I must get you up on my back."
"I can't. Oh, Alick, can't you think of some other way?"
"No," answered Alick decidedly. "If we waste another moment, we may be
lost. Let me get you up. See, here is a rock. Now, Lionel, however much
it hurts you, bear it as inevitable. It would be worse to be drowned."
Lionel did as directed; he threw as much of his weight as he could
round his cousin's shoulders, clinging on with his unhurt arm.
Alick bent bravely beneath the weight, and without any further delay
beyond one or two halts for rest, actually reached the Point. There he
set his cousin down. How he did that half mile he never could explain,
but he only knew that at the end, he uttered his second "Thank God!"
which was quite as heartfelt as the first had been.
"I'm going round first, Lionel; because if I can't, you can't; that's
certain."
It was now quite dark, and Alick pushed into the water with a feeling
of uncertainty. He kept close under the cliff, and found it not so deep
as he had feared. When he went down between two rocks, it was up to his
middle, but the average depth was not much above his knees.
He knew the place so well that he felt somewhat reassured, and when he
saw they could get through turned back to his cousin.
"All right," he called. "Now, Lionel, can you help yourself a bit, or
shall I carry you?"
"I had better try to walk," he answered, "but I doubt if we shall get
over."
"Fear nothing. We cannot come to much harm if I have to carry you
again. Come along."
This was the worst bit they had had. Lionel did his best, but his
one foot got between rocks and in holes, and he plunged about sadly
distressed, feeling as if he must give up all for lost.
But Alick had no idea of giving up, and by dint of encouragement,
entreaties, and commands, he at last turned the corner of the Point,
and could see the lights at Leesworth shining over the water.
"Look, dear boy," he said cheerfully, "we shall soon be quite safe, and
then I hope your pain will be better."
Lionel clung to him.
"I'm going to faint or die or something," he said. "Alick, I'm—"
He happened to be on a rock just behind Alick at the moment. Alick
seized the opportunity and grasped his hands—hurt or not—round his
own neck, and with two or three desperate struggles and stumbles felt
his feet greeted by the firm sand beneath, and then he found himself
walking out of the water under the deep black shade of the overhanging
cliffs.
He pushed on. That his cousin was either fainting or dying he believed,
but hesitation now was disaster. He never paused till the change in the
character of what he was treading made him aware that he had reached
high-water mark. Still on he pushed, and was not satisfied till he laid
his burden down close under the cliff, where even in winter storms he
had never seen the waves come.
He placed the unconscious form as comfortably as he could, and bent
down to feel his heart. Yes, it was beating. Overjoyed at this, Alick
stayed one moment more.
"Lionel," he said softly, "can you hear me, dear boy?"
No answer.
"I am going to get help, Lionel; I shall not be long gone."
No answer.
Alick ran down to the edge of the sea, and filled his hands with water;
for hat, he had none.
It was but little that reached the fainting boy; but that little
dropping on his face revived him.
"Where am I?" he asked feebly.
"Safe, perfectly safe. I am going for something to carry you on."
"Don't leave me, Alick."
"I must. Dear Lionel, I shall not be long; you will not be afraid. You
will be home all the sooner."
"Very well. Alick, would you give me one kiss?"
"Willingly, gladly."
He stooped down and kissed him, and Lionel pressed Alick's hand to his
lips.
"Lionel, we'll never be anything but friends after this?"
"Yes," answered Lionel faintly. "Alick, you've done more for me than
save my 'body!'"
But their suspense was over. As Alick turned to go away, lights were
seen coming rapidly towards them, and several men, with Tom, the
Towers' coachman, at their head, came up in another minute, having been
sent in search of them.
Alick explained briefly what had happened, and two of the men ran back
to the fishermen's cottages for a shutter.
"Take me to Salome," murmured Lionel. "She knows best what to do for
me—as I can't go to mother."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
[Illustration: "Blessed are they that mourn:
for they shall be comforted."]
CHAPTER VI.
_CLAUDE._
WHEN the doctor had pronounced Claude's illness to be scarlet fever,
Mrs. Malden had gone to her husband for a brief consultation.
After the first dismayed explanations, she had said:
"I cannot leave you, my dear; that is one point settled, and I do not
see how I can leave him."
"Then you must necessarily have us both in one room," answered her
husband with one of his sweet, reassuring smiles.
She answered the smile with a very loving one, but shook her head.
"I shall have him left where he is."
"In the morning-room?"
"Yes. I put him on the sofa there because he was so feverish and
miserable, to be out of the way of the other children, and to be with
me. I am glad I did."
Mr. Malden thought for a few minutes. "It is the best plan," he said at
last.
"And I shall go over to the cottage and ask Greta to keep Lionel and
Marian."
"What shall you do without Marian?"
"I shall have to do," answered Mrs. Malden decidedly; "that is,
dearest, if God spares me my strength and health."
She looked fondly in his face. To her, her health was most precious;
for what would her invalid husband do without her, especially since
Courtenay's marriage?
"We are all in God's hands," she said with a long-drawn sigh. "I ought
not to be anxious."
"Was that sigh one of resting all the load on Him?" asked Mr. Malden,
taking her hand, and looking up in her face.
"I think it was," she answered.
Mr. Malden had learned many a lesson during those eight years since his
accident, and so had she.
"I must go," she said softly, bending to kiss his forehead. Then
stopping suddenly, she added, "You do not think there is any undue risk
to you?"
"None at all, my dear; I believe I have had it."
"I did when a child," she answered. "You know I could get a nurse, but
there are so many difficulties, and I could not bear not to nurse him
myself if I am able. The little ones will be quite safe with Martha.
That girl is worth her weight in gold."
"We have many mercies, though we have some trials, my dear. Do not let
us forget them in this blow."
She assented warmly, and then hurried through the window out into the
garden, anxious to secure that her elder children should not return to
the house before she had spoken to her sister.
Mr. Malden looked after her with a tender smile.
"Who would have thought she could ever have turned from that beautiful,
fashionable girl into this lovely wife and mother, more beautiful than
ever in my eyes?" he murmured to himself.
Mrs. Malden soon returned with her sister's answer, and then went to
make up a bed for her boy.
Sunnyside had been built by Courtenay with every arrangement for his
father's comfort, and thus it happened that the chief sitting-room
had been appropriated to his use, its French windows opening on to a
verandah, commanding one of the most beautiful views at Leesworth.
Adjoining this, with a door made wide enough for his wheeled chair to
pass through, was Mr. Malden's bedroom. And on the other side, a little
morning-room had been planned where his wife could retire for the
writing of letters, or to do necessary business, while she could still
be within call of her husband, and watch over him with that vigilant
care which had been her characteristic, ever since she had waked up to
the knowledge that he would never be strong again.
And so she settled in to her new duties, and went backwards and
forwards to Claude during the two first days.
There was no particular anxiety. His attack seemed of a mild nature.
And after she had once accepted the fact of infectious illness being in
the house, and of the necessary separation from her other children, she
went about her nursing with a calm spirit, feeling not unhappy in the
quiet and peace in which she found herself.
On the Tuesday evening, as she sat in the twilight with Claude, just
as her eldest son (had she known it) was in such peril on the reef, he
stretched out his little hot hand to her, looking up from a short doze.
"What did Dr. Smith say this morning, mother?"
"That you were doing as well as we could expect, dear."
"How soon does he think I shall be better?"
"He did not say; but I hope a few days may make a great difference."
"I wish my pillow were cool."
"Let me turn it, my darling."
"But it gets hot again."
He moved restlessly.
"It is very tiring for you, dear, but it helps us to be patient to
remember that the Lord Jesus is with you, and is sorry for your pain."
The child's eyes quivered with a tear, and his lip trembled.
"I should like to get better soon," he said, laying his face down on
his mother's hand.
"So should I like you to, dearie; but I am glad Jesus knows about it."
"Yes," said Claude assentingly.
He soon slept again, and then Mrs. Malden disengaged her hand gently,
and went to her husband, closing the door behind her, as she always
did, so as to keep the air as separate as she could.
She sat down by Mr. Malden's side very silently, and gazed out on the
sea abstractedly.
"How is he now, my dear?"
"I thought he seemed a little low," she answered, hesitating.
"We have to expect ups and downs, my dear; we must not allow ourselves
to go up and down with them."
"No—"
"Our feet must stand upon a Rock. What was it you read me in that old
version the other day? How Christ says to His disciples, 'What dread
ye?' Christ holds it all quite safely in His hand; it is only we who
are uncertain."
She leaned her head against his chair for a long time without speaking.
"I think he loves Jesus," she said at last; "I have thought so for some
time."
"I believe he does, my dear. I do not think you need to be anxious on
that score."
"I should like to be sure," she answered with a sound of tears in her
voice.
"We can ask Him to let us know, and to make it all right for us. It
says, 'Cast thy burden upon the Lord.'"
She knelt down by his side, his hand clasping hers. Many a prayer had
gone up from those two, and many an answer of peace had come back. They
had learned "to make their requests known," and the peace of God which
passeth understanding came in answer, and "kept their hearts."
"I must go now," whispered Mrs. Malden when he had ceased praying.
"Would you like lights?"
"No; I will sit so for a little longer. There will be no stars
to-night."
She left him, entering the sick-room again softly. Claude still slept,
but was tossing restlessly. She seated herself by him, and smoothed his
forehead with her cool fingers.
"That is nice," he said, opening his eyes. "I do have such nasty
dreams."
"I am so sorry, darling."
He nestled against her hand, but said no more, and again seemed to
sleep. So the hours passed, and the night drew on. Mr. Malden went to
bed, but she told him she intended to sit up all night.
"You will be worn out," said her husband.
"I had a fairly good night on the sofa there last night, but he is
worse this evening. I shall get some sleep in the arm-chair I daresay."
Just as she was preparing the last things for the night, seeing that
she had milk and all things ready for her invalid, a note was handed in
by the maid who waited on her.
It was from her sister, Mrs. Chantry. Seeing that it contained news of
some importance, she took it in to read with her husband, the few words
her eye had caught alarming her very much. It ran:
"Do not be frightened, dearest Ella, for all is now going on well.
I only tell you to-night, because we mutually promised to have no
reservations whatever. Your dear Lionel has had a fall on the reef this
evening, and has hurt his foot badly. He had some trouble to extricate
his leg from between two rocks, and then, alarmed at the rising tide,
he attempted to get home on his one foot. He thinks he hurried too
much; at any rate, he slipped again, this time falling on to a lower
ridge nearer the water, straining his hand very seriously, I fear.
He thinks he fainted, but, at any rate the first thing he remembers
was the sea washing over him. He managed to get up and stand; but
there was no means in his wounded condition of climbing up the steep
rock behind him, or of swimming to shore. He says he did his utmost,
but every movement of his hand made him so faint that he feared he
would fall down into the sea; he therefore stood still, and waved his
handkerchief, hoping to attract the notice of some of the fishermen.
None saw his signal of distress, however, not even Alick, who was
anxious about him, and had gone out to look for him.
"By the merciful providence of God, however, Alick went right on to
the reef after him, and was able to rescue him just before the water had
risen so high as to have carried him away. It is too long to tell you
all about how he saved him, and got him home; it is sufficient now to
say that when he was brought in, he asked to be put into Salome's care,
and we have placed him in the nursery, and I hope in a few days he will
be quite himself again.
"Salome and I are both clever with wounds and bruises, and already he
looks relieved by our cold applications. I am writing by his side, and
he sends his love, and says he is 'so comfortable now.'
"I ought perhaps to say that he did not tell us this long story word
for word, but that I have gathered it from Alick's account, to which
Lionel has added a few sentences. But I do not encourage him to talk,
as I think quietness is essential to recovery. I will let you know how
he is in the morning. I do not think you have need to be in the least
anxious, but be as 'thankful' as you like, Ella.
"Your loving sister,
"GRETA CHANTRY."
Mrs. Malden read every word, and then sat as if stunned. Her husband
touched her hand.
"Let us thank God for his preservation; he has been in great danger,
Ella, or she would not have written such a letter."
"We promised each other—"
"But for a fall or a sprain, she would not have filled two sheets. Our
boy has been close to the gates of death."
"And I never knew—"
"How few things we know, love? We walk along day after day, and danger
and death may come close alongside of us, and we be as unconscious as
a newborn babe of it; and yet our Father knows. He only allows what
He sees best for our eternal interests, and holds back all that would
injure us—I mean in the true sense. It may be the valley of the shadow
of death to us, but 'He' is with us, He will comfort us through all."
"Yes, yes, I know it. I am glad to know it."
She was forced to hasten back to her child. But though she wrapped
herself up in a warm cloak, and prepared herself to rest, sleep forsook
her eyes. She lived over and over again the scenes pictured in her
sister's letter, and thought she could see every stone in the way over
which her poor, wounded boy had had to pass. How she longed to hear all
the particulars.
Soon after the clock struck one, she was rising softly to make up the
fire, when Claude raised his head with a woebegone look in his face.
"Oh," he exclaimed, shrinking away from something in horror. "Oh, don't
let it come! Oh, I'm so frightened!"
His voice sank to a whisper of intense fear, and his face was so
utterly wretched that Mrs. Malden threw herself on her knees by his
side, and clasped her arms round him protectingly, hiding the wide-open
eyes in her neck.
"Mother is here," she said tenderly; "do not be afraid, darling.
Nothing can really hurt you. It is only a bad dream."
He continued to clasp her convulsively, whispering in terror, "I'm so
frightened, mother; don't let it come."
"Remember Jesus is here," she entreated, her heart broken by her
inability to soothe him; "He will take care of you."
"Ask Him," murmured Claude, shuddering.
His mother whispered their request.
And then with a long-drawn breath, the boy's arms relaxed, and he sank
back on to his pillow.
"It's so nice to have you, mother," he said gratefully.
"And so nice to have Jesus to go to," she added, looking in his weary
little face for a response.
"Yes," he answered softly. "He made it go away."
"If it comes again, you must try to remember His mighty power, Claude,
and His mighty love."
He did not answer, but closed his eyes as if satisfied.
And then his mother rose from her knees and sat down by him again,
pondering on what he had said, and thanking God that so far her prayer
had been answered.
Towards morning, he slept more quietly, and Mrs. Malden had some sleep.
Thus, a few days passed away; sometimes better, sometimes worse, till
on Sunday evening, the doctor coming in unexpectedly, Mrs. Malden
looked up surprised.
"I thought I would have a look at him again to-night," he explained,
and though his tone was cheerful, the mother's heart sank.
He came over and felt his pulse, and looked at his tongue.
"You do not think him quite so well?" said Mrs. Malden in a low voice.
"Not quite, his pulse is not so good as it was this morning, and much
quicker than last night."
"I hoped we had turned the corner."
"These things are very treacherous. Now, my little man, that's all I
want of you to-night. You have been a very patient boy."
Claude did not respond in words, but he gave a very sweet smile.
"Keep him up all you can. Feed him every few minutes. I'll come in
again the first thing in the morning."
Then turning at the door, he beckoned Mrs. Malden outside.
"I do not like the look of him to-night. Keep his spirits up. Do not
let him know you are anxious. Feed him well; nearly everything depends
on that."
Mrs. Malden went back. She bent and kissed her boy's face tenderly.
"Claude, darling, you must eat all you can. Dr. Smith wants you to get
stronger."
"I do not so much care about that now," he answered, his heavy eyes
glancing in her face, she fancied, to see the effect of his words.
"Do you not, dear? Why?"
"I've been talking to Jesus."
He said it very tenderly and softly, and she held her breath to hear.
"You love Him then, darling? He is your own Saviour?"
"Yes, mother."
"And what did you talk to Him about?"
"I asked Him to do as He likes."
"That is the best, darling," she said, quietly swallowing down the
tears which would force themselves into her eyes. She managed to keep
them out of her voice she thought.
"I'm quite willing, only I'm so tired. Do you think people get tired in
heaven?"
"I am sure they do not."
He seemed to think for awhile and then he fell asleep, and she could do
nothing but wait.
When she felt she must rouse him for food, his increased inability to
take it alarmed her greatly. He besought her more with his eyes than
with his voice not to press him. But remembering Dr. Smith's commands,
she entreated him to be patient and take what she thought necessary.
He yielded, but by-and-by, though seemingly unable to speak, with his
little weak fingers he pushed the spoon away, holding her hand down
with a beseeching touch that wrung her heart.
"I 'can't,'" he whispered when she made another effort; "my throat—"
Then she sat still and knew all hope was over.
He slept quietly hour after hour, and she moistened his lips from time
to time, but she could not get him to take even a half-spoonful.
About an hour before dawn, he suddenly opened his eyes and raised
himself in bed, looking eagerly upwards, while a smile hovered round
his lips.
"Mother, look! White babies."
She gazed where he gazed, but the spirit world, though it was visible
to him, was hidden from her.
"Oh, Claude!" she said, laying her cheek against his. "I wish I could
see Jesus as soon as you will."
He put his weak arms round her neck, and said in a little tone that
seemed only a murmur, "It's so nice—Jesus."
She loosened his clasp, thinking he would be tired, and he seemed
satisfied to hold her hand. And so they sat for another half-hour, when
he gave one gentle sigh and so passed home.
Mrs. Malden's first thought was that he saw his Saviour's face now.
She kissed him and laid him down tenderly, crossing his hands on his
breast, and then she went through to her husband's room.
He was sleeping quietly, and though she spoke a few low words, he did
not hear. She turned away and came back again into the chamber of death.
Yes, no longer Claude's room—no longer her own loved little boy lying
in the bed—but something which made her shrink and tremble, and feel
herself unutterably alone.
She sat down for a moment to think, and then there swept over her one
of those fierce assaults of the Evil One which left her no power to
extricate herself from his clutches.
Doubt after doubt sent cruel blows against her soul, and for awhile she
felt as if everything on which she had trusted in heaven and earth were
swept away from her.
But One mighty to save was with her, though she knew it not. The Holy
Comforter drew near and spoke to her,—
"Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted."
"Them that sleep in Jesus will God bring with Him."
She looked up; a light was shining in the midst of the darkness. In her
overwhelming desolation, she hardly had strength even to cry for help,
but watchful, everlasting love had sent it just in her hour of sorest
need.
"God will bring him with Jesus," she murmured; "my darling 'is' asleep
in Him."
[Illustration]
[Illustration: "Blessed are they that mourn:
for they shall be comforted."]
CHAPTER VII.
_SALOME'S SLATE._
"HOW'S that, dearie?"
"Very nice, very comfortable, thank you, Salome."
We must return to the evening of Lionel's accident. He had but a short
while ago been carried into the nursery at the cottage, where in the
ordinary way the little ones slept, as there were but few bedrooms
at the disposal of the somewhat large family. The children were just
putting away their toys for bed when the cavalcade arrived, and had
been hurried to the dining-room, where they had since been kept amused
by Alick and Marian, while Mrs. Chantry and Salome attended to the poor
boy, whose discomfort and suffering were very great in his soaking
condition.
He was at last got to bed, and Mrs. Chantry had sat down by him to
write her note to her sister. Now she had gone to see after the little
ones, and Salome and he were left alone.
"Very comfortable, thank you, Salome," he had answered gratefully, to
her inquiry as to the position of his pillows.
"You'll be better by-and-by, dearie; that is, if de dear Lord sees
best."
Lionel did not dissent by word or sign, but closed his eyes.
"Is de pain very bad, dearie?"
"Not so bad as it was before you put on this stuff. What time can it
be, Salome?"
"I should say it's nigh on ten o'clock by now."
"I thought it must be the middle of the night."
"I hope you'll be asleep, dearie, long 'fore that. Master Lionel, you
mustn't mind me callin' you by my pet names, 'cause when I'm waitin' on
my child'en, I always call 'em so."
"And I'm one of your children now," answered Lionel, smiling.
"Jest that, dearie. Now you mus' do jest what I say, and we'll get on
first-rate."
"I mean to," he answered, looking up in her face.
"That all settled den, dearie. Now you go 'sleep."
Lionel obeyed, at least in so far as closing his eyes again, but the
pain in his hand was too severe to allow of sleep.
Salome went quietly about, arranging all things for the comfort of her
children, who were turned out of their room by Lionel's presence.
And he watched her handsome form going here and there, sorting out
clothes, putting up toys, carrying out night-clothes, till in spite of
pain and everything, his eyelids got heavy, and before he thought it
possible, he was fast asleep.
Then Salome, quiet as she had been, grew quieter. She took off her
shoes and pinned her skirts close round her, and stepped about
noiselessly.
Mrs. Chantry was in the next room arranging for beds for her little
ones. Charlie was put with Alick, and the others stowed in corners
where they would be perfectly happy.
Salome crept out to help her mistress.
"He's sleepin' like a baby, dear missis; he could not be doin' better.
There's nothing like sleep for healin'. Now, child'en, you must not
make 'noise for all de world. Master Lionel get better if he have dis
sleep out. He perhaps not wake till half de night over."
The children were quite ready to fall in with their dear Salome's
wishes. They were, however, tired and sleepy—being up for two hours
longer than usual, great as the excitement had been, had left them very
weary, and they gladly viewed the little impromptu beds prepared for
their use.
"That is awfully comfortable," said Ruth, as she laid her little curly
head on the white pillow. "I like being turned out; I wish we were
every day!"
"Do you?" asked their mother, smiling.
Marian was busy undressing Sydney, "the baby," as he was sometimes
called.
"Aunt Greta," she said, as she raised her head from kissing the
fat shoulders, "how is it that children in their petticoats are so
exquisite?"
"To baby-lovers!"
"Well, I suppose so; but I perfectly love to undress Sydney."
Mrs. Chantry smiled at her enthusiasm.
"Now he is ready for bed, Aunt Greta, is he not like the pictures of
'little Samuel'?"
Salome smiled brightly.
"I' seen them too," she said. "I'd like him to hear de dear Lord speak
'any rate."
"I hope he will," said Marian, kissing him.
"Well, if you have had enough for to-night, Marian, shall we put him
into bed?" said Mrs. Chantry, smiling.
"I love Marian," said Sydney; "she's a kind gell."
They all laughed.
"Well, Marian is going to stay with you for ever so long, and you'll
have plenty of her," she said coaxingly. "Will you always love me,
Sydney?"
Sydney nodded, and then, his bed being ready, he was laid in it, and
his mother knelt down by him and whispered his evening prayer.
"I do love Jesus," he said comfortably, stroking his mother's face
softly; "and I love everybody too."
So they darkened the room and went down to supper.
"Alick, my boy, you look tired," said his mother.
"I feel tired, mother."
"I hope carrying him was not too much for you—has not hurt you."
"Oh, no. I shall be all right in the morning. Mother, I feel so
thankful I hardly know what to do."
Soon the excited household were in bed; and the sleep, so much needed
by all, came a gift from an overruling Father's love, and refreshed and
strengthened them.
The next morning, Salome reported Lionel to have passed quite as good a
night as she had expected, but that he was suffering, and must be kept
very quiet.
"You do not think there is anything serious?" asked Mrs. Chantry
anxiously.
"Oh dear, no, misses, my dear. But, after all he went through, we can't
'spect him to be well. He feel as if he's bruised all over."
Mrs. Chantry went in to see him.
"I am sorry you are in so much pain, my dear," she said kindly.
But she remembered all his annoyance and restlessness since he became
her guest, and she felt it hard to make her tone such as she would like
it to be to her own child were he hurt.
"Thank you, auntie," he replied, turning away his eyes. He wanted to
say something, but he could not get it out.
"Have you all you want, my dear? Is Salome nursing you as you would
like?"
She would not have asked her own child that. But Lionel should have no
reason to complain of her care of him.
"Oh, yes, thank you—everything," he answered heartily. "I am only sorry
to give you all so much trouble."
It was said so humbly, so unlike proud Lionel, that his aunt was
touched.
"Never mind that, dear, so long as you get better. But I must not let
you talk."
"Aunt Greta!"—he paused, taking her hand with his unhurt one, though he
felt hers slightly unwilling. "Aunt Greta, I am so sorry I was so cross
and unbearable since I came. It seems funny now I am helpless to ask
you to forgive me, but I do. I could not be happy till I had told you."
Mrs. Chantry's eyes filled with tears.
"My dear boy, you are freely forgiven; do not think of the matter
again."
She kissed him warmly, and left the room with a happier heart than she
had had ever since he came into the house on the Saturday before.
When Salome came back to him, Lionel was very silent, and she gave him
his breakfast without much remark, though her observant eyes had seen a
great deal more than he guessed.
"Salome," he said presently, when she was getting the things ready to
dress his wounds, "have you heard anything from Sunnyside this morning?"
For an instant Salome hesitated, then she said, quietly and firmly:
"Don't you think, dearie, as you'd better not be asking 'bout them all
day, till your pain gets little better?"
"If you knew—" he answered brokenly.
"What should I know?" she asked kindly.
Lionel was silent. It seemed as if he could not tell her.
"I do want to hear," he said at last, "but if you say I am not to ask,
I shall submit."
"You are very good, dearie. I'm only wantin' you to get well, and if
you go frettin', you won't get strong."
Lionel did not press the matter, but silently prepared to have his hand
dressed.
"It seems worse than ever," he said, as he tried to lift it towards her
and failed.
"That's to be 'spected," she said. "My! How it is swollen. My 'pinion
is, dearie, that this is different from a sprain. I b'lieve it's out of
joint; that's what it is."
"Is that worse than a sprain?" asked Lionel, wincing as she began to
bathe it.
"Not if you get a bone-setter, dearie. We'll see 'bout that. You got
nofing to do, dear, jest yet, but be patient, and let me see to you.
Salome don't hurt you more than you 'spected, does she?"
"You are 'very' good to me," he answered; "much better than I deserved."
"If I am, I'm only follerin' in de dear Lord's ways, dearie. He's
better than ever we deserve in all things."
"I know that," he said softly.
As the day passed on, though Lionel did not ask again for news of his
brother, Salome noticed an anxious, melancholy look settling down upon
his face. She went out and consulted Mrs. Chantry as to what she would
wish.
"You told me to say nofing, misses, my dear; but I'm thinkin' as it
will be quickest in the end to keep no secrets."
Mrs. Chantry thought for a minute, then she said:
"You can do just as you think best at the moment, Salome. I may well
trust it to you. I know what would make 'me' better if I were ill—that
would be to have nothing kept from me."
Salome went back to her charge.
He looked earnestly in her face, but made no remark.
"The dear misses says as you may ask what you like, Master Lionel,
about your little brother."
"Oh, 'thank' you, Salome; how kind of Aunt Greta."
"But you won't go vexing yerself all the time, will you now, dearie?
'Cause de dear misses only 'low me to tell you, 'cause I know you will
be better for not keepin' anythin' in."
"I'm sure I shall, Salome. It is very kind of you."
He was silent for a little while, then he said hesitatingly, "Have you
heard to-day?"
"We did this morning. He was not quite so comfortable then, dearie."
"Do you think there is any danger, Salome?"
"I never heard that, dear. I'm so sure that de dear Lord holds it all
in His hand that I don't ask if dere's danger, but I say to myself, 'De
Lord knows,' and that make me quite peaceful."
Lionel pondered. In his helpless condition, he had time to listen to
the heavenly music which would have been too low to hear in the turmoil
of life.
"Salome, why do you suppose I have had this accident?"
"I don't pretend know all de Lord's ways, dearie."
"I know, Salome."
"Do you?"
"I was so headstrong that He could do nothing with me, so He had to
knock me down before He could teach me."
Salome smiled at the boy's way of putting it, and she answered, "It's a
good thing to have found that out anyway, dearie."
"I've found out a great deal more than that," he replied.
But he did not explain, and Salome came over to him, and smoothed his
bedclothes, telling him to go to sleep now, and not talk any more.
"Salome, you must be like my mother, and give me a good-night kiss.
Will you? Then I shall know you have forgiven me."
"I have not got 'nofing to forgive dearie. I always ask de dear Lord to
wash de slate clean every night."
"The slate?" questioned Lionel.
"Where it's all put down on. If dere's any stain on my heart, either
from my sin or from other people, I say to de dear Lord,—
"'I don't want to tink of it no more, dear Lord, wash it all 'way.
Wash mine 'way from thy holy sight, and wash deres 'way from my unkind
sight, and den we'll start quite clean 'gain, and I'll be happy.'"
"Oh, Salome, how nice!"
"Don't you see, dearie, He can't dwell where 't isn't all fresh and
clean? So I'd better ask Him to wash it, and make it ready for Himself;
'cause I 'spect Him to dwell with me."
"Haven't 'we' anything to do then?" asked the boy, looking up earnestly.
"We've got to ask Him to do it, dearie, and believe He'll keep His
promise to hear us."
Lionel turned his face to the wall, and Salome went about her work.
After this, one day was like another all the week till Sunday. Lionel's
foot got gradually better, but his hand remained helpless and painful,
so that Salome earnestly advised him to stay in bed for the sake of
both foot and hand.
Marian came to read to him, Alick played chess with him, and he was so
happy in the cheerful room and Salome's company that he took her advice
to stay where he was. Privately, he dreaded to return to ordinary life,
even had his hand permitted it, while his little brother's life hung in
the balance. That it did hang in the balance he began to understand.
Salome did not express it in so many words, but he could see from
the soberness of the faces that greeted him after the general early
bulletin, that the news did not get any better.
He noticed on the Monday morning that Marian did not come up to bring
him a flower to grace his breakfast, but that Salome busied herself in
unusual silence, and there was a sort of feeling of something wrong in
the air. He tried to shake it off as a bad dream.
"I shall get up to-day, if you'll let me, Salome," he said, as he
pushed away his tray. "My foot is ever so much better, and though my
hand is so bad still, I have lain here long enough; don't you think so?"
"So you have, dearie, but I had better bathe your hand 'fore you do.
See, I've got all your clothes as dry as bones for you, and 'dere
'dey are all ready on a chair when you like to dress. We did cut your
sleeve, but if we had not, you'd not have been able to get your arm
into your coat, I'm afraid."
Lionel shook his head. His hand was bathed and bound up again, and then
Salome said gently:
"I wouldn't get up for half an hour if I was you, dearie. Lie still a
bit."
"Have you any particular reason why I should?"
"Only I have a message from your mother for you, and I thought we talk
about that first."
"A message," echoed Lionel, surprised.
"Your dear little brother was much worse after they sent in last night—"
"Is that mother's message?" he asked, his heart sinking down to an
unknown depth.
"No, dearie; she sent jest these words to you, to you particularly,
dear Master Lionel. Can you bear me to say dem to you now, dearie?"
"Yes," answered Lionel slowly. He knew the purport of the message
without any more words.
"She said, 'Tell him to be comforted, for Claude has gone to be with
Jesus.'"
The boy's eyes were fixed on Salome's face with unutterable yearning.
And then as her tender voice and touch helped him to take in the
reality of the news, he turned away, and hid his face under the
bedclothes.
"Oh, if I could only have seen him once more," he moaned, "just for one
single minute!"
Salome understood such words as she heard, but she knew it was useless
to offer consolation yet. She went to her place at the window and took
up her work, her heart sending up many a prayer that the mourning one
might be comforted.
At last she heard herself called, and she hastened to his side.
"Oh, Salome," said the boy, flinging his one arm round her neck, and
burying his face against her, "I've got no mother to go to, and I am so
dreadfully miserable! May I tell you about it?"
"I'd be very glad, dearie. But you must 'member there's One as is
better 'ner any mother; He'll comfort you better 'ner I can."
"I was so angry with him for being ill—," whispered Lionel.
"I know, dearie, and de dear Lord knows."
"And I said he would be sure to get well."
"And so he has, dearie; he's well up dere."
"But—and I said 'he always came up the right side,' and here—he is
dead—and I—I have been saved. Oh, Salome, I'd give my life for his at
this very minute."
"Yes, dearie, I know as you would; but you're thinkin' of all your
sins, and not of the de Lord's mercy. Hasn't He washed your slate
clean?"
"But that doesn't make it any better that I was so cruel and
thoughtless to say such things."
"It makes it better now. He says,—
"'I am He dat blotteth out thy transgressions, and will not 'member
thy sins.'"
"But even that will not bring Claude back."
And then at the sound of his brother's name, he wept bitter tears.
"But, dearie," said Salome with the greatest tenderness, "you jest
listen what I say to you. Don't you think as de dear Lord has got a
lot of good things for the darlin' boy as will be far, far better than
livin' down here? And don't you think as He's cared for him far better
than anyone here could do, if you had your wish to give your life for
his to-day?"
Lionel listened, still his head was buried on that motherly bosom.
"Oh, Salome," he said, "how dreadful it is to mourn!"
"My dear Lord says how 'blessed' it is to mourn, and He can't be wrong,
dearie."
"How 'can' it be blessed to mourn?"
"Jest this very fing, dearie. He says it is blessed to mourn in order
that you may be 'comforted;' He means to give more dan He takes away."
"But how, Salome?" he asked. "How can He comfort me?"
"That's the very fing, dearie. 'He' is our comfort, He Himself. If He
draws near to you, and comes and takes you into His arms, and wraps you
up in dem, you'll say wid great joy, 'It was 'deed blessed to mourn,
'cause "He" has comforted me.'"
"And will that be better than having Claude back?" asked Lionel.
"He'll make it better dan dat even, dearie; He'll say to you, 'I know
what's best for you.'"
"And then—Oh, Salome, how will He make me not mourn for those horrid
things I said?"
"He won't make you not mourn for dem, dearie, but He'll comfort you
'bout dem. He'll say to you (I mean when you safe in His arms, and
leanin' on His bosom), He 'll say to you, 'I've blotted out your
transgressions, and now all things work together for your "good."'
Dat's de way de dear Lord speaks to me anyway, dearie. It 'pears to me
as if 'comforted' jest means having Jesus Himself."
Lionel kissed her dark cheek, and laid himself down on his bed. He
turned over on his side, away from the light, and did not speak again
for hours. There was no more talk of getting up.
She brought him food from time to time, but beyond a grateful "thank
you," he said not a word.
Salome knew all was well with him, and when Marian met her on the
stairs, and asked anxiously after her brother, she answered:
"De dear Lord's got him in hand, and you need have no 'xiety 'bout him,
child."
"It's worse for him than for any of us," said Marian, wiping away her
tears.
"Perhaps not, lovey. When de Lord ploughs down deep, de gentle rain
goes in deep too. I never saw de Lord's work more plain. Dere's joy
amongst de angels of God dis week I'm thinkin'."
"Then I don't so much mind, Salome. Would he like me to come and see
him?"
"I'd leave him 'lone wid de Lord, lovey, till he ask for someone else."
She went back to her charge, and Marian sought for her aunt to cheer
her with Salome's report.
In the evening the sunset happened to be very lovely, and Salome pulled
up the blind, without however speaking about it. The glory streamed
along the floor, and rested on Lionel's bed. He turned round when he
felt the warmth on his face, and appreciated her action in a moment; he
knew it was done to cheer him.
"Salome," he said, "is Alick at home, do you think?"
"Yes, dearie; he is walkin' in the garden with Miss Marian, and de dear
misses. There he is, turnin' de corner now."
"I wanted him to write a letter for me to mother. Dear Salome, ask Aunt
Greta if she minds my sending one. I can't write well with my left hand
myself."
"I'll go at once, dearie. Your dear mother like to get 'letter from
you."
Alick came directly, and willingly undertook to be his cousin's
amanuensis.
Salome said she had "something to do for her child'en," and left the
two boys together.
Lionel greeted Alick with a smile, and then said:
"You don't mind, Alick?"
"Not a bit. I am delighted to do anything for you."
"I'd rather you should see what I say than anyone else. Even Salome
could not understand this as well as you."
Alick was silent, his hand holding the pen ready to begin.
"I shan't write much, Alick; but I think I ought not to hold it back
when she's in such trouble."
Alick hoped he understood, but he let his cousin proceed in his own way.
"So will you begin now, Alick?"
"DEAREST MOTHER,—Alick is writing for me because I can't use my hand
yet.
"I cannot attempt to explain to you in writing all I have felt this day
in the loss of dear Claude, but I just want to tell you one thing which
I know will make you rejoice even in your sorrow.
"While one of your little lambs has been taken, into the fold in
heaven, another big lamb has been sought by the Great Shepherd and
brought into His fold on earth. Mother, on that rock, with the water
ready to swallow me up, I learned what it was to be a sinner. I
thought before that I was a very good fellow on the whole, and could
not imagine why you were anxious for me to have a Saviour. Then I
understood it in its awful meaning, and unless Alick had come, it
would have been all over with me for this world and the next. At least
I suppose it would, but perhaps God would have thought of some other
way of saving me. At any rate, while I was despairing on account of my
sins, which were ten times more dreadful to me than drowning, Alick
whispered these words, 'Mighty to save.'
"'Mighty to save!' I repeated to myself. 'Then He's mighty to save me.'
All at once, while Alick was climbing down, risking his life to rescue
me, I saw Jesus on the cross giving His life, shedding His blood, for
me. Mighty to save! And then I remembered that text on our nursery wall
at home, 'Look unto me, and be ye saved.'
"Before Alick had got down to me, the deed was done. I had looked, and
I was saved.
"Mother dear, will this do you good? Such a week as I have passed no
words can say.
"Because I have been very far off, I must come very near. Because He
has given His life's-blood for me, I must henceforth give my life to
Him. There must be no half-and-half with me.
"Salome has been so good to me.
"Now, darling mother, you can't write to me I know, but you can send
me a message.
"I'll tell you what I've found God this week, 'The God of "all"
comfort,' and He will be that to you and my dear father too.
"Your loving son,
"LIONEL MALDEN."
Lionel had taken the pen and had scratched his own name with his left
hand at the bottom of the page.
"Thank you, Alick," he said.
"Thank you for letting me know," answered Alick earnestly.
"I don't mind your telling Marian about it, Alick. I can't talk of it
yet to anyone. I have got so much to learn."
"You've learnt the greatest thing at any rate," said Alick.
"It's only the 'beginning,' I'm thinking, Alick. One step up a very
tall ladder."
"Whose top reacheth unto heaven," said Alick, smiling.
"Yes," answered Lionel.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
[Illustration: "Blessed are the meek:
for they shall inherit the earth."]
CHAPTER VIII.
_MARIAN'S SUNSHINE._
"AUNT GRETA," said Marian, putting her head in at the dining-room door.
"She isn't here," said Charlie, looking up from the floor, where he was
building bricks with Sydney; "I think she went into the drawing-room."
The drawing-room was across the narrow passage, and looked out as the
dining-room did on the little front garden, and thence to the lane. But
Courtenay in his alterations had thrown out a bay window at the side,
commanding a view, first of the pretty lawn belonging to the cottage,
and then of sloping fields down to the bottom of the valley.
Marian found her aunt sitting at this window with the rays of the
western sun falling on her rippling brown hair—a beautiful picture she
thought in her quiet little heart.
"Aunt Greta, shall you not be cold in here?" she asked.
"I don't know, dear; the sun makes it warm."
The tone was dejected. Marian recognised it in a moment.
"There is a fire in the other room."
"The children's bricks make such a noise; I thought I should be quieter
here."
"So you will be, but I must get you something."
She ran off, and in a moment brought a Shetland shawl, warm and light,
which her aunt generally used in the garden.
"Thank you, dear," said Mrs. Chantry; "I could not find it."
"Lie down on the sofa, and I will tuck you up, auntie."
"Oh, no, dear!" answered Mrs. Chantry, rousing herself. "I must go and
see after the little ones, only my head felt all in a whirl."
"I shall go in there directly. There is no need for you to move for
ever so long. I am afraid the children being turned out for Lionel has
come very hard on you, Aunt Greta."
"My head is not so very strong," answered Mrs. Chantry apologetically.
"You see, Marian, Salome generally takes every care away from me with
regard to them."
"Yes," said Marian. "Salome says, 'I got no head like de dear missus; I
just as strong as can be.'"
Mrs. Chantry smiled, but soon looked sorrowful again.
"Now, auntie," said Marian, "you do as I say. Lay yourself on this
sofa, and I will come back in five minutes. And if you are not asleep,
which you ought to be, I'll 'report progress,' and tell you how your
three bairns are getting on."
Mrs. Chantry's eyes filled with tears. Marian did not appear to see
them, but covered her aunt up, and with a kiss left her.
She hurried to the kitchen, which was out at the back under the
nursery, and gave a direction to the little maid, and then hastened to
the children in the dining-room.
"I've got nothing to do, Marian," said Ruth, coming to her, and rubbing
up against her like a little kitten. "I will see what we can find,
Ruthie."
"It's so dark with these blinds down. Does it do dear Claude any good
to have the blinds down?"
"No, dearie, not the least; it's because of other people we pull them
down."
"I don't see that it does other people any good either," said Ruth.
"Lest they should think we forget," said Marian gently. "But look here,
Ruthie, I can put this blind so that you can see nicely. There, how
does that do?"
"Very much better," answered Ruth. "Now I want something to do."
"I can see beautiful now," said Sydney. "Marian, I'm glad you've come
to stay."
"So am I," said Ruth; "we've got no big sister."
She was searching in her aunt's basket for a pair of scissors.
"Now, Ruthie, sit up to the table, and cut this letter-paper into
strips. Look here, about half an inch wide, and curl them so with this
paper-knife, or with one edge of the scissors. I'll teach you to make a
cushion."
"A cushion!" echoed Charlie, getting up from his knees.
"Yes; and you, too, if you could find some more paper."
"There is some here. Mother put these sheets by for Ruth to make spills
of."
"I'm tired of making spills," said Ruth, fearing she should be set to
that task again. "I'd rather make a cushion."
"Of course you would," said Marian, smiling, "because we always like to
do something fresh."
"I'm going to build a 'very' high castle," said Sydney, "as high as
this table."
"Very well, do, dear," answered Marian. "Charlie, have an eye on him
while I do something for Aunt Greta, will you? And see that he comes to
no harm."
Charlie nodded. "Isn't mother well, Marian?"
"She is tired—and sad, I think," added Marian with a little break in
her voice; for she had lost her own favourite brother that day, and her
own heart was very sad too.
"Yes," answered Charlie, quite comprehending; "and besides it's very
tiring having these children down all day long. It's different to have
me, because I employ myself if she's busy, but Ruth keeps on all the
time, 'Mother, mother, dear."
"I don't," said Ruth, looking aggrieved.
"Well," interposed Marian, "you must all be as thoughtful as you can.
Ruth will be pleased to show auntie a box full of paper curls, shall
you not, Ruthie?"
Ruth was in the act of curling a particularly hard one, and was too
busy to answer. So with another glance to Charlie to be careful of his
little brother, Marian left them, and ran back to the kitchen.
"Is it ready, Molly?"
"Yes, miss," answered the little maid, delighted with her own
promptness. "Don't you think I've been quick, miss?"
"Indeed you have, and you've cut that bread and butter very nicely too,
Molly. Thank you."
She went off with the tray, leaving Molly smiling. Her aunt was not
asleep, but lay quietly looking at the sunset. She turned round on
Marian's entrance.
"Here's a cup of tea for someone," said Marian, "for someone who did
not eat half a dozen mouthfuls when the others had theirs."
"My dear, you are very thoughtful, but—"
"Now, Aunt Greta, just try this cup. Is not that refreshing?"
"Very refreshing."
"And is not this glorious sunset refreshing?"
Mrs. Chantry did not answer to that; she looked at it for a moment, and
then her eyes turned to her cup.
"It makes me think of my little ones whom I lost in India," she said at
last.
"I should like it to remind me of seeing them again," answered Marian
softly.
"And then I think of your dear mother, Marian, and know she is passing
through what I did then, and that makes me sorrowful."
Marian had much ado to go on quietly, but she resolutely gulped down
her tears and whispered, for she could not force her voice to its usual
tone: "But she is comforted; she did say so this morning when she saw
Uncle Chantry. Aunt Greta, dear, do try to let in the sunshine into
your heart."
Mrs. Chantry was silent, and then after a while, she said tenderly,
turning round to kiss the soft, round cheek which was bending so near
her:
"Marian, darling, tell me, what has made you so peaceful to-day?"
"Just this, auntie: that He knows best. I'm so satisfied that He is
doing right for us all that I feel lifted above all the difficulties
and turmoil, and am resting in His presence."
Marian said it very humbly. If it had not been that she saw her aunt in
such great need of comfort, she would never have said so much.
"It is the 'meek' who shall inherit the earth," said Mrs. Chantry
musingly. "When we are willing, He can work. It is the unwilling who
hinder."
"Do you not remember," pursued Marian, "how we felt everything was
wrong when dear Claude got ill, and we had to come and fill up your
house, auntie?"
"Well, dear."
"And then came Lionel's accident, and then it seemed worse than ever,
and yet all the time God was working round for the very best for us. He
was teaching us lessons we could never have learned in prosperity."
"What lessons have you learned, darling?"
"I had to learn to give up my own will about being at home to help
mother," said Marian, her voice quivering as she thought of all it had
cost her.
"And you did?"
"Yes, auntie; He helped me. And then when I thought it was all wrong
about Lionel, He's turned it all round till it's the very best that
could be."
"How do you mean, darling?" Mrs. Chantry raised her eyes to the glowing
face.
"Salome says that there's joy in the presence of the angels of God over
him, and we know what that means, auntie. Isn't that enough to lift us
above the clouds?"
"Indeed, it is darling. I have been very wrong to be so desponding."
"You are tired and overdone, auntie. Now will you let me put those two
little ones to bed, and you lie still for an hour? By that time, you
will feel better I hope, and uncle will be in from the garden."
She kissed her aunt once more, and left her alone.
Mrs. Chantry put down her cup and wept excessively for a few minutes.
She wanted to be willing to be led, but she felt as if she could not
make herself willing. Then those words stole over her with their
healing balm—
"'Come unto "Me" . . . I will give you rest . . . learn of "Me:" for
I am meek and lowly in heart, and ye shall find rest unto your souls.'"
"Yes, it is the meek," she murmured, "those who learn of Him, who shall
inherit all things. It is the meek who shall be satisfied with His
goodness; it is the meek who leave all in His hands, who receive in
return 'exceeding abundantly above all that they can ask or think.'"
Before the hour was over, she felt she had been strengthened with a
new strength. And when she heard the little footsteps cease to patter
overhead, she rose up and went into the other room. Charlie was
lighting the lamp and setting the room in order.
"Mother, Marian is putting the little ones to bed. Salome says Lionel
will soon be well enough to sleep in Alick's room, and then the
children can go back to the nursery; she's been in saying so to Marian."
"I am very glad of that; I shall go up now to wish them good-night."
"Are you more rested, mother?" he asked wistfully.
"God has rested me," she answered softly.
She went first to the children, and after she had heard all about the
paper cushion, and how kind Marian was, and had said their evening
prayer with them, she went to the nursery and tapped at the door.
"Come in," said Alick. "Oh, mother, is it you? I was just going down."
"I shall follow you in a minute." Then, advancing into the room, she
went over to Lionel's side.
"My dear boy, I have not been to see you to-day because I did not want
to make you increasingly sad with my sadness, but I feel better now.
There is such a thing, Lionel, as finding a hand come down from the
skies, which lifts a burden under which you are fainting right off your
shoulders. It is so with many sorts of burdens; and as you walk along
the path towards the heavenly home, you will find it so over and over
again. When we will let Him help us, He can; but while we think it too
hard for Him, He has to let us find out that it is only too hard for
us."
She kissed him warmly. "It has done me worlds of good to think He has
been seeking you, dear."
"It's more than seeking, auntie," he said gently.
And she understood and gave a bright smile in return.
"Now, missis, my dear, Master Lionel has had quite enough talkin' for
one night. To-morrow, if de dear Lord is willin', he's going to get up,
and the child'en is coming back 'gain in here. I shall be mighty glad
'see my child'en."
"I'm a dreadful bother," said Lionel.
"You not talk like that, dearie," she answered. "You've been nothin'
but pleasure to me; but, all 'same for that, I'll be mighty glad to
have my child'en back."
[Illustration]
[Illustration: "Blessed are the meek:
for they shall inherit the earth."]
CHAPTER IX.
_ON THE HILLSIDE._
IT was breakfast-time on the morning after Claude went "home."
Mr. and Mrs. Malden were sitting together in the library, with the sea
gleaming and flashing in the sun, which shone directly in at the front
windows.
The blinds were partly lowered, but more to keep the dazzling rays off,
than because of the conventional custom. Mrs. Malden had instantly
decided that her loved invalid must not be kept for days in darkness
for any such reason.
They sat almost in silence hand in hand. To have no child with them,
no child to care for and nurse even, came down on Mrs. Malden's loving
heart with a great blank of loneliness—a sense of an empty lap, which
somehow made her feel forlorn. She did not cry, for no tears had come
since the little spirit had fled, but she went about her usual morning
duties to her husband, with a quiet sort of patience which surprised
herself.
"Not here—with Jesus," she kept on repeating softly, when the thought
of that closed room came over her.
So the husband and wife sat hand in hand, eating but little, but
feeling refreshed by the quiet meal.
"How peaceful it is," said Mr. Malden, glancing out on the sparkling
sea.
"Yes, very."
"Have you telegraphed to Norwich?"
"Yes, that is all done. Uncle Chantry has been very kind to come over
so early to help us."
"Very kind."
"Everyone has been so good to us."
"Yet you seem, my love, as if you were still perplexed."
"So I am," she answered, turning towards him. "I cannot see my way to
arrange about the children, and all that must be done when the funeral
is over."
"There is no hurry for that, love."
"No, no, but one cannot help thinking."
"'The meek will He guide in judgment,'" he said softly.
"I am sure of that, but I am so afraid of making up plans of my own,
and dwelling on them, till I think them the very best that can be done."
"Yes; energetic people are apt to do that. But I often think Moses
was energetic enough, and yet God said of him that he was the most
teachable man on earth."
"Teachable?"
"Ready to do as he was told, not one who put up the shoulder when a
direction was given. And so, being teachable, the Lord could come and
speak face to face with him."
Mrs. Malden pondered, resting her chin on her hand, looking out over
the sea.
"We must ask to be guided," she said at length. "It all seems very
complicated to me. There are the children to be got out of the house
while it is fumigated; you and I must go somewhere too."
"One step at a time," he answered, stroking her hand tenderly. "We
have not that to do to-day, nor for many days. As all that becomes
necessary, we shall be shown how to do it. People often make mistakes
by stepping before the time."
"I know it," she answered. "I will wait."
Just as they had finished breakfast, the maid knocked at the door.
When Mrs. Malden opened it, on a dish before her lay a beautiful little
wreath of ivy, with one single white hyacinth lying across the middle.
"With Mrs. Chantry's love, ma'am," said the servant.
And Mrs. Malden took it from her hand and brought it to her husband's
side.
By the hyacinth was a card, on which was written,—
"It is well with the child."
One glance at the words was enough; the bereaved mother burst into
tears and buried her face in her hands. The child that since she
was "comforted" last night she had thought of as being with Jesus,
triumphant over death and pain, was by these simple words brought back,
as it were, to her arms, and now lay in them as the tiny babe, as the
tender little child, as the bright boy, as the dying little son.
"It is well with the child! Oh, yes, it is well," she acknowledged,
"but—but I have not got him here."
She wept very much for a few minutes, and then again patience and trust
reasserted themselves. She began once more to think of the victory
gained, the strife over, the goal reached. "It is well with the child."
She dried her eyes, and laid her cheek against her husband's without
speaking.
"You will be better now, Ella, my love," he whispered tenderly. "Take
this in and lay it at his feet. It was very loving of Greta to think of
it."
Thus, the days passed away, till on the Thursday, Claude's small coffin
was carried away to its resting-place under the trees by the old church.
There the sea breezes swept over the new turf, and made solemn music
between the branches of the spreading fir-trees which hung overhead.
Mrs. Malden had sent in to the cottage an earnest request that no one
would come to the house, or follow her darling's funeral carriage.
Mrs. Chantry had answered that she at any rate should be in the
churchyard, but would not, for the sake of her children, come near the
grave. She would turn homewards, she said, when the service was over.
So when Mrs. Malden stood alone on the breezy hill, by the newly-turned
mould, she saw advancing from the other side of the churchyard her
sister Greta and Alick. She saw them without looking; for her eyes were
resting on the flower-covered casket which had already been lowered,
thinking of the precious body within, which was to wait there till the
resurrection.
When she raised her eyes again, some one tall had come round and taken
his place by her side, and with a start, she looked up at her step-son,
Courtenay Malden.
He only whispered:
"Let me, mother. Margaret sent me."
And she felt inexpressibly relieved to think they had got him home
again.
The blessed service—blessed when read over those who sleep in Jesus—was
over.
Mrs. Chantry and Alick, as agreed, turned homewards, with only one wave
of the hand as adieu, and then Courtenay and Mrs. Malden waited in
silence till all was completed.
After that, they slowly walked along the path and left the place, which
ever after to her seemed as a part of her self.
"Courtenay dear, ought you?" she said gently, as they turned into the
lane.
"There could be but little risk in the open air, mother."
"Perhaps not, but I would not have you run any for the world."
"It has been a comfort to me, mother."
"Dear boy," she answered in her old phrase, "we both understand now, as
neither of us could six months ago."
"Yes, Margaret wished me particularly to come. She would have been here
herself, but that I laid my commands upon her. She is not very strong."
"When did you come home, Courtenay? I had no idea—"
"This morning, an hour ago. I drove straight here."
"How did you hear? My dear boy, my heart is lighter since I saw you."
"Dear mother, I am so thankful I was in time. I had written to Alick
to prepare him for our arrival; because a telegram at Gibraltar had
informed us about dear little Claude, and I told him what hotel we
would call at on our way through. Aunt Greta wrote to us there, to
bring us home quickly. We arrived in London last night, and came on by
the first train this morning."
"God is very good to me. Oh, Courtenay, I wish you could come in and
see your father, but that is impossible!"
"We shall soon arrange that. Mother, as we have so little time to talk,
would it distress you to-day to discuss plans?"
"Not in the least, my dear boy."
"I would not, only that we cannot so well meet now, and here we are
together."
"It will not cause me a pang. Why should it? I am thanking my heavenly
Father at every step that He has brought you back to us."
"Well then, mother, Margaret and I have thought about it all, and we
want you all to come at once to The Towers, while Sunnyside is made
right."
"But the risk—oh, no, dear Courtenay."
"There is not much to risk now, mother. There are no children—" He
stopped, a spasm passing over his face. Then he went on, more softly:
"The little ones, Alick tells me, have never been near the infection,
have been out in the air with Martha from morning till night, have
never even entered the passages, but have gone up and down by the back
staircase."
"Yes, that is all true."
"Then they can come without an instant's thought?"
"But your father and I are different."
"Yes, but not to be left out, mother."
He looked in her face, smiling one of his old smiles. "I do not see
how," she said, her eyes filling at that look.
"But we do. We propose that you should put on fresh clothes, or
whatever disinfecting is considered necessary nowadays, and go into the
children's part of your house for a few days. Then you can migrate over
to The Towers for a long visit, while I have Sunnyside done up from top
to bottom."
"Oh, Courtenay!"
"We have thought it all over."
"Indeed you have. But, dear boy, supposing either of the children gets
it, in spite of all our precautions?"
"Then that's in God's hands. We are only doing our obvious duty, we can
trust Him for the rest."
Mrs. Malden walked on, thinking it all over. That her heart was filled
with grateful love, she knew, but felt that she must not let her
feelings blind her judgment.
"Come, mother," he said at last, "have not you and my dear father asked
to be guided about all this?"
"Indeed we have."
"And have you not asked that some way might be found in this
difficulty?"
"How did you know?" she asked, surprised.
"Do you not always?"
"Yes, you know we do."
"Then you have not omitted it this time, I expect."
"Courtenay, I was able to leave it with Him. Your father reminded me
that it was the meek He would guide in judgment, and the meek He would
teach His way. And so I asked Him to make me meek and teachable, so
that He might act for me."
"Oh, mother," he answered, "when you tell me that, it makes me more
happy than ever in our plan! Do try to be, too."
"Your father and I must think it over, dear boy, but it seems
everything that could be wished. Dear Courtenay, you must let me thank
you, even if—"
"You can thank me best by coming, mother."
"I will be at the stile at six o'clock this evening if I can. Will you
come there to speak to me, dear?"
They had by this time reached the gate at Sunnyside. Courtenay opened
it for her to pass through, saying, "I will be there, mother; and tell
my dear father that I know how to make him comfortable, do I not? He
must not be afraid to come."
"It would not be that—"
"Mother dear, just ask to be guided about this, as you did about the
other, and then, if it is His plan, you will see your way to accept it."
She raised her eyes to his face. "I will, Courtenay," she answered.
And then turned homewards to her husband, remembering suddenly, with
thankfulness, what a joy to him it would be on this sorrowful day to
hear that his beloved son, Courtenay, had returned to them.
"Why was I anxious?" she asked herself. "He has made the meek to
inherit the earth to-day.
"'All things are yours, and ye are Christ's, and Christ is God's.'"
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
[Illustration: "Blessed are they that hunger and thirst after
righteousness: for they shall be filled."]
CHAPTER X.
_MARGARET'S LEGACY._
ALICK and Mrs. Chantry drove home in Courtenay's carriage, which
had waited for them while the service was read. And after Alick had
accompanied his mother to the cottage door, he went in to The Towers to
enquire if Margaret wanted any help in her unpacking.
He found her, however, sitting quietly in the dining-room doing
nothing, her work-basket by her side, but her hands folded in her lap.
One glance at her face showed him that she had been crying.
He came in and sat down near her. "It was very nice," he said gently,
"so peaceful and still!"
"Did mother seem pleased to see Courtenay?" she asked without raising
her eyes, hoping Alick would not notice the traces of tears.
"Very pleased indeed. I never saw such a change in anyone's face in a
moment."
"Ah! He is good—" said Margaret, but she could not finish her sentence.
"Alick," she exclaimed at last, "it is of no use pretending. You must
forgive me for being foolish, but I've been upset by something—"
"Dear Margaret, what?"
"I ought not to have been, but I was alone, and he was not here to be
hurt by it. But when I opened my work-basket that I left at home, you
know, this was the first thing I found."
She drew out the unfinished body of a delicate little white dress which
she had been making for her tiny daughter before she started on their
hurried journey to India.
"Dear Margaret," he said sympathizingly, "I wish I knew what to say to
you."
"You cannot say anything, Alick. I know it all. Only to-day, coming
back to the empty house where every corner was associated with her
little presence, I have realized more keenly than ever before that—that
I am childless."
Alick was silent; he was turning over the little dress almost
reverently.
"They have whiter robes than these there," he murmured softly.
"Yes," answered Margaret.
She took it in her hand, folding it up, and placing it in her
work-table drawer.
"I know it well, but to-day the sorrow has come fresh, and the joy has
faded for a little while."
Then, closing the drawer, and turning round suddenly, she said with a
hesitation in her tone very unlike herself, "Alick, how do you think he
is looking?"
"Courtenay?" But Alick knew she meant no one else. "I hope he will be
better now he is at home."
He had not answered her in words, but she saw well enough what he
thought.
"It has been a very sad time for him," she said.
"And for you too," said Alick.
"Yes, but I have had so much to make up. He has been so very good to
me, and then his generous welcome to my dear mother has made me so
happy and grateful."
"Was he so kind over that?"
"Ah! If you could have seen. But no one but myself will ever know all
about that; for, Alick, it is not a light care to take up, and some men
would have grudged it even if they had thought it their duty to do it."
"And he did not grudge it?"
"Grudge it? But you know him better than that, Alick. What he does, he
does freely always. He said my cares were his, and that I was never to
imagine he had taken back his words, whatever anxiety and trouble we
might be allowed in connection with it."
"That is just like Courtenay," said Alick.
"Is it not? And then he said what I shall never forget.—
"'If she had only been left to us as your mother, Margaret, it would
have been our duty to care for her while life lasts, but our God has
added to that a great privilege. He has sent us one of His redeemed
ones, weak, and needing constant tending, who is hungering and
thirsting after righteousness; and He gives into our hands His blessed
command to carry out "that she may be filled." I count it a great
honour, Margaret.'
"Alick, ought not all that to make me happy?"
At this moment, Mrs. Bruce's slow step was heard in the passage.
Alick hastened to open the door for her, and she bowed her head in
acknowledgment, but did not appear to recognize him. He took her hand,
and led her to the arm-chair by the fire.
"Dear mother," said Margaret rising, "this is Alick Chantry."
"I do not remember, my dear, but I am pleased to make his acquaintance."
Alick felt startled, but Margaret took it quite calmly.
"He used to be very kind to me years ago, and I love him very much,"
she said quietly.
"Then I shall love him too," answered Mrs. Bruce. "Your friends are
always my friends, Margaret."
"Yes, mother," she answered. "Alick, mother is very fond of being read
to, and you have such a nice voice. I daresay you will come in and see
her sometimes."
"I shall be very glad to do so," answered Alick, feeling rather
confused; for Mrs. Bruce looked so exactly like her old self in her
handsome clothes and well-to-do air, that he could hardly divest
himself of his old feelings, which had been somewhat of a distrustful
kind, though he was hardly aware of the fact.
She went on again simply, in a strangely altered voice from the prompt,
rather imperious tones he recalled so well, "But you must not be
surprised if I forget what you read to me, Mr.—What did you say his
name was, my dear?"
"Alick," answered Margaret tenderly.
"I thought you said another name. But you must not mind my forgetting
what you read to me—Alick—for I do not remember anything now very well.
I fancy I used to be proud to know a great many things, but now I am
glad to know only one thing. I do not forget 'Jesus,' and He remembers
'me.'"
Alick took her hand in his, with the first feeling of love towards
her he had ever had; in it his awe passed away, and he felt a great
tenderness supplant it.
"I should like to read to you about Jesus very much," he said, "if you
will let me."
She looked earnestly in his face as if some floating memory haunted
her, but she did not say anything more.
"Alick," said Margaret, "is not that Courtenay coming in at the gate?"
"Yes," answered Alick, springing up; "and, Margaret, it must be our
dinner-time at home."
"Stay here and have it with us to-day?" she asked; he thought wistfully.
"Margaret, I would; only that—"
"Ought you not, dear?"
"I must not forsake mother. Oh, Margaret, I have had to learn while you
were away that I was too bound up in Courtenay!"
"Alick!"
He nodded.
"Who is bound up in Courtenay?" asked another voice.
Margaret smiled, and Alick looked up with more feeling in his eyes than
he knew.
"Courtenay," he said, "you must help me to be watchful about it. From
the day you went away, till the day of Lionel's accident, I was never
in a decent humour. I should be ashamed to remember it, only that it is
forgiven."
"We'll try to be more careful, dear boy," he answered earnestly.
And then he went over to his wife's side and put his arm round her
shoulders, looking down in her upturned face.
"What have you been doing while I have been away, love?" he asked,
seeing something unusual in her eyes.
"I have been talking to Alick part of the time. He has been so kind to
me."
But she said nothing about the little frock, and Alick guessed she
never would, not for years perhaps, till the poignancy of her husband's
grief should have passed away.
When Alick got home, his mother was standing in the garden, holding
seeds for Mr. Chantry, who was sowing busily.
"Let me do that, mother," he said, noticing that she looked tired.
"It is just dinner-time. These are the last," she said, giving them
into Mr. Chantry's hand, and then she turned indoors.
"I thought perhaps Courtenay would have wanted you, Alick," she said,
as he hung his hat up in the passage.
"Margaret did ask me, mother, but I am not going to run away from you
so much."
Mrs. Chantry was touched at his tone. "My boy, I only want your good."
"I know that, mother, but I have seen lately that I was too much over
there—did not enough make my pleasure at home."
"I saw it too, dear, but I did not know how to remedy it."
"I daresay you took the best way?" he asked archly.
She smiled. "Yes, Alick, but do not think, dear, that I do not wish you
to be with them as often as ever you like. I have no such thought."
"I quite understand, mother. I shall try to be more watchful over
myself."
A few mornings after this, Salome called Mrs. Chantry up to see
Lionel's hand dressed.
It had not improved as quickly as his foot. The swelling had gone down,
but it remained stiff and useless.
"And 't was not likely it should get better," Salome observed, as she
and Mrs. Chantry stood looking at it.
"But why, Salome?" asked her mistress.
"'Cause it's my 'pinion as it's out of joint, misses, my dear. I've
seen 'em like this in India. There was a bone doctor there, and he set
'em right in five minutes."
"I wish we had called in Dr. Smith, Salome."
Salome shook her head.
"You and me was best for him, misses, my dear. If this had been a
sprain, he'd have been well almost by now. But as it isn't, we'd better
take him to a bone-setter."
Mrs. Chantry quite agreed. But she said she should like to have Mrs.
Malden's consent before they took any further steps.
Lionel had some time ago taken up his quarters in Alick's room. But on
account of his still tender foot, he kept upstairs, living by day in
the nursery, and limping about through the few little rooms, which he
called taking change of air.
"To think," he said to Alick, "that I could ever have called this a
poky hole! Why, it's been a palace of blessing to me. And this nursery,
which I so despised—"
Alick smiled.
"We all love it, but places so depend on association."
"I think it's the most beautiful room I ever was in. But then, you see,
Alick, it's been the gate of heaven to me, and that makes everything
bright."
"Do you mind the children playing about?"
"Not a bit; I rather like it. Alick, I say, do you think Aunt Greta
will let you go to Norwich with me about my wrist? Did you ever see
such deformity?"
"You must have fallen smash upon it."
"I did; I know that much. It's the greatest wonder I did not roll off
that rock into deep water. I should have gone like a stone to the
bottom."
"Things are very wonderful."
"Alick, I wish you could help me downstairs into the garden presently.
It's such a lovely spring day and I believe I have seen mother walking
about in The Towers garden. Do you think it possible? It looked just
like her."
"I daresay it was; for she and Uncle Malden were to move in there this
morning; I heard so at breakfast."
"What a change it will be for them. Won't she be glad to see Muriel and
Leslie again? And then there's Margaret and Mrs. Bruce."
"You will like to see Margaret, Lionel; she is so sweet."
"Is Mrs. Bruce very changed? But I have only seen her once, at
Courtenay's marriage. I do not know her well."
"You would not think she was the same person, except in look."
"Well, Alick, now do see if I can hobble downstairs. Will not my dear
mother be pleased to see me come walking along the path?"
"She will indeed."
"Did I ever tell you the message she sent to me, Alick?"
"No."
"She gave it to Salome one day in the garden.
"'Tell my boy,' she said, 'that his letter gave me greater happiness
than I have known for years; and that I am sure of one thing, that
if he wants to get "near," as he says; and hungers and thirsts after
righteousness, he will know the blessedness of being "filled."'"
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
[Illustration: "Blessed are they that hunger and thirst after
righteousness: for they shall be filled."]
CHAPTER XI.
_AT THE TOWERS._
"WELL, Lionel," said Charlie, looking up from his lessons one
afternoon, "has he done it?"
"I should just think so," answered Lionel, walking into the room,
looking very bright.
"Really put it in joint?"
"Done everything, but didn't he give me a pulling about!"
"Yes," said Alick, following him in. "I should think he did. Where's
mother?"
"She did not expect you so soon," said Charlie, "and she has gone in to
see Aunt Ella."
"Has she?" said Alick. "I am very glad of that."
"Then she will ask mother if I may come to see them too," said Lionel.
"Dr. Smith thinks it is quite safe now," answered Alick; "and if Aunt
Ella approves, we are all to be allowed to run in and out as we used."
"We must not go too often at first," said Charlie, "or Margaret will
think we are going to overrun her house like a horde of savages."
"I do not see that we need be 'savages,'" said Marian, looking up from
behind the window curtain, where she was working industriously.
"I did not know you were there," exclaimed Alick, coming to her side.
"Why did you not speak?"
"I thought there were plenty to talk," said Marian.
"But is not this jolly about Lionel's hand?"
"Oh, it is indeed! Alick, Aunt Greta will be so sorry to have been away
when you arrived. We did not think you could possibly catch this early
train, so we have ordered tea an hour later than usual."
"And we are particularly hungry," said Alick, making a face. "Father
did not wait for anything when he found we could get back; and not to
have something to eat for another hour and a half—I say, Lionel, what
do you think of that?"
"Awful!" said Lionel, smiling.
"Can your masculine minds contemplate that there might be a possibility
of shortening that period?" asked Marian, folding up her work as she
spoke.
"I was afraid 'you wasn't missus' enough for that," laughed Alick, "but
girls do think of things better than boys."
Marian ran off to the back regions, and the boys sauntered out into the
garden, with a fairly correct idea that tea would come somehow sooner
than an hour and a half.
"Molly," said Marian, "they have come back from Norwich already, and
want their tea at once. How soon can you get it ready?"
"Me, miss? Well, I shan't be five minutes, and that water—I was going
to do something with it, but that can wait till afterwards. It's just
boiling, miss."
"All right then," said Marian; "and now while you set the cups, I will
run over to Aunt Greta."
She slipped out the back way, and by a little watching of her
opportunity reached The Towers' garden without the boys seeing her. She
soon managed to attract her aunt's attention, and she came out of the
house immediately to speak to her.
"Am I wanted, dear? There is nothing the matter, I hope."
"Oh no, auntie! Only they have come home—"
"Yes; your uncle has just stepped in to tell me; I was coming back this
moment. What a pity about our tea, Marian!"
"Should you mind having it a little sooner if we can manage it?" asked
Marian demurely.
"Certainly not, but I gave Molly something to do, and I expect she has
used all the boiling water."
"At any rate, come in soon, auntie; for the boys are hungry. Is mother
pleased about Lionel's hand?"
"Pleased! But you can guess, Marian."
"I shall not wait to hear any news now, auntie, because famished boys
can't be put off. Don't you be long; and Uncle Chantry, perhaps he is
hungry too."
"You are a saucy girl," said her aunt, smiling at her.
And Marian went back and congratulated herself that she got in
unobserved.
She spread the white cloth; she ran backwards and forwards for bread
and butter, and water-cresses, and shrimps, setting the table with the
utmost taste at her command, and running out into the garden to gather
one or two bits of April green which had peeped out in spite of the
cold winds.
Molly, who had privately confided to Salome that she liked doing things
for Miss Marian, flew about in her best style, and in less than twenty
minutes from the time the boys had gone out, the tea-bell clanged
forth, and Marian stood smiling in the doorway with a mischievous—
"So, after all, you're late for tea, young gentlemen."
"Are we indeed?" asked Alick.
But they bolted upstairs to prepare for the meal in a great hurry, and
came down just as Mr. and Mrs. Chantry came in from The Towers at the
sound of the bell.
"Well, mother," said Alick, when they had fairly begun tea, asking the
question which was burning on Lionel's lips, "are we to be made free of
The Towers now?"
"To-morrow," answered Mrs. Chantry, "but—"
"Oh, yes! We know we are not to come down upon them like an avalanche,"
said Lionel. "Auntie, we must go in, in succession one by one, at
intervals of a quarter of an hour."
"That would not be at all nice," said literal Marian.
"No," said Alick with a twinkle in his eye. "I propose that I go
to-morrow; then Lionel can go the next day—"
"Oh!" gasped Lionel. And then stopped himself just before he caught
sight of Alick's face.
Nobody else was taken in. Charlie knew from his brother's tone that he
did not mean it; besides, who had ever found Alick selfish?
"Auntie," said Marian, "we all want to see them dreadfully, but we none
of us wish to push the others aside. How shall we manage it?"
"I propose—" said Alick eagerly.
"Well?" asked Mr. Chantry quietly.
But Alick had stopped. "I do not know why I should be the one to
propose at all," he said; "let Lionel arrange it."
But Lionel was equally unwilling.
And at last Alick was persuaded to give out his plan, on condition that
it was not necessarily accepted.
"I thought," said he, "that as it is Lionel's and Marian's mother and
father who are there, they ought to have the first chance."
"You are quite right," said Mr. Chantry. "I did not interfere, because
I hoped you would come to this wise settlement."
"But Alick so wants to see them all," said Lionel, "and I am willing to
wait."
Charlie had become somewhat accustomed to his cousin's changed frame of
mind, but he could not forbear an earnest look in his face to see if he
meant what he said.
"Let it be settled then," said Mr. Chantry. "My dear, this is a very
nice tea you have got ready for us. We shall do justice to it. Our
hurried lunch was not too substantial."
"I told you to get the boys some coffee in Norwich, but I do believe
you forgot it."
"I certainly did. Anyway, there was not time, and we could not have
lost our train for the sake of it, could we?"
"I am afraid you must not thank 'me' for having this all ready," said
Mrs. Chantry, glancing at Marian.
Marian laughed and blushed.
"I took upon me the office of 'missus,' as Alick calls it, while auntie
was out."
"Did she scold you when she came home?" asked Alick.
Marian shook her head.
"Marian, you fulfil my idea of what a girl should be," said Alick, at
which everybody laughed, till Marian was so confused that she would
have given anything to run out of the room.
So the next morning, as soon it was considered not too early for Mr.
Malden, his two children put on their hats, and set out across the
garden.
"Hasn't old Fortescue had a holiday?" said Lionel. "I should think it
would do him good. I wonder he did not go home, Marian."
"I fancy he is not friendly with his father; it seems strange, doesn't
it?"
"Or he might have gone to London to his friends."
"I suppose he liked staying here best. Besides, 'friends' are different
to relations; you can always be sure of a welcome at home, but with
other people, it is not the same."
"Of course it isn't. I often wonder how old he is, Marian, and whether
he was ever young?"
"He is not very old now, I should think, not more than twenty-eight or
so. At least, that is what mother said. But he has had a great many
sorrows, and that ages people more than anything. He said he would tell
me all about it some day, if he could."
"Who would think, Marian, that it is only a month since you and I went
grumbling into The Towers for lessons! What a month?"
"I did not grumble," said Marian, smiling a little.
"No, but I did. What a day that was! And now we are going in there, and
I dread to see them all together without poor little Claude."
"Rich little Claude, you mean. I never am going to call him 'poor,'
like people do, Lionel. I shall say 'dear Claude,' but not poor Claude,
when he's the richest of us all."
"I see that," answered Lionel. "But, Marian, I've been thinking a great
deal, you know, while my hand was bad, and when the pain kept me awake
at night. And it seemed to come to me that we are not always to be
thinking of dying, and going to heaven to enjoy ourselves, but we are
to be busying ourselves about doing God's will 'here,' while He wishes
us to stay."
Marian looked earnestly at him, her face full of joyful contentment at
his words.
"Oh, Lionel, I am so glad you feel that."
"It is not so much feeling it, as proceeding to do it, that I want."
"Of course, but how shall we find out?"
"That's what I don't yet quite see. But do you remember what Salome
once said about it?"
"No."
"She said it was just following on, step by step, doing each hour what
seems to be the next thing."
"Oh, I remember! I remember perfectly."
"Yes, not that I noticed it at the time. But when I was thinking it
over, it came to me."
They had reached the steps of The Towers; Courtenay was just coming
down them.
"Here you are," he said, smiling. "You will find our dear father in his
old quarters in the library; he looks as if he had never been away."
They ran in, and after a tap at the door, Lionel found himself at last
by his father's side, and Marian was clasped in her mother's arms.
"I never guessed I loved you so 'very' much," she whispered.
And Lionel, bending to kiss his father's cheek, said huskily:
"I hope to be different in every way, dear father, from what I was
before. Thank you for all your patience with me."
Presently Muriel and Leslie stole in to see their big brother and
sister. And after that, they began to feel more at home, though all
felt the gap terribly.
"May I go and see Margaret?" asked Lionel, when they had talked for a
little while.
"You will find her in the dining-room; she generally sits with her
mother there," said Mrs. Malden, "since we have occupied the library."
Lionel went off, and found his sister-in-law as his mother had said,
reading to Mrs. Bruce.
The dining-room looked out over the drive, and had not the lovely sunny
view of the sea which both drawing-room and library commanded. The
room was rather cheerless, and it struck Lionel that Margaret looked
"triste" in her black dress, and that her voice had lost its old bright
tone.
She presented Lionel to her mother, and then said they were just going
for a drive, but she had a few little domestic matters to attend to,
and would return presently.
"Will you stay with my dear mother?" she asked. "Perhaps you could
finish what I was reading, Lionel? I know you will be kind enough."
Lionel felt rather shy, but a sudden remembrance of "the next thing,"
which he and Marian had been talking about, gave him courage, and
he felt a new pleasure stealing over him at already having received
something to do from his Lord.
Margaret was gone; he felt somewhat at a loss what to say. Mrs. Bruce
looked so handsome, so independent. But he recalled Margaret's gentle
tone, as one would speak to a child, and he said pleasantly:
"Do you like this book? Shall I go on where Margaret left off?"
"If you like, my dear, but I am not at all good at remembering."
"Oh, that does not matter a bit!" said Lionel bluntly and heartily. "If
you can put up with me, I shall be so glad. We'll learn it together."
Mrs. Bruce looked at him intently, but handed him the book Margaret had
laid down, saying rather sadly, "I am afraid I do not know where she
left off."
Lionel was hardly prepared for such an entire loss of memory, but he
felt so happy in thinking he was doing something for the Master that he
looked up in his companion's face quite brightly.
"Never mind! I'll go on here, and then if you don't think it's right,
you can tell me."
She listened politely, but he saw her mind was intent on her own
thoughts.
He would have been discouraged, only that something seemed to whisper
to him, "Have not I sent thee?" He could not imagine where the words
came from, but they kept on echoing through his heart like a heavenly
bugle.
At last Mrs. Bruce put out her delicate white hand.
"My dear," she said, "I cannot remember your name yet, but you said
something just now which made me happy, and I cannot think of it again."
"Did I?" he asked, wondering, still hearing the echo. "'Have not I sent
thee?'"
"Yes; I wish you would say it again."
"I do not know what it was, but I will try to recall it."
She was silent, waiting for him to do so.
"I do not think I said anything at all," he began, sorry enough not to
be able to satisfy her.
"Oh, yes you did! The others are very kind, very kind indeed, but they
know so much, they are so far above where I stand; I am such a poor
old woman now, and they try to teach me. They are very kind, very kind
indeed, but you said something different to that—something that made me
happy."
"I know now!" exclaimed Lionel. "Was it that I said you and I would
learn together?"
"Yes!" answered Mrs. Bruce earnestly. "That was it. The others know
I am thirsting to learn, and they try to teach me—they are 'very'
kind, my dear, but they don't understand—you will suit me much better,
because you want to learn too, do you not? Did you not say 'learn'?"
"Indeed I do; I want to learn of Jesus more than anything else in the
world. I've been so far off, I want to come very near."
Mrs. Bruce took his hands in hers, "My dear, did anyone send you to me?"
A bright smile crossed the boy's face, but he hardly liked to answer.
"Do not be afraid to tell me," she begged.
"I have been hoping it was the Lord Jesus who sent me," he answered
very low.
"I thought it was," she said, with a sigh of content like a weary
little child. "I do not forget 'Him,' though I cannot remember anything
else."
Lionel drew from his pocket a tiny testament, which Marian had given
him long ago in their childish days. He found the place about the woman
who was thirsty, and who could have her thirst quenched if she drank of
that living water, and his listener sat with folded hands taking it all
in. When he had finished, he looked up to see if he should go on, and
at the same moment Margaret entered.
She saw her mother's rapt face, she saw Lionel's happy one, and she
wondered, and was exceeding glad.
"Can he go for a drive with us?" asked Mrs. Bruce, touching Lionel's
hand softly. "I do not know his name, but I like him."
"Willingly, mother dear. Lionel, will you? There is plenty of room."
Collins, the maid, had followed her mistress, and now asked Mrs. Bruce
if she would like to put on her bonnet. Mrs. Bruce immediately rose
from her seat, pausing at the door however to say to Lionel:
"You will come with me?"
"I should like to very much," he answered.
"I fear you will find a drive rather uninteresting," said Margaret in
a low tone, "but it would be so kind, as my dear mother has asked you,
Lionel."
"Do not fear that I shall be dull; I am delighted that she wishes it."
"Really, Lionel?"
"Yes, Margaret."
[Illustration]
[Illustration: "Blessed are they that hunger and thirst after
righteousness: for they shall be filled."]
CHAPTER XII.
_A PURSE._
SO day after day, for many months, Lionel found time to go into The
Towers, and "learn" with Mrs. Bruce. His lessons with his tutor took
up a great part of each day, but whenever he could, he made the
opportunity. When he appeared, Mrs. Bruce would rise up and follow him
to her sitting-room upstairs, where she would seat herself in the large
bay window, and prepare to listen—the same bay window where years ago
Margaret, Alick, and Courtenay used to sit and sing hymns to his dying
grandmother.
Very often Margaret would steal in and sit down close to her mother's
knee, leaning her head against her and listening too.
Lionel saw many tears fall from those closed eyes, but he fancied, as
the days went on, that a brighter look was coming back.
"It is so restful," Margaret would say sometimes, "and I am so sure God
has sent you, Lionel, that if you do not mind my coming too, it does me
the most good of anything."
So the summer passed away. Sunnyside was done up at Courtenay's
expense, and the family moved back there in July. Still Lionel came
backwards and forwards to his "grandmamma," as he called her; and those
looking on were astonished to see how much the two learned together.
In Mrs. Bruce the difference was apparent by her talking less about
what she could not remember, and instead bringing out from time to time
little bits of what she "could" remember.
One day, she was sitting with Margaret and Lionel in their favourite
window, while Alick and Courtenay were writing at the table. Somehow
that room was the brightest in the house, and everybody seemed to
gather in it.
"Margaret, my dear," she said, bending down to smooth the cheek that
lay against her, "have I not some money?"
"Plenty, dear mother."
"Where is it?"
"Locked away safely."
"What do I do with it?"
"Nothing much, just now. Do you want to do anything?"
Mrs. Bruce was silent for a little while. At last she said:
"He was reading this morning about that poor widow putting in all she
had."
"He" meant Lionel; she never could think of his name.
"Yes, dear mother. And you thought—"
"I thought I had never put a farthing in."
"You forget what you used to do, darling mother. I have often seen you
put ever so much in the collection-plate."
She spoke soothingly; for her mother looked troubled.
But Mrs. Bruce shook her head.
Margaret never persisted. If her mother did not recall a thing, she let
it drop.
But Mrs. Bruce was not satisfied.
"No; I have never put a farthing in."
Lionel looked up suddenly; he thought he understood.
"Not as a poor widow," she went on simply. "Not as one that 'loved'
Him."
Lionel's head went down again; he had been right in his surmise. As
rich, she had, perhaps, cast in much; but as poor, she had cast in
nothing.
"Margaret, I should like to give some, now that I love Him."
"Indeed you shall, darling."
"I loved my money very much at one time," she said reflectively.
"But it is different now," suggested Margaret.
"Very different. I love Him now."
She was very silent for a long time after this, and Lionel was obliged
to go to his lessons. He did not disturb her to say good-bye, but
simply kissed her cheek, and went off.
When he was gone, Mrs. Bruce roused herself.
"Does 'he' want anything?" she asked, her eyes looking on the closed
door where Lionel had disappeared.
"I do not think he does," said Margaret, rather wondering. "Alick, do
you know of anything Lionel wants?"
Alick coloured. "Do you mean a little thing, such as a knife or bag, or
something of that sort?"
Margaret appealed to her mother.
"Do you mean a little present, dear mother?"
"I mean, what does he want most in all the world?"
Margaret shook her head, but Mrs. Bruce was in earnest.
"I do not intend it to take away from what I said before—for my Lord
Jesus. But what does that dear boy want most in the world?"
"We must ask him," said Margaret.
Alick sat with burning cheeks. "Oh, Margaret," he exclaimed, "I don't
think I ought to keep it in, but he would never tell you, and yet I do
know what he wants most in the world! Ought I to say?"
"I do not think it could be wrong," said Courtenay, looking at Mrs.
Bruce's expectant face.
Alick came over to her side, and spoke slowly and gently.
"Lionel wants some day to be trained as a medical missionary."
"A medical missionary?" asked Mrs. Bruce, looking rather bewildered.
"One who goes out to foreign lands to teach people about Jesus, having
been trained as a doctor to cure their diseases too."
"But money could not buy that, could it?" said Mrs. Bruce.
"Yes, mother," said Margaret; "money could. It is a lovely thought of
yours. You shall help him to have his heart's desire, and go out to
tell people of the love of Jesus."
Mrs. Bruce looked very pleased.
"He ought not to be told," said Courtenay. "Mother, it would perhaps
spoil him to be told yet. Could you put the money in the bank for a
little while, and keep it for him?"
"Yes, I could do that," answered Mrs. Bruce, "if you think I may not
give it to him now."
"I am sure that will be best," answered Margaret, rising, and taking
out her keys. "Look here, mother dear, I have some of your money
waiting for you in my wardrobe. Shall we go and get it, and put it in
a purse I have to spare, and mark it with his name? Then when it gets
full, we must take it to the bank. You and I can do that together."
Mrs. Bruce was perfectly satisfied. She went off with her daughter, and
Alick and Courtenay were left together.
"Will she keep to it?" asked Alick, looking up from his writing.
"Oh dear, yes! She never changes. Alick, it is a splendid idea. Her
money was quite a weight on our minds."
"Was it?"
"It is so much to lie idle, and yet we did not feel at liberty to spend
it for her. It will all be Margaret's at her death, but meanwhile,
there is a large income accumulating."
So the summer wore away, and Lionel went on his quiet way, and did not
guess anything of that purse upstairs marked with his name. He did not
tire of "learning" with the stricken invalid. But day after day, wet or
fine, busy or at leisure, they heard his step along the passage, and
his cheerful "Where's grandmamma?" Till at last, no one ever thought of
calling Mrs. Bruce anything else.
If Alick offered occasionally to be his proxy, he never would accept.
"Alick," he said once, "if I do not at the moment want to go, I
remember those words, 'Have not I sent thee?' and I go as His
messenger. When I get there, I am sure to come back richer than I went."
"I daresay you do. I am inclined to envy you."
"Why? You, Alick, whom everybody loves?"
"Because you are learning so fast, and have been allowed to help her so
much."
"But you have 'helped' others, as you call it. Does not Courtenay say
you were the means long ago—"
"Yes," answered Alick, "but I seem to have come to a standstill. I
don't help anybody now."
"Alick, you've helped 'me' a great deal at any rate. But lately I've
learned one thing—it is what mother said to me in her message, but
I daresay you don't remember—that if I hungered and thirsted after
righteousness, I should be filled. I 'have' hungered, and I 'have'
thirsted, and He 'is' filling me."
"Then I must hunger and thirst too," said Alick; "for I too want to be
'blessed.'"
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
[Illustration: "Blessed are the merciful:
for they shall obtain mercy."]
CHAPTER XIII.
_MARIAN'S CLASS._
"I DO like consistency," said Alick.
"Don't most people?" asked Lionel.
"They 'dislike' inconsistency at any rate," said Marian.
It was a bright Sunday in the middle of the winter, and such of the
members of the three houses as were strong enough to face the cold were
wending their way to church. Mrs. Chantry and Mrs. Malden were behind,
walking together as they always did on Sundays—two loving sisters
enjoying a brief spell of heart-communion.
Their two husbands were at home—Mr. Chantry unable to venture out in
the winter on any but the mildest days; Mr. Malden confined to his
chair, a peaceful, even, joyful prisoner, who spent his morning happily
by himself, with one of his children in turn as his attendant. To-day
it was Leslie who was at home with him—a proud child, feeling his
responsibility great of being left in charge. The rest of the children
had joined company, as they always did, and were walking together near
the elder ones chatting pleasantly.
Courtenay rented a very small stable close to the church, and had a
little pony chaise which he had purchased on purpose to drive Margaret
and Mrs. Bruce to church. Thomas, the coachman, walked up early, and
met him at the door; and after housing the little "Sunday carriage," as
it was called, he came in to join in the service with his master. On
Monday the little pony had his day of rest, and was never used.
On this bright day Alick and his cousins were some way in front of
their two mothers, and Marian had just agreed that people do like
consistency.
"But why do you say so particularly?" asked Lionel.
"I was only thinking," he answered. "One hears people say so often,
'Well, I would not have done it!' When very likely, they themselves
will fall into the same thing a little while after."
"It says so often, 'Judge not, that ye be not judged,'" said Lionel
thoughtfully.
"That is one good of seeing our own sinfulness," said Marian; "it makes
one much more sorry for other people."
"Is that the reason you are always so charitable?" asked Alick in a low
tone. "I have often noticed that you are slow to blame other people."
"I suppose so," she answered. "When I see how much I have been
forgiven, I should be ashamed not to forgive."
"Let's have the benefit of that," said Lionel, looking round, "or is it
private?"
"It is not private," answered Marian, "but it will not bear repeating."
Curiously enough, when the sermon came, it was on the words,—
"I forgave thee all that debt."
The three listened, their conversation having already helped them
towards a beginning of the subject.
And when they turned homewards afterwards, their thoughts were very
full of it, but there was no opportunity for further talk. Alick and
Lionel joined their mothers, and Marian was soon claimed by Ruth and
Sydney.
"Marian," said the little boy, "did I sit still?"
"Very still, dear."
"Were you looking at me?"
"Sometimes."
"I put my hands so, and peep through my fingers, Marian."
"Oh, Sydney, 'I' don't!" said Ruth reprovingly. "You should never look
about in church. If you can't do anything better, you should count how
many people there are, or something like that."
Marian kept her countenance and said gently:
"You see, dears, what we have to think about is God. Not so much how
we sit, or whether we put our hands this way or that, but whether our
hearts are in earnest in wishing to please our heavenly Father."
"My heart is," said Sydney gravely. "I always do think about God."
"I don't expect you do," observed Ruth; "for lots of times I've seen
you fidgeting with your gloves and folding your pocket handkerchief."
"But then I'm such a little boy," said Sydney.
"Of course," answered Ruth briefly. "Only you shouldn't say you are so
good, when I don't believe you are better than anyone else."
"Hush, dear," said Marian, "that was just what our sermon was about.
Did you not hear it, Ruthie?"
"I heard every word," answered Ruth; "but I do not understand Mr.
Arthur, Marian. I wish he'd be as plain as you."
"I must try to explain it to you then," said Marian.
"At our class meeting this afternoon?"
Marian nodded. Her thoughts were looking down a long avenue, whose end
was hidden in the blue distance.
"What can you see?" asked Sydney, squeezing her hand to get attention.
"Something which I will tell you after dinner."
For on Sunday afternoons Marian gathered a number of children together
in the dining-room at Sunnyside and gave them a Bible-lesson. Her
little cousins came over, and several children from Courtenay's
cottages near at hand, whose mothers gladly dressed them in their best
and brought them smiling to the door, as the stable clock pointed to
five minutes to three.
Marian was rather silent at dinner, and when rallied by Lionel as to
the cause, she confessed that she was thinking over her lesson.
"I thought you always got that ready by Friday at any rate."
"I do generally; but our talk and the sermon afterwards, and then
finding that Ruth could not understand it, have made me alter my plan."
"I shall come in and listen," said Lionel.
"Indeed you must not," she answered. "I will not even admit dear old
Salome, though she begged very hard."
"She goes to the stables to read to old Thomas's wife," said Lionel.
"I know she does. She says she goes to learn, not to teach. I suspect,
however, that it is a little of both."
"Yes," answered Lionel. "I used to go and read to her sometimes,
because Courtenay so particularly asked me to, and I thought it was
very kind of me to do so. But since my accident, I have come quite to a
different conclusion."
"Isn't it so kind of you now?" asked Muriel.
"No, it's just the other way," said Lionel. "It's kind of her to let me
go. She gives me a drink of the water of life every time!"
"Oh!" said Muriel, wondering.
"I know what you mean," said Mrs. Malden. "I have often felt humbled
when I have been there."
"Humbled and lifted up too," said Lionel.
After dinner, Marian got her room ready for the children. She opened
the windows for a few minutes, she built up a nice fire, she placed her
seats in readiness. Then when they came trooping in, she only had to
place them, and take her seat and begin:
"Generally, children, I give you a regular Bible-lesson. To-day I shall
only read one verse and tell you a story upon it for a change, because
I want you all to understand it. And so, if you will repeat this one
verse after me, I will begin—
"'Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy.'"
* * * * * *
"Such a short journey, and such a rich reward."
"But the journey seems long to us, mother!"
"Only two little days."
The mother stood at the house door, bidding good-bye to two well-grown
boys, who appeared to me (for I was dreaming, I think) to be just
starting on a journey. They had bags slung over their shoulders, which
doubtless held provisions; for the mother was arranging them, and
giving them charges concerning them at the very last moment.
"Remember," she said, "you will sow them, whether you will or not; so,
my boys, look well to what you do."
This I did not understand, though the boys evidently did, but I
determined to watch them very carefully, and find out what this was
which they had to sow.
As I looked down the quiet valley, where the early sun was only just
beginning to peep through the gaps in the eastern hills, I saw other
boys and girls emerging from different cottages, and setting forth
apparently on a journey too. All seemed to have the same knapsack or
bag to carry, but there was a notable difference in the dresses of
these children. Some were clothed in white garments, some in black; and
though they had added to their dress ornaments of various kinds, yet I
could see beneath these, the two different colours plainly enough.
What astonished me most of all was, that when the road through the
valley divided into two paths, the children parted company too; and
some went one way, and some another.
"We shall meet at the end, Ulric," said one bright-looking girl,
nodding towards a companion who chose the right-hand path, though he
looked regretfully after her as she turned down the other.
"Perhaps," he answered sadly. "I wish—"
But she laughed gaily. And as she ran off, and her light-coloured cloak
flew back in the wind, I saw that her dress was of the sombre hue which
all her companions who turned that way seemed to wear. Then I looked
closer at those who went to the right, and I found that their garments
were invariably white; and though in some cases soiled and torn, were
even then pleasanter to look upon than the others.
I felt compelled to follow the fortunes of the travellers who kept the
road to the right, along the middle of the valley—the more so as I was
much interested in the young man, who ever and anon turned to gaze so
anxiously after the others who had left them. These were however soon
lost to our view. Their way led them up a rocky path between two high
hills, with a stream of water rippling by the side of it, and very soon
they were hidden over the top of the pass, and we saw them no more.
Then the young man turned away, and walked along with his head bent, as
if all the energy and hope were gone out of his life. He led the way,
the rest following slowly. As they walked, I noticed that every now and
then a seed would fall to the ground from the bags on their shoulders.
And on looking closer, I perceived that there was an aperture in the
bags on purpose, through which a seed could pass at intervals.
Presently the two boys whom I had seen at first sat down on a stone
to rest, and as they sat, one of them pulled his bag round over
his shoulder and poured some of the contents into his hand. Then
I perceived that these bags were not for provisions at all, but
were filled with pure white seeds, the bag bearing an inscription
embroidered on it in golden letters—
"'Be ye therefore merciful as your father also is merciful.'"
Then I heard one of the boys say, "They look all alike, Fritz. I do not
see how some should come up and bear good fruit, and the others come up
and bear thorns and prickles."
"That depends on how we sow them," said Fritz.
"It's a great bother; I've a good mind to sow mine all at once,"
remarked Athred discontentedly.
"We may not do that. No, we must be patient and watchful. At every
action of ours, a seed will fall into the ground, but the journey will
soon be over. We have only to sow to-day, and then our day's work will
be done, and we shall be allowed to return home."
"And to-morrow we shall reap what we have sown to-day?" asked Athred.
"Yes, those were the conditions of our journey."
Athred kicked his foot discontentedly.
"I almost wish I had gone with the others," he said; "they will not
trouble themselves one bit about sowing their seeds, but are going to
make their journey into a pleasure picnic."
Fritz shook his head.
"When the few sowing journeys are over, it is only those who have
accepted the White Robe who will be welcomed at the Golden Gate. 'They'
would not any of them take the White Robe."
"Oh, that is a long way off!"
"Not so long as you think. A few more days, and then—"
Athred sat silent. He had accepted that White Robe at early dawn, but
as yet his heart was more full of pleasing himself than of doing the
will of the King, who had given it to him. He wanted to be accepted at
last at the Golden Gate, but he wanted also to get as much enjoyment
out of the journeys as he could.
This Robe, pure and white, had been bought with a great price—the price
of Blood—and to those who remembered this, it was a precious robe;
and the One who had paid that great price was a dearly-loved One. But
Athred was selfish and thought but little of it, though he prized it
enough to accept it.
So he sat turning over his seeds.
"Why must we sow them?" he asked at last.
"That I do not know, unless it is that we must do the will of the King."
Athred began to put his seeds back into the bag, and rose up to proceed
on his way.
Fritz sat still for a moment looking thoughtfully along the peaceful
valley. The sun had risen above the tops of the hills now, and streamed
down on the still dewy meadows. The fresh green of the hedges and
trees, waving gently in the breeze and showing new lights and shades
as the bright clouds passed across the sun, made him happy, and he
thought with joy of the journey he had undertaken, and of the entrance
by-and-by into a country where there would be never-fading spring.
His reverie was roughly broken in upon by Athred's voice.
"Come along, Fritz, what a time you are!"
"I shall catch you up in a moment," answered Fritz.
"I wanted to make haste," pursued Athred, "but you are never one of the
ready ones. That is what they say of you at school—always slow."
As he spoke, I observed a seed from his bag fall to the ground and
sink in. Was it my imagination, or really the truth, that in its brief
transit to the earth the white seed had turned black? I would look
closer next time, I thought.
Fritz was stung by his brother's thoughtless words, but did not reply.
He rose from his seat and hastened to follow the others, saying,
however, softly to himself, "He does not think how earnestly I strive
against my slowness, but then how should he? How can he know?"
Then I saw a seed, dazzling white, slip quietly from the bag on his
shoulders and fall down into the earth.
He seemed quite unconscious of it, and pursued his journey with what
speed he could, for he found the others were somewhat ahead of him.
Just as he was hurrying along, a slight sound attracted his attention;
it seemed like a cry of someone in pain. He stopped abruptly and
listened. Yes, there it was again, in the bushes near his path.
One moment's thought flashed across him of how far he was already
behind the rest. But he remembered his charge—the golden writing on his
bag—and he turned aside to see who it was needed help.
Then another white seed fell into the ground.
He looked about, and at length a little voice said, "I'm here, please,
and I've caught my dress with these thorns, and my arm, and I can't get
away."
It was a little child whose steps, straying in her play, had taken her
out of the path.
He hastened to her side, and began gently to disengage the bramble
which had caught her, with tender, comforting words assuring her that
her pain would soon be better.
When at last she was free, she flung her little arms about his neck and
kissed him with a grateful sob, saying, "It did hurt so, and the more I
tried to get away, the deeper it went in!"
"I saw it did, poor little girl. Now shall we run on and catch the
others?"
He took her little hand, and as they set off, again a white seed fell
from the bag.
It was some time before they even caught sight of the others. And soon
Fritz found that his companion's weary little feet dragged heavily
along the path.
He lifted her up in his arms, and as she rested her golden head on his
shoulder, she said softly, "What makes you so kind?"
"The thought of my Father and King," he answered, "but I am a long way
off from being as merciful as He is."
"Are you?" asked the child with wondering eyes. "You seem to me as if
you were getting very near it at any rate."
He smiled brightly; this was better praise than being thought quick at
school.
All this while, as his burden grew heavier and heavier, and the boy
still pressed on, the white seeds fell at intervals one after another
and sank down unseen into the ground.
It was no wonder it seemed long before they overtook the other
travellers; for meanwhile, they had found an easier means of pursuing
their journey than that of walking.
They had come up with an empty waggon, whose driver lay asleep while
his horse jogged along the road.
"Let's get in here," said Athred; "the old fellow will be none the
wiser, and the horse none the worse. He has to pull the cart all the
same, and it makes no difference to him whether it is full or empty."
This reasoning sounded very plausible, and the children laughed and
climbed in, sitting on the sides where the trusses of hay usually
rested.
All but the young man who was in front of them, and whose spotless
clothes shone out a long way ahead. Anxious as he was to get on,
when he turned round and saw what his companions had done, he waited
silently by the road till the waggon came up.
"Going to get in?" laughed one. "We will make room for you if you like."
"Oh, no! I was not stopping for that. I say, fellows, do you know that
horse is 'lame?'"
"Is it?" said one of them carelessly, and as he spoke a black seed fell
down behind him and sank into the ground close to the wheel.
"Yes; you have no business to be making him pull you along."
"He'd have to pull the cart," said Athred, "and he may as well drag us
with it."
The young man stopped the horse and began to take off his collar, the
carter comfortably sleeping all the while.
"I thought so!" he exclaimed indignantly. "Could none of you notice
that the poor beast was limping along? Look at this place!"
One or two of them leant over the sides to see, but the rest sat still.
"It is all humbug," said Athred, "thousands of horses do their work
like that." And then a black seed went tumbling down.
"I daresay they do," answered Ulric, turning pale with emotion; "it
makes me sick to think of all the cruelty that goes on all over the
world."
He proceeded to tear his handkerchief in half, and went to the side
of the road, where he dipped it in the stream, and returning laid it
folded on the sore place. And as he stooped, a dazzling seed fell down
unobserved.
"And yet you mean to be a doctor," said Athred scornfully.
"Well?"
"And won't you kill the poor animals, and torture them and cut them up,
and think nothing of it, while you are learning?"
"There is no need to do that," answered Ulric; "I can learn to be a
good doctor without being cruel. I have my instructions here."
As he turned away, he touched the Golden Letters on his bag, and read
them with reverent, obedient eyes:
"'Be ye therefore merciful, as your Father also is merciful.'"
The children, influenced by Ulric's example, determined to leave the
waggon, and proceed on foot. They put a small coin in the waggoner's
hand, and began to climb a long hill which lay directly in front of
them.
Thus, they went on sowing their seeds as they went, some black, some
white. Many of them were so anxious to please their King, and so
watchful of their actions, that I never saw a black seed fall the whole
day. Others were less careful, and many an unkind speech passed their
lips, many a harsh judgment crossed their heart, many a thoughtless
unkindness marred their life. And at each of these, a black seed fell
to the earth.
One or two forgot all about their instructions, all about their White
Robes, and all about keeping in the straight path. They wandered here
and there, doing what pleased them best, without regard to the feelings
of others or the command of their King. They forgot that they would
have to retrace their path to-morrow.
At last, the sun began to go down. The shadows of the hills grew deeper
and deeper, and the golden light made the peaks stand out like dark
spectres against the sky.
"Our day's work is over," said Ulric, "here is the resting-place for
to-night."
They had come to a small village, where tables were spread in the
twilight for all weary travellers. Before Ulric sat down, he looked
long and intently around, but no other travellers came in sight from
any other road, and at last he had to go to the chamber prepared for
him, with the certainty that none were to be expected that night. He
laid his empty bag by his side, its golden letters still shining in the
darkness, and thus, he fell asleep.
Athred and Fritz too, and the little golden-haired girl, took their
suppers, and went to their chambers. And so rest fell on the little
company till the morrow.
When the sun first peeped out into the valley, an attendant, who had
waited on them the night before, roused the sleepers by a silver bell.
Ample refreshment for their journey was again provided, of which each
one could take what he liked. And when the meal was finished, the
attendant presented each traveller with a small silver thread.
"This," said he, "will guide you home by the same way you came, and you
will find it lead you in the very steps you took yesterday. Whatever
you have sown, that will you reap."
He looked gravely and lovingly upon them, and set them forth on their
way.
They had no power now to tread where they would. They found themselves
compelled to follow the silver thread. Where they had sown a black
seed, there I perceived a bramble or nettle had sprung up, and the
boys and girls were forced by their silver thread to walk through it,
or scramble over it. On the other hand, where I could remember a white
seed had fallen, the happy sowers of it found the path straight and
easy. Now and again a carriage would be waiting for them at the spot,
and would take them a mile or two of the weary road, or they would be
invited to a table where delicate fruit and flowers were spread for
their entertainment.
When Fritz came to the long dusty road, over which he had with such
pains carried the little child, he found that for both of them had
sprung up a shady avenue of trees, under which they walked hand in hand
for a long way.
Thus, I followed the fortunes of these boys and girls. Those who had
sown white seeds got on much better in their journey and left the
others far behind. For the children who had sown black seeds were often
hindered by having to disentangle their silver threads from some briar
which had sprung up, or they had to wait to find an antidote for the
sting of some nettle on which they had stepped. Even when walking on
what seemed an easy straight path, I could perceive an unseen thorn
often pierce their feet, which caused them an anguish of pain.
At such times, the children would sit down by the side of the road
and mournfully try to extract the cause of their suffering, and when
they found this to be impossible, they would bethink themselves of
some balm for their wound. I could watch them searching about here and
there till they found what they wanted, and then I saw them apply the
same Blood-red leaves which, when once laid on the place, seemed to
give instant relief. Then the healed ones would arise and go on their
way once more, thanking the King in their hearts for providing the
wonderful Remedy so near at hand for every need.
Thus, while some of the travellers reached home in good time and
received a rich reward at the Golden Gate, the others, weary and spent
with battling with the fruits of their own doings, came in late, and
were glad enough to be given the refreshment which, in spite of their
failures, was waiting for them.
As I noticed all this, I could not forbear asking one question of
someone standing near me:
"Then the first get a reward; the rest, are they to be punished for
their unfaithfulness?"
He shook his head. "It is not a question of punishment," he said, "but
of reward for faithful service. The White Robe which they have received
covers all the failure. Those who have that on need fear no punishment
at the end of the journey, but if they are not faithful in sowing
whatever is given them to sow (and there are many things), it will
cause them much grief during their journey, and at the end, they will
not receive so much reward."
Then I awoke from my dream.
* * * * * *
Marian paused in her story.
"Do you understand what I mean now, children? Can you realize a little
bit better, that what we sow to-day bears fruit to-morrow?"
"It don't always come up in one day, teacher," remarked a little
round-faced rustic.
Marian smiled. "It begins to 'grow,' Jemmy, as soon as it is sown, and
comes up quicker than you think. But I was speaking of deeds, not of
real seeds, you know."
Jemmy laughed a little, for his sister had nudged him for being so bold
as to venture on a remark. But Marian liked her class to speak a little
now and then, and not to be afraid of her.
"Now, children, I am going to ask you to learn correctly for me by next
Sunday two texts, and if any of you think that is very difficult, I
shall be quite satisfied if you will copy them out for me on a piece
of paper. I would rather you could say them of course, but if you find
them difficult just write them out.
"These are the texts—
"'Be not weary in well-doing: for in due season ye shall reap, if ye
faint not.'
"'Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy.'"
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
[Illustration: "Blessed are the pure in heart:
for they shall see God."]
CHAPTER XIV.
_RECONCILED._
A YEAR after this, Mrs. Malden and Marian sat one morning in the middle
of the winter busily doing accounts. It was Saturday, and on this
morning Mrs. Malden instructed her in the mysteries of housekeeping,
linen sorting, and accounts, arguing that it was never too soon to
begin, and that everything learned was a store put by for future use.
They had not more than opened their books when the maid announced Mr.
Fortescue.
"I am an early visitor," he said, as both looked up somewhat
surprisedly, "but the greatness of my happiness must be my excuse."
He paused as if unable to go on, and Mrs. Maiden rose and begged him to
be seated, and to tell her what had happened.
"I wanted so much to speak to you." Then turning to Marian, who had
made a movement to leave the room, "Pray don't go, Miss Marian. I
should so like you to stay, if you don't mind."
Marian looked very astonished, but sat still, toying with her pen
nervously.
"I want to tell you a little about myself, dear Mrs. Malden. I cannot
explain why to-day, but I have reasons which make me wish that you
should understand my position. You knew, I believe, when I came here
first, that my history had been a sad one, but at that time, I had not
the heart to explain further. Now happiness has opened my lips, may I
tell you? Do you and Miss Marian feel enough interest in me to listen
to a long story?"
"Indeed we do," answered Mrs. Malden kindly, wondering what could have
turned the sober tutor into the bright young man before her.
"Mrs. Malden, I have had a letter to-day which—which—makes all my life
different to me. This morning I was poor in every sense; since the post
came in, I am richer than I dreamed it possible I could ever be. May I
tell you about it?"
"I shall be so pleased to hear; so glad that you have such glad news to
communicate," said Mrs. Malden.
Mr. Fortescue had stationed himself at the back of Marian's chair;
he seemed as if he could not be satisfied to sit down, as though his
excitement were too great.
"I must explain that some years ago my father and I had a very serious
disagreement. He had set his heart on my marrying a young lady—an
heiress—who lived near us in Scotland. And, like many young men, out
of sheer obstinacy I thought I would prefer to choose for myself. My
father persisted in his wish, and I persisted in my refusal. He added
threats which only angered me more deeply, and at last, he turned me
out of doors. I know I was extremely undutiful to him in language, and
we parted in hot anger on both sides. He told me that henceforth I was
no son of his, and I left home with but fifty pounds in my pocket—which
had been given me by my sister—and with no means of earning my bread.
"I had been brought up in expectation of receiving from my father
enough to live on, and had studied from the love of it rather than with
any idea of making my living, so when I found that I was homeless and
penniless, I was very nearly in despair.
"It was during those terrible months in which I wandered about in
search of employment, that I received the gracious call from my
heavenly Master, and this was how it happened:
"One evening, tired out by my long round in the city, having had
nothing but rebuffs from early morning, I came upon a crowd pressing
into a large building. Somebody thrust a ticket into my hand, and
hardly thinking what I did, or where I was going, I let the crowd push
me with it right on till at last I found myself in a large hall, where
some lovely singing was going on.
"'A concert,' I said to myself in an unconcerned sort of a way; for I
was weary and hungry, and hardly cared whether it was that or anything
else. My money was almost gone, my clothes were getting threadbare,
my courage, which had been so great, was ebbing away under the
difficulties in my path. And I sank down on a chair, caring little
indeed what was going on around me so that they would let me sit for
half an hour, and pull myself together once more.
"I had told my father that I would work or starve, and he had bidden
me in fierce anger do which I liked. The work would not come; the
starvation was coming fast enough.
"Mrs. Malden, you look as if you were asking, Had I no friends? The few
I had—for I had always been somewhat shy and shut up in myself—were
also friends of my father's, and I had declared to him that I would
never receive a halfpenny from them, if he kept his threat of
disinheriting me.
"So I sat on, and the concert went on, and I took no heed of what
they sang, or how they sang it. I think in my weariness, I must have
fallen asleep; for presently, on opening my eyes, I found the singing
had stopped, and a man was addressing what I now found to be a vast
assembly.
"'Don't you "want" to see God?' asked the man solemnly. 'For if you do,
I can tell you, you must get a pure heart. Did not you hear the words
that I read out to you just now, "Blessed are the pure in heart: for
they shall see God"? Yes; if you haven't got a pure heart, you must
"get" one, or you'll never see Him!'
"And then, in tones whose tenderness rings in my ears to this day, he
added:
"'And you want to see God? You do not want to go away into punishment
for ever? You want to have a pure heart, only you don't know how to
get it, nor how to keep it? But I'll tell you the way. Such a sweet
way, such a blessed way. Hear Him say it to "you," and to "you," and
to you (pointing down far back to where I sat). Hear Him say it now so
tenderly, "Come unto 'Me,'" all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and
I will give you rest."
"'Oh, that's the way to get the pure heart! Oh, that's the way to get
blessed! Come to Him just as you are. Do not try to get ready first;
for you will never do it. Just as you are, come to Him. He will make
you ready; He will give you the pure heart; for He will wash you clean
in His own blood, and give you a new heart altogether.
"'You've got nothing, I daresay you feel; and you are in want of
everything. Then you will find everything in Jesus! And He only wants
you, the sinner, to come. What an exchange! The King of glory and
"you!" You, who are wretched and forlorn and sinful—"you!"'
"Oh, Mrs. Malden, I cannot do justice to that man's persuasions, though
I remember it all as if it were yesterday. But if you are not tired,
I must tell you the end of it. Proud as I was, I took his advice. His
words had touched home to my miserable heart. Surely I wanted something
that I had not got. This man said it was a Saviour. Yes, I came to the
conclusion that I wanted a Saviour from sin, more than I even wanted
bread and clothes and happiness. These could only be for this little
life; but this Saviour, was not He for the life beyond, where I should
have to see God? There was no doubt I needed a Saviour; for how dare I
think of seeing God without that pure heart which He would give me? And
this man kept on all the time reiterating as if he would fain see me
blessed,—
"'Jesus wants you! Jesus died for you! Will you not come to Him
to-day?'
"He wants 'me,' I thought, and I want Him. Can there be anything to
wait for?
"It was done by one look at Him; one moment's belief that He suffered
instead of me.
"Mrs. Malden, I turned from that place and went out with the throng,
a new man. My coat was as shabby, my purse was as empty, but I was
rich. I had received Christ as my Saviour. I should be able to see God
without fear.
"Just as I left the building, a gentleman touched me on the shoulder.
"'Can I help you in any way?' he asked.
"I was inclined for one moment to resent his interference in my
affairs. But a look in his eyes, and a new feeling in my heart, stopped
me, and he went on:
"'These are times when the thought of the overwhelming love of God,
breaks down the wall of conventionality by which we are too often
surrounded. I sat by you in that meeting, and should hardly like to
part company without knowing if you are in any trouble.'
"The delicate sympathy with which he spoke opened my heart, and I said
briefly that I was only in search of employment.
"He drew me into a side street and questioned me a little as to what I
could do, listening to my short story with bent head.
"'I see,' he said. 'Will you do me the kindness to come home with me,
and I will think over what can be done?'
"And that was how I came to be a tutor.
"He troubled himself to make enquiries as to the truth of my story,
though he smilingly told me it was for other people's satisfaction and
not for his own, and it ended in his obtaining a situation for me in
the school from which, after three years' stay, I came here.
"His kindness and generosity I shall never forget; and it has been
at his house for all these years that I have spent my holidays. Mr.
Hallett has been the truest friend.
"I should, however, have said that, immediately upon my new-found
happiness and peace, I wrote to my father, explaining it to him as I
have to you, and begging his forgiveness for the hot words I had spoken
when we parted.
"I had but little hope that he would receive me into favour, but I
could not bear to be unforgiven.
"All the answer I received, however, was one line in his clear decided
handwriting,—
"'I consider you as no longer entitled to write to me. The letter can
go back to the place from whence it came.'
"That was six years ago. Each Christmas I have written to my father,
but each letter has been opened and returned. The only satisfaction I
had was that they were opened.
"And so the years went on. I knew from our family lawyer that my father
had altered his will, but to what extent he would not say. It was not
till this morning that I had the slightest hope that my circumstances
would ever be different. The postman put in my hand this letter, and
I have brought it to you, Mrs. Malden, because—because you are all my
dearest friends in the world."
His hand trembled as he held out the letter, and Mrs. Malden took it
and read:
"MY SON,—I have seen things in a different light lately—a light from
above. I am not a man of many words, but I understand now what you
meant six years ago, when you said those canting words, as I thought
then, 'I'm saved.' Yes, I understand. Can you forgive your old father
his hastiness and come back? But I am sure you can, if you know what it
is to be forgiven yourself?
"Though I am in a desperate hurry to see you, yet I do not want you to
come till Monday."
Mrs. Malden's tears were in her eyes.
"Will you read it too, Miss Marian?" he asked, bending and placing the
note in her hand. "I want you to understand it too, because you have
been so kind, and I have to go away."
Marian looked up wistfully.
"For always?" she asked.
"I trust not, I believe not. Mrs. Malden, will you spare me for a
week to see my father? I will come back to fulfil my engagement with
you; I shall have much to tell you then, I hope. To think that we are
reconciled, and that he too has learned what I value above all else! I
feel to-day as if I were walking on air."
"I am sure you must. I may tell Mr. Malden all you have told me?"
"Oh, yes! Oh, certainly! I intended to include him in my confidence.
Shall I go in and speak to him myself?"
Mrs. Malden peeped into her husband's library. "He is quite alone," she
said, opening the door, herself returning to the dining-room.
Marian was sitting with her head resting on her hand in deep thought.
She looked up when her mother entered.
"Mother, I wish we had known all this before, don't you?"
"I think I do, Marian. Poor man, he must have gone through a great
deal."
"Yes; and it seems so sad that we never knew. Perhaps we were
thoughtless. I am afraid with our light spirits we often forget others."
"I do not think you need regret, my dear. 'You' are not often
thoughtless at any rate."
"Oh, I am, mother! But do you think he will tell Lionel and Alick? How
strange of him to want me to hear. Why do you think it was, mother?"
"I do not know, my dear. Marian, clear up these papers. I shall not do
the accounts just now. I am afraid this will make a difference in our
plans. It is not likely he will want to be a tutor any longer."
"Will he not? What will Alick and Lionel do? Of course for me it does
not matter so much, as I only take German with him, and I really am old
enough to leave off learning now."
Mrs. Malden looked at her archly, and Marian laughed and blushed.
"You know what I mean, mother, though you pretend not to. Of course I
shall learn as long I live, but I shall not go into lessons as long as
I live, I hope."
Mrs. Malden kissed her. "Run along and take these bits of silk across
to Salome for her patchwork. Tell her I shall be able to find some more
in a few days, I think."
"These will last a long time," said Marian, gathering them together.
"Yes."
Marian put on her hat and jacket, and sped across the frosty garden to
Salome's nursery. If any one word might have been written up over that
door, it would have been "Peace." But all who entered there felt it,
though it was not written up.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
[Illustration: "Blessed are the pure in heart:
for they shall see God."]
CHAPTER XV.
_LIONEL'S DESIRE._
SALOME was alone except for little Sydney, who lay on her lap asleep.
Marian's tap had been light, and as usual she entered without waiting
for an answer, as was the mutual custom in the three houses on the
cliff. Before she had taken a step into the room, however, she paused
abruptly. It was so very unusual to find Salome sitting doing nothing,
nursing one of them, that she saw in a moment something was amiss.
Her look asked the question, and Salome answered in an even quiet tone
which did not disturb the sleeping child:
"Yes, dearie, he's been poorly all night. I think it's the bronchitis
that the lamb had last winter."
"I had come to have a chat, but I'll go," said Marian, trying to speak
just as Salome did.
"It'll not wake him, dear missey; he's that tired out."
"When did it begin?"
"In the middle of the night, about twelve."
"Is he very bad?"
"I don't know 'bout that, dearie, but he's better than he was. I hope
de dear Lord will soon bring him round."
Somehow those few words quieted Marian's alarm. If the dear Lord knew,
and had the charge of it, that was everything.
"Salome," she said presently, bringing her eyes back from a long gaze
into the fire, "what do you think it means to be pure in heart?"
"As how, dearie?"
"When it says, you know, 'Blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall
see God.' What does that mean?"
Salome thought for a few moments, then she said slowly, as if to
herself, "'Thou art of purer eyes than to behold evil.'"
"Yes," said Marian eagerly; "but how can one know if one has a pure
heart?"
"I was lookin' at that tumbler, dearie, there in the sun. I think de
pure heart might be somethin' like that. See, there is not a spot nor a
mark upon it, and the sun shines right through it and into it, and for
all that, 'dere's not a speck on it, because it's been washed clean,
and nothin' dirty has come near it since."
Marian's eyes followed Salome's, but she did not interrupt her by
answering.
"And so with the heart, dearie. It ought first to be washed (you know
how as well as me—in de Lord's precious blood), and then it ought never
to get 'near' to nothin' dirty. It ought to love to have de light of de
blessed Spirit going through and through it; it ought never willin'ly
to think of anythin' wrong; it ought to fly away from thinkin' of wrong
as it would from de fire. And then, if so be in this sorrowful worl' de
pure heart gets soiled, it ought to go to de fountain dat very minute
and get washed 'gain. I don't know no way of keepin' pure, but gettin'
washed very often."
Salome's dark eyes glistened, as she spoke, with what looked very like
tears.
"Dear Salome," said Marian, affectionately stroking her dark hand.
"And I'll tell you somethin', dear missey—in p'portion as de heart is
pure, it will be always wantin' to get washed. My 'sperience is that
'tis de clean people as likes to be washin', and not de dirty people.
And if that's true on this earth, it's true in better things."
"I should like to be pure in heart," said Marian thoughtfully. "But,
dear Salome, somehow I do not feel as if it were 'only' washing it
wanted."
"Why no, missey, you're quite right 'dere, only old Salome doesn't
speak so plain as she should. Doesn't it say in de Book, 'Thy word is
very pure'? It is keepin' close to what de Word says that makes us know
whether we are keepin' pure or not."
Sydney stirred uneasily, and Salome reached out for his medicine, and
then asked Marian if she would mind telling his mother that he was
awake.
Marian kissed the flushed little face, and softly left the room,
meeting her Aunt Greta outside.
"My dear, they are enquiring for you; they did not know where you were.
Alick and Lionel are going for a walk, and want you to go."
"I do not mind," answered Marian, "if mother does not want me."
"She sent word by Lionel that you could go."
"That is all right then," said Marian, putting on her hat and running
down stairs.
"Courtenay is coming too," said Alick, who was waiting in the narrow
hall; "he will join us in a minute. He had to go round by the stables."
"Let's ask Fortescue," said Lionel; "there he is coming out from
Sunnyside. Whatever has taken him there so early, Marian?"
Marian coloured and hesitated, which was so unlike her usual
straightforward manner that Alick said:
"If there is anything, we ought not to ask, do not trouble about it,
Marian."
"I—he—I think he will tell you himself," stammered Marian. "He has had
a letter—"
"From that old father of his?" asked Lionel.
Marian had only just time to say "Yes," before Mr. Fortescue came up.
The boys quickly asked him to join their walk. And Marian, finding they
would be such a company of gentlemen, said she thought they would be
better without her. This nobody would allow. And as she always did walk
with them, she thought it was making a fuss to persist, and turned down
the path with Alick.
"Is it a secret about Fortescue?" he asked.
"Oh, I do not think so, but I believe he will tell you himself. He told
mother so this morning."
"It looks like good news, at any rate by his manner."
"Yes," said Marian soberly.
Courtenay came out from his gate as they went into the lane, and then
they set off at a good pace; he and Mr. Fortescue keeping for the whole
walk somewhat behind the others, apparently in deep conversation.
That evening, after dinner, when Margaret's drawing-room looked its
very cosiest; when the curtains were drawn, and the log of wood blazed
brightly; when Mrs. Bruce sat in her handsome dress on one side of the
fire, and Margaret with her sweet, pale face near her, Courtenay pulled
forward a large stool and seated himself between his wife and her
mother, laying a hand on each.
"Mother," he said softly, "is that purse of yours very full?"
Mrs. Bruce smiled brightly. It was a pleasant topic.
"Not very full," she answered, "because Margaret and I took it into
Norwich a little while ago. But it will get full in time again."
"Do you still mean Lionel to have what you have been saving for him?"
She looked surprised, and then said, almost reproachfully:
"Why, of course I do, Courtenay. I haven't forgotten that, though I do
so many things."
Margaret got up and kissed her tenderly.
"No, indeed," she said, "mother thinks of it every day. Why do you ask,
Courtenay?"
"I only wanted to be sure. Then, dear mother, there is an opportunity
for you to do what you have been planning. The time has come for Lionel
to go away from home. My father sent for me this afternoon to consult
me about it."
"Did you tell him about what I have saved for him?" asked Mrs. Bruce
eagerly.
"No, mother, I left it till I had been able to talk to you. But I
did say this—as I felt sure you would wish it—that we had thought of
a plan, about which I would tell him this evening when I had your
permission."
"You need not have waited for that, my dear. You knew me well enough
for that, did you not?"
She looked troubled, and sat for some time rather mournful, which
Margaret quickly perceived, and tried to turn her thoughts to other
things.
But her mother could not leave the subject till she had talked the
matter out.
"Not but that when you knew me in the old days I was different to this,
Courtenay. I do not wonder that you distrusted me."
"Dear mother," he protested, "indeed it was not that. But how could I
let you use your money for my brother without feeling it very much? You
have always been most generous. Pray do not be troubled."
She gave him her hand; and her brow cleared while Margaret kissed her
again, and told her she was the dearest—dearest mother in the world.
"Ah," she said regretfully, "I let my opportunity go when I had it,
now—"
"'Now,'" answered Margaret soothingly, "you have learned your Lord's
will, and do it. That is everything, dear mother. He has pardoned all
the past, and He gives you grace for the present. What can you want
more than that?"
Margaret's tender face looked up in the troubled one reassuringly, and
her eyes were bright with hope.
Mrs. Bruce returned her caress, and rose from her chair with a decision
in her step of a purpose formed.
"I am going in to see Mr. Malden," she said. "It is late, but he will
not mind."
"But, mother," said Courtenay, smiling, "you have never heard all about
it. I must tell you. I did not even tell Margaret before dinner, so
that you might hear it together. There's a piece of self-denial on my
part, because I tell Margaret everything!"
Mrs. Bruce had seated herself again, and prepared to listen
attentively. Her listening attitude often affected her daughter as
much as anything she did. It was so patient, so different from the old
energetic impetuosity which she had left far behind.
"Well, mother; well, Margaret, there are to be great changes at
Sunnyside, and at the cottage for that matter. Fortescue has had a
letter from his father seeking a reconciliation, and it now comes out
that his father is a wealthy man in Scotland, and can amply keep his
only son and daughter, so that Fortescue will have no reason to work
any longer unless he likes."
"I see," said Margaret; "and so the time has come for our boys to go
into the great world?"
"Just so," answered Courtenay, sighing a little.
"He is 'able to keep,'" said Margaret, reading his thought. "None of
us could have steered our course, even so near the harbour as we have
already got, but for His keeping. Courtenay, we are all very apt to
think we do it ourselves; but the more I understand of myself, the more
glad I am that I am in 'His' hand, and not in my own, and 'no one shall
pluck me' thence."
"Yes," answered Courtenay, thinking of a bygone day when Satan did his
best to pluck him away. "Yes, dear, that is very true. We must trust
more."
"And is my dear boy to go away from me?" asked Mrs. Bruce rather
sorrowfully.
"I am afraid he must, dear mother," answered Courtenay.
"Could he not learn here? What is it he has to learn now?"
"More things than I can tell you," answered Courtenay. "But do you not
remember, mother, you were going to give him the thing he wanted most?"
"So I was, but I did not think it would take him away from me. Who will
read to me now?"
"I shall, darling mother," said Margaret.
"Yes, my dear, I know that. You do everything—everything; but he—he
'learns.' We learn together."
"And I want to learn," whispered Margaret in a broken voice. "I know so
little yet. I might read to you all day, and yet have plenty to learn
at the end."
"Not all day," answered Mrs. Bruce simply. "I should get tired; but
never mind, I have thought of something."
Margaret looked enquiringly at her. "May I know?" she asked wistfully;
for the tone was strange, and the eyes were far away.
"Not yet," she answered, with a peaceful look. "Not yet, Margaret. Have
you anything more to tell me?"
Margaret sat down again, but she was very quiet; while Courtenay
wondered at the sudden serenity that settled on the sometimes troubled
face of their mother.
At last Margaret roused herself. "Courtenay, what will Alick do?"
"That is not decided. His father talks of his going to London with
Lionel and taking some situation. I have told him if any premium is
needed, you and I will see to it. I was sure you would wish that."
"Yes, indeed," answered Margaret, brightening.
"Then let us all go to Sunnyside now and 'have it out,' as the boys
say. Uncle Chantry will not be there of course, because of this frosty
air; but we can go over to the cottage afterwards. I hope, love, it
will not be too cold for you?"
"Oh, no! I will wrap up warm. Mother, what shall Collins get for you?"
When they reached the hall at Sunnyside, Lionel was just rushing across
it after Marian. They both paused, astonished at seeing Mrs. Bruce and
Margaret out on so cold an evening.
"Have the stars fallen!" laughed Lionel. "I say, grandma, what shall I
do if you catch your death o' cold?"
He came up to her affectionately, with the half rough, but wholly
tender, chivalry which everyone delighted to see in him towards the old
lady, and took her shawl from her shoulders.
"Not both of them, my dear," she said.
"Oh, are there two? I see; here is this white jim-crack one that you
look so sweet in. Now, grandma, don't you wear that because you look so
nice in it?"
She answered his saucy smile by a quiet one. Then, in a tone in which a
little mischief lurked, she added, "I wear it because my shoulders are
cold."
She put her arm round Lionel and drew him towards his father's library,
saying, "My dear boy, I want to have a little talk with you. Will you
come in?"
Lionel, used to humour her, nodded his head and led her in, Courtenay
and Margaret following.
"Father," said Margaret, advancing, "my mother was so anxious to tell
you of a little plan of hers that she could not wait till Monday, so we
have come over. Do you mind?"
"Mind, my dear?" asked Mr. Malden. "Come and sit down; you are always
welcome."
Mrs. Bruce advanced to his invalid chair and seated herself near him.
She looked very pale, and Margaret secretly trembled lest this sudden
excitement should be too much for her.
"You—Courtenay says you are going to send him away," she began abruptly.
"Me?" asked Lionel, "Away. Where?"
"Stay, dear mother," interposed Courtenay very gently. "Let us ask my
father whether he would rather hear your proposal in private first? I
am sure Lionel will not mind."
Mr. Malden, who had been looking at her earnestly, spoke at once:
"I have so much confidence in Lionel that I think we may discuss his
future 'with' him. I feel sure he will not be too set on one plan or
another, but will be guided by my wishes."
"I will try to, father," answered Lionel, colouring under the glance of
so many eyes.
"No plan can be decided on in a hurry," pursued Mr. Malden, "and Lionel
has not yet even heard that we talk of a change. He only knows that Mr.
Fortescue probably leaves us very soon. Dear Mrs. Bruce, we will gladly
listen to what you have thought."
She had not been attending much to this conversation, but had been
stroking Lionel's hair over and over, and looking in his face with a
gaze that made Margaret's heart ache. Somehow it made her feel as if
she were once more looking on her own little Janet for the last time.
When, however, Mrs. Bruce heard herself addressed, she seemed to bring
back her thoughts.
"My dear boy," she said, "will you tell grandma what you would 'like'
to do if you had your free choice?"
Mrs. Malden looked up quickly, and then down again. "Poor Lionel, there
was not much choice for him," she thought.
"I—do you mean in earnest?" answered the boy, looking from one to
another.
"Yes, in earnest," answered Mrs. Bruce, hurrying on to her secret;
"because I have been saving up for you for ever so long, and there is
ever so much in the bank. Margaret will tell you so too, because she
has helped me do it. I know I'm right in this, though I do forget some
things."
"Be anything I like?" asked Lionel slowly, turning pale with emotion,
and looking first at his father, and then all round, to see if he were
dreaming.
"Yes, what you like," answered Mrs. Bruce, still stroking his head with
her delicate fingers.
"Courtenay—" began he appealingly.
But Mrs. Bruce was the one to bring out the long hidden secret. She
turned to Mr. Malden, and put her hand on his:
"I am an old woman, and I have plenty to spare; and once I had a
little boy who only stayed with me for a few hours—I think I had—I can
remember 'that'—"
Margaret looked up suddenly.
"And he might have grown up like this boy. I always feel as if he were
my own, and I want to do something for him, to provide for him, as I
should have done for my own little boy if he had not gone away. This
dear boy wants to be a missionary. What was it, Courtenay? A—"
"A medical missionary," answered Courtenay.
"And I want to give him the money to do it. It is all put away in the
bank, and I have altered my will—Margaret knows about it, and agrees to
it—and so—"
All the time she was gazing in his face. "So you must go away from
me—and I—"
She broke down. She put her arms round the boy's neck, and clung there.
And he burst out sobbing, and rushed from the room.
And so it was settled for Lionel to have his heart's desire.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
[Illustration: "Blessed are the pure in heart:
for they shall see God."]
CHAPTER XVI.
_A FAREWELL._
WHEN they left Sunnyside, it was past nine o'clock. But Courtenay knew
that it must be an anxious evening for the inmates of the cottage, so
they turned their steps in that direction. When however they came to
the gates of The Towers, Mrs. Bruce said that she would go home, while
they went further.
"Let me come too, dear mother," said Margaret affectionately.
"Courtenay can carry our message quite well alone."
But Mrs. Bruce would not hear of this, only allowing them to take her
to the door, where Collins, having been watching for their return,
stood ready to wait upon her.
The young husband and wife turned back into the cold starlight with a
pleasant sense of being together, and walked arm in arm to the cottage.
When they got in, Mr. and Mrs. Chantry were seated in earnest talk
with Alick, who sat with both elbows on the table, his head resting on
his two clasped hands. He looked up in Courtenay's eyes—such bright,
cheerful, hopeful eyes to-night—and he felt a load lifted from his
heart.
"We thought we should find you so," said Courtenay, "and as I wanted to
ratify what I hinted this morning, Margaret and I have come in."
He sat down close to Alick.
"What is proposed?" he asked him. "What is the difficulty?"
"I have seen it coming for a long time," answered Alick, "and now the
difficulty can be put off no longer. What am I to be?"
"You see, Courtenay," said Mr. Chantry, "my means are very limited, and
Alick has always known he would have to make his own way."
Courtenay felt with a pang that Lionel had got everything, while
Alick—his Alick—had got nothing. But he put the jealous thought away as
quickly as he could, and answered:
"That is very true; but if I may go by my own experience, I would not
now be without those two years in London when everything seemed so
hard; Alick knows. I do not pretend that they were nice at the time (at
least, not always), but I am thankful for them now."
Alick had turned his face, and was looking into Courtenay's. He
remembered those words which they had both tried to learn—"Thy will be
done." He knew he would have to learn that now afresh.
"I thought we must try to get him a situation," said Mr. Chantry. "How
can we set about it, Courtenay?"
"That was what I came over about. I have friends in London, as you
know, and I thought Alick and I, and Lionel, could go up and see what
we could find. Fortescue too has promised an introduction to that old
gentleman, Mr. Hallett, who is such a friend of his."
"Indeed, that is truly kind. He is in the city I think."
"Yes; in some large way, I fancy. And then, if any premium or help is
needed for a year or two to advance Alick's prospects, Margaret and I
shall feel it the greatest pleasure to be allowed to provide the means."
"I'm sure—" began Alick, but Courtenay stopped him.
"Alick, you need never feel it any obligation. Margaret and I both owe
you so much in the old days that nothing we can do would ever pay it.
But this is not a question of paying, but of love."
Alick could say no more, but Courtenay and Margaret understood.
And then after some further discussion of the details of the plan, they
went home.
"Mrs. Bruce has retired to her room, ma'am," said Collins, meeting
them. "She begged that you would go in and wish her good-night. She
said she was tired."
Margaret ran lightly upstairs, and Courtenay went into his pleasant
drawing-room.
When she came down again, she came over to where he stood on the
hearthrug and leaned her head on his shoulder in silence.
"'It is more blessed to give than to receive,'" he said, smiling down
at her.
But she answered a very sober "Yes."
"I hope, dearest, you have not got chilled?"
"Oh, no, no Courtenay, I am afraid mother will feel this shock."
"I hope not, love. We must not be anxious; it is so nice to know He has
it all in His hands, isn't it?"
His words were very tender and they comforted Margaret, and so this
eventful day closed.
"Thy saints are in thy hand," thought Courtenay, as he heard the clock
strike twelve on the still night air. "Oh, how glad I am of that!"
And so, while Mr. Fortescue went home to his father, Courtenay and the
boys, as they were generally called, took their journey to London.
"A week's holiday will do us all good," he had said.
And then he had looked at Margaret and doubted if he had decided
rightly.
But she assured him she approved, and so they went.
"This is not good-bye, dear grandma," said Lionel, as she stood in the
hall when he was going.
"No, my dear," she answered placidly, "I know that."
The week passed quickly away. Mr. Fortescue's friend was most kind, and
proved a great help. Through his recommendation, a situation was found
for Alick in a wholesale warehouse, and Courtenay was able to make all
arrangements before he left town.
Then came the question of lodgings. Lionel would have to be near the
London University where he was to study, and it was desirable that
Alick should live with him. Both said they would prefer to be in
lodgings together instead of joining a family circle, and to this their
fathers had agreed.
"They want to study hard, and not to be playing music and making
themselves agreeable," said Mr. Chantry; "and I believe the temptations
are as great in one place as in another, unless you meet with an
exceptionally nice family."
So lodgings had to be looked for, and in this Mr. Hallett was again
their adviser. He knew of a widow who had seen better days, and who had
remained in the house where she had once lived in comfort during her
husband's lifetime, but was obliged now to let it out in apartments.
To Courtenay's great satisfaction, she only had one other set of
lodgers, an aged gentleman and lady, with their servant, who occupied
the best portion of the house. Alick and Lionel would have two
bedrooms on the second floor, with a pleasant sitting-room adjoining,
overlooking the garden of the square in which the house was situated.
"We shall be jolly here," said Alick, stretching himself in the worn
arm-chair. "Only I wish mother would come up and put some clean dimity
on these old chairs and sofa."
"Cretonne," put in Courtenay, who was looking out of the window.
"Anything you like, so that it is clean," answered Alick, making a face.
Lionel laughed. "I am afraid it will cost Alick more to live in London
than it will me."
"Why?" asked Alick, a little hurt.
"Oh, I did not mean 'money!'" said Lionel. "I never thought of money. I
mean, what will not affect me in the least will be a real trial to you.
I never noticed that these things were black till you said so."
"Did you not? Courtenay, you did?" asked Alick, half ashamed of being
so particular.
"Oh, I noticed it, of course! But then I thought things do get smoky in
the heart of London, and if you had them ever so bright to-day, next
week they would be as bad as ever."
"Next 'week!'" exclaimed Alick, with a rueful face. "And I have to live
here all my life!"
"They will get dirty very soon I should have said," answered Courtenay.
"But, Mr. Squeamish, we will see what can be done. Some of this is real
dirt, and not only smoke."
Alick looked relieved.
"But," continued Courtenay seriously, "if I were you, I would make the
best of things. Besides, Alick, this London life which you so dread
may not be for always. We never know. If you go on patiently for a few
years, and are faithful over your 'few things,' you may find that even
here 'many things' will be committed to you."
Alick thought how that had been true in Courtenay's own case. But he
only answered, "All right, Mr. Wise, you are quite correct, and I'll
mend my ways."
The landlady undertook, at Courtenay's desire, to get the cretonne and
re-cover the furniture.
"I am sure your dear 'grandma' would wish you to have what is seemly,"
he said to Lionel, "and she will be delighted to hear we have done it
when we go home."
And so she was. Every detail of their trip was told her over and over
again. She was never tired of hearing, nor they of telling. She would
have refurnished all their rooms on the spot if Courtenay had not
earnestly besought her if she loved the boys to do nothing of the sort.
"If they are comfortable there, mother, in three months you shall give
them a carpet," he promised.
With this Mrs. Bruce had to be satisfied. But she talked to Margaret in
private of all she should do for them, if Courtenay would let her.
Margaret asked her tenderly if she were not as anxious for the boys'
good as Courtenay, and after some troubled thought, she exclaimed, "Oh,
yes, my dear, of course you know best! It is so difficult to me to
think others know best, but I am sure you do."
After this, she never alluded to her plans for them. But if she found
herself slipping into it, she would stop abruptly.
"Margaret says I want them to be 'good' boys, not only happy and
comfortable, and she knows best," she would say to herself.
At the end of the week too came Mr. Fortescue.
"I say," exclaimed Charlie, bursting in on the Monday with unusual
excitement, "what do you think? I thought I would go up and see if old
Fortescue came by the train from the north, and there he was, looking
such a swell. I should think he had a new suit from top to toe. That's
his father, I suppose; and he was quite pleased to see me, and asked
after everyone in particular, and was as jolly as a sandboy."
"Where is he?" asked Mrs. Chantry.
"He's gone into Sunnyside. I suppose he considers Uncle Malden his—his
master."
"Nonsense, 'master,'" said Alick. "Charlie, look out what you're
saying."
"I don't know what word it is," said Charlie, "but you understand what
I mean, anyway."
But before many moments had passed, Mr. Fortescue's step was heard
outside, and he came in.
"I have nothing but good news," he exclaimed, clasping Alick's hand
warmly, when he had in propriety greeted Mrs. Chantry first, "and I am
sure you will all rejoice with me. The only bad news is that my father
wants me at home at once—I mean bad because it involves my leaving here
very soon—but now he has once got me back, he can hardly bear me out of
his sight."
"And is it all right?" asked Alick.
"Everything. It is explained now why he did not want me on Saturday. He
was busy with the lawyer making a new will."
"Oh!" said Charlie, in such a tone that everybody laughed.
"And I am to be reinstated in my old place; only everything is better
than it ever was before."
"And if I may ask," said Mrs. Chantry, "how long do you think of
remaining here this time? You have understood, I know, from my
brother-in-law and from us, that you are freely released from our
engagement."
"You have been most kind. I have had no time to speak to Mr. Malden on
that subject yet, but have only been in to report my arrival. But I am
quite ready to do anything that is convenient to you."
"Alick has written to you about their going to London?"
"Yes, indeed; the letter reached me as I was starting home."
"Home?" said Alick, smiling.
"It feels like home to me," he answered, "but by-and-by my father's
house will be home again. I am however forgetting that Mr. Malden
charged me with a message to you, Mrs. Chantry. Would it be convenient
to you and Mr. Chantry to meet at Sunnyside this evening, that we may
come to some arrangement that will suit us all?"
To this Mrs. Chantry willingly agreed, and then Alick went off with Mr.
Fortescue to call on Courtenay at The Towers.
The end of it all was that Mr. Fortescue decided to stay for a few
weeks, not as a tutor, but as a friend.
"I should like to see the last of my boys," he said, "and I have other
reasons which Mr. Courtenay knows of, which decide me to remain a
little longer."
So the days flew by in preparations. Mrs. Bruce took Alick and Lionel
to Norwich, after having obtained permission of her son-in-law to do
so, and bought various things which she said they could not do without.
Margaret smiled happily, and let her have her way, and Courtenay only
said:
"Mother, you will end in spoiling those boys in spite of me!"
Mrs. Chantry went about with a very pale face, and Alick knew well
that her heart was nearly breaking. She worked silently at his things,
saying but little to him or anyone.
"Mother," he said one evening, when he caught her alone for an instant,
"your face makes me wish that I were not going. Shall I give it all up
and stay? What am I to do?"
Mrs. Chantry looked at him for one moment as if questioning if it might
be possible. Then she answered, as she put her arms round his neck,
"No, Alick, my darling; it is right, only—only it is so hard."
"Mother," he began, but he felt choked.
"Alick, I believe it is want of faith on my part," she said at last.
"I feel like I did that time when I had to leave you in England alone.
Then it was your youth I could not bear to trust to strangers; now—"
"Well?" he asked, kissing her face tenderly with a grave protection,
which she felt even in her misery.
"Now it is your manhood I fear for. The world is full of temptation.
Oh, Alick! It says, 'Blessed are the pure in heart.' That is all I
want, that you shall please our God in all things, and one day see Him
face to face."
"And do you doubt that He, who so carefully guarded me when I was
little, and kept me safe, and found Courtenay for me, and led me all
along till now, will forsake me at this great crisis of my life? Is it
likely, mother? He loves with an 'everlasting' love. Does He not say,
'They may forget, yet will not I.'"
The well-known beloved words broke her down. Still clasped in her son's
arms she wept out her sorrow, till after a long time she heard his
gentle voice asking:
"Are you not tired of standing, sweet mother? Look, there is a little
crescent moon peeping in at us. Let us pluck up our courage, and
remember that we have a faithful God. He will not suffer me to be
tempted above what I am able to bear. Do trust Him now about me as you
did long ago, and you will find He is ever true and faithful."
Mrs. Chantry was inexpressibly comforted by this talk, and she saw him
go away the next day with even a smile.
"Trusting?" he whispered, as he kissed her.
"Yes, Alick. And you?"
He nodded, and then the next thing she knew was that he was gone.
Meanwhile, Lionel had run in early to wish the inmates of The Towers
farewell.
"I shall see you at the station," Courtenay said; "and 'grandma' is
upstairs. She is not very well to-day."
Lionel went up. His bright future was before him, and it was natural he
should look forward to it with happy expectation. But he did not forget
that what was almost unalloyed joy to him would leave a great blank
behind.
"Dear grandma," he said, coming and kneeling down at her side, "have
you any last charges to give me?"
She did not at once answer; she put her two hands on his shoulders, and
looked into his face yearningly.
He returned her gaze as steadily, with frank, fearless eyes.
"I'll work all I can so as to please you, and realize your hopes for
me," he said.
But she still did not reply.
"My dear boy," she said at last, "my dear boy, you have been such a
comfort to me. Next to my dear Margaret, my greatest comfort."
"So have you to me, grandma; I could not have got on at all without
you."
She bent and kissed his forehead.
"And my last charge to you is this; I want you to remember what I wish
I had remembered when I was young, that the only thing worth living for
in this world is to prepare to see God."
"I'm sure it is, dear grandma. I shall not forget."
"No, you will not forget," she answered slowly, "and I will not forget.
'The pure in heart.' What was our text for to-day, my dear?"
"'They shall see His face, and His name shall be in their foreheads.'"
"Yes," said Mrs. Bruce, "that is the one. They shall see 'His' face.
That is what I have been looking for and thinking of for a long time;
only I asked Him to let me help you first, my dear, dear child."
Lionel rose. "Dear grandma," he said cheerfully, "I shall write to you
very often, and you will write to me, and I shall think of all you have
said—always."
She kissed him once more, answering by nothing but a tender smile, and
then he heard Courtenay's voice calling loudly that they would be late,
and with one more "Good-bye, dear grandma," he was gone.
The carriage was at the door, and Margaret stood on the step, wrapped
up in a shawl, to see them off. When the last wave of their hats had
come, and nothing remained but the empty gateway with the leafless
hedges shaking in the winter wind, Margaret turned indoors, and went to
seek her dear mother, who she feared would be feeling the parting very
deeply.
She entered, and came forward to where Mrs. Bruce sat in her usual
place in the bay window. She was sitting now with one hand pressed
tightly under her heart, while her eyes were closed as if in sleep.
"Darling mother," said Margaret gently, "are you in pain?"
She bent over her, and took her hand in hers, and then with a startled
cry she turned round seeking Courtenay, or any help which might be near.
"Collins," she breathed to the maid who had followed her upstairs,
"what is it?"
But she had no need to ask. She knew before Collins had time to answer
that her beloved mother, no longer afflicted, and suffering, and
forgetful, had gone in to see the King's face, and would come out no
more for ever.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: "Blessed are the pure in heart:
for they shall see God."]
CHAPTER XVII.
_IN LONDON._
"AND so 'that's' what you are going to take for your motto in town?"
asked Mr. Hallett, standing before the boys' fire in Gordon Square,
late one afternoon soon after their arrival, and reading out slowly,—
"'Blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall see God.'"
His tone was one of satisfaction as he turned round from contemplating
the framed text, and looked in the two faces.
"Yes," answered Lionel, "it was impressed on me by a talk I had with
poor dear grandma (Mrs. Bruce, you know) just before I came away, the
last talk we had. And, curiously enough, Alick's mother said the same
thing to him. So we've done it, and put it up."
"You will never be sorry for it," said Mr. Hallett gravely. "I called
in, young gentlemen, to ask you to spend next Sunday with me. I daresay
you will feel it rather a forlorn day, the first in London alone, so do
come. We spend the day very quietly, but we are a happy party for all
that, and you will be welcome."
They thanked him warmly, and then he took leave, and they were left to
their tea.
They sat down almost in silence; indeed Lionel had hardly spoken since
they came in.
At last, he seemed to force himself to speak. His voice was constrained
as he said:
"Funny he should notice that at once, Alick."
"I don't know that," answered Alick; "anyone might. I wonder if we
ought to have put two in our bedrooms instead?"
"No!" exclaimed Lionel quickly. "For I can tell you, Alick, I shall
need to remember it."
Alick looked startled, then he said sorrowfully:
"Lionel, already?"
"Already!" echoed Lionel bitterly. "How shall I be pure in heart for
His service if this goes on? One would think there was not one among
them who can think a pure thought, or say a pure word."
He pushed his untasted tea from him and got up, turning his back to
Alick, and pacing up and down the end of the room.
"'But the foundation of "God" standeth sure,'" said Alick earnestly,
"'having this seal, The Lord knoweth them that are His. And, Let every
one that nameth the name of Christ depart from iniquity.' 'He' is
steadfast, though you feel all things else shake."
Lionel came to the back of his chair.
"I see you understand, Alick," he said in a low voice. "I did not know
people could say and think such wicked things. But He knows I do not
want to copy them! I am so glad you reminded me of that text, 'The Lord
knoweth them that are His,' it has set my foot upon a Rock once more."
And it was not till they were just going to bed that night that Lionel
referred to the subject again.
"Alick, how can I help hearing? My soul revolts, but how can I stop it?"
"I do not know exactly," answered Alick, "but I think only by feeling
in your inmost heart that you are the Lord's. 'The Lord knoweth them
that are His.' Then if you are His, He has you in charge, and all you
have to do when the blast of temptation comes is to repeat joyfully
to yourself, 'I am His.' It seems to me—at least Courtenay used to
say so—that after a little time of intense suffering, if you bear on
bravely, holding up the standard, and setting your face as a flint
against evil, they will let you alone, and they will be as anxious to
avoid your condemnation as they are now to obtain your concurrence."
Lionel thought over Alick's words for a long time.
"Did Courtenay have such things to bear?"
"Yes, in his office. He has told me about it since."
"But medical students are worse than most," said poor Lionel.
"I don't know," answered Alick; "some have one sort of temptation and
some another. Now in our place it appears to me that it will be covert
disregard of God, and a desire to undermine faith in Him."
Lionel shuddered. He was too sore with his own wounds to bear to hear
of those of others.
"I wish Courtenay were here," he said, "or even my poor dear grandma."
"I wish they could be, but we must not forget that we are not alone. We
have help ever at hand."
"Yes," answered Lionel. "Alick, you're very kind and patient, but I am
afraid you are too good ever to have had such things said to you. You
have always been better than I in every way."
Alick did not answer. A burning flush came over his face, and he turned
away and began to light their candles.
"Shall we not read our chapter?" said Lionel.
"Oh, yes!"
They had agreed to read a chapter together every night, and to kneel
down together, but did not bind themselves to pray audibly unless
either of them felt inclined.
"It must not get into a task," Alick had said.
To-night they read as usual, and then knelt in silence. Alick was busy
with his own thoughts, and though he knelt on as long as Lionel did, he
could not pray. A great battle raged within him. Lionel had said he had
been always good, and he had allowed the assertion to pass when he knew
it was not true. Now he felt he ought to tell this to Lionel, but he
also felt it was utterly impossible. Lionel, who honoured him so much,
must be told that he had let him believe what was not true, and had not
had courage to speak up at once and say it had not always been so.
At last, Lionel rose from his knees, and Alick rose too. They wished
good-night and went to their own rooms.
Alick locked his door and sat down to think. Had he not been talking
about being pure in heart, and here he was unwilling to acknowledge
himself in the wrong?
But such a wrong—such a little impalpable wrong. To make a fuss over
nothing, when thousands every day said things which were actually
untrue and thought no more about it.
He wished he need think no more about it. He wished—oh, how
earnestly!—that he had spoken up at once, but now he could not—no, he
could not—bring up the subject again, and tell Lionel what a coward he
had been. Lionel always looked up to him. Lionel would despise him ever
after. No, it was "impossible."
Pride said it was impossible, but another voice whispered to him, with
words which thrilled him with pain,—
"The pure in heart shall see God."
"If I regard iniquity in my heart, the Lord will not hear me."
"Hear me!" Alick looked up with one moment's hope. "I have not asked
Him to hear me. What is impossible to me may be possible to Him."
Then a prayer from his inmost heart formed on his lips, and he
whispered:
"Lord, I cannot make myself do it, and the doing of it seems as far
out of reach as the clouds above me, but I do ask to be made willing
to do it; I do want to see God; I do want to be pure in heart; I would
not have a stain there for the world, only I can't do this. If thou
wouldest have me do it, make me willing."
That was his prayer. Then he buried his face in his arms and waited. He
did not pray now, he only waited. Had he not had answers before? Was
anything too hard for God to do?
The streets grew quieter and quieter, and the roar and hum of the great
city seemed to recede and grow far off. Still he sat on, expecting the
answer.
Presently, from thinking how utterly impossible it was, he found
himself wondering that it should have been so difficult. All at once
the answer had come; he was willing.
He unlocked his door and tapped at Lionel's. His cousin was equally
wakeful, and when he entered, he found him seated before his window in
the dark, with only such light as a high winter moon cast into the room.
"Lionel," he said in a low voice, "I thought till to-night that I was a
great deal braver than I am. I have come in to tell you something. When
you said that about being too good always for anyone to tempt 'me' to
evil, I let it pass as if it were true; as if in my experience it had
been true. It was not true."
Lionel turned round in the darkness and caught the sight of Alick's
pale face behind him.
"Lionel, at first I felt I could not confess this to you; so unwilling
was I that I felt, come what might, I could not bring my lips to say
it; but God has been very good to me. He has helped me to understand
that I could not have a cloud between my soul and Him if I wished to
see Him; and then He has made easy what was as high as a mountain to
me. Lionel, I never before knew how gracious my Lord could be, nor how
powerful."
"Dear Alick," exclaimed Lionel, deeply touched, "thank you so much for
telling me."
"No, do not thank me; I could not have done it but for Him. Lionel,
it was at school, when we lived at the Grange, one of the bad set got
hold of me, and for a little while I was very miserable. And then one
day, Aunt Ella was talking, and she described how, if we felt ever so
defiled, there was the more need that we should go to the fountain that
cleanseth from 'all' sin. That 'all' settled me. It was not sins of
action so much as thoughts, but 'all' meant thoughts and everything;
and so I asked to be washed; and like Naaman (don't you know?), my
heart came again like the heart of a little child, and I was clean.'"
Lionel clasped his hand as it rested on the back of his chair.
"Alick, you have helped me and comforted me very much. I shall never
forget your kindness—never. I will ask Him to take away all my
defilements, and to make me in deed and in truth pure in heart."
They said no more, but ever after that had a mutual love and
forbearance which had never been present in the old days. And from that
evening, they established a regular practice of praying for each other
that simple, comprehensive prayer—
"'Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from the evil one.'"
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
[Illustration: "Blessed are the peacemakers:
for they shall be called the children of God."]
CHAPTER XVIII.
_SALOME'S TEA-PARTY._
"HUSH, dear!" said Salome. "You must try to be more quiet to-day."
"I can't be quiet," said Sydney in a discontented little voice; "I've
been quiet a 'great' while."
"So you have," began Salome, but Ruth struck in:
"I don't call it at all long, Sydney; it only began this morning."
Poor little Sydney, not yet recovered from his bronchitis, and wrapped
up in a shawl, looked ready to cry at this contradiction.
"It is long," persisted Sydney, "'cause I'm a little boy."
"I say it 'isn't,'" said Ruth, who was as tired of the long quiet day
as her little brother.
Salome looked from one to the other, and then she said softly, "Come
here, dearies, and I'll tell you somethin'. You like stories, though
old Salome don't tell them nothing like Miss Marian."
"What is not like Marian?" asked a voice at the door, and a sweet rosy
face peeped in.
"Oh, missey, you de very one I was wishin' for! Dese dear little ones
is mighty tired of de long day, and de dear missis wished dem to be
quiet cause of de funeral, and so dey fell to squablin', and I was
wishin' you were here to tell dem one of your stories."
"I guessed as much," said Marian, "and so I came over, and who do you
think I've brought with me?"
Sydney turned his little face round. He had been pretending not to
listen to the conversation, but a little curiosity came to the aid of
his dignity, and he said, "Who, then?"
"I only came up first to ask Salome if you were well enough. Is he
Salome?"
"He's well enough if dey don't go rompin' nor leavin' de doors open,
missey. But 'tisn't likely, as dey'll be noisy on such a day as this;
and as to de door, I'll mind that."
Marian ran down, and returned in a minute with Leslie and Muriel, who
came in with very sober faces. They had just seen the carriages start
for the cemetery which bore Mrs. Bruce from The Towers to her earthly
resting-place. It had brought back very vividly the remembrance of the
time when Claude had been carried away from them, and they felt as if
it were that day come back again.
Marian gathered them all near the window, and put them in comfortable
places, reserving her lap for frail little Sydney, who soon forgot his
grievance, and nestled happily in her arms.
"So you've thought a good way to pass a long day was to get tired of
each other, eh, Ruthie?"
The words were not satirical but gentle, accompanied by an arch look
into the little faces.
"Well—" began Ruth.
But Marian stopped her by asking, "Is that little chair 'quite' cosy,
Ruthie, because I'm going to begin?"
Ruth said "Yes."
And as Marian was just on the very point of speaking, they all settled
themselves as quickly as they could, and she began.
* * * * * *
"Get along into the corner, and bide there; that's what you'd better
do," said a strong-looking man, laying down a bag of heavy tools, and
throwing himself into a chair by the fire.
The child addressed shrank into the place allotted to him, where
already three or four small children were congregated; while the father
turned to his wife, and said roughly, "Ain't the tea ready?"
"In a minute," she answered, putting down the whining baby, and
stirring up the little fire so that the kettle might boil quickly.
The baby went on whining, and there was a stir in the crowded corner,
and a little thin pinched form came slowly to the child, and a small
hand was put out and drew it nearer, till it was safely in two arms,
whose tenderness was quickly perceived, and the crying stopped.
"Janey, I'm so tired and hungry; can't yer get us a bit of bread?"
"Hush, Jacky! Mother 'll be ready presently. Look here, feel in my
pocket, and see what you can find there!"
Jacky answered somewhat disdainfully, "There ain't nothing there, 'I'
know, but stones and shells, and I'm sick of 'them.'"
"Then ye don't know nothing about it," said Janey in a whisper; "you
jest feel."
Jacky condescended to put out his hand, and Janey moved so as not to
disturb the baby, and yet to let him get at her pocket.
In the shallow depths of it, he found something round. And on drawing
it out, to his delight, it was a ball, or something so like a ball that
he was nearly uttering a cry of delight. But Janey's hand was quickly
placed before his mouth only just in time for him to escape notice.
"Let me see," said Dick, snatching at it. "Where did you get it, Janey?"
"I made it," answered his sister, "for all of you. But look 'ere, don't
grab, there's a good boy, but let's 'ave a game here in the corner. You
send it across to me, and I'll send it over to you, Jacky, and then
Jack send it to Pollie, and round agin, till supper's ready."
The children were tired of nothing to do, and the little peacemaker's
advice was generally good, so the home-made ball went round and round,
while Janey rocked the baby to and fro till it ceased fretting, and
then she left the ball to the others, and softly crept round the little
kitchen till she came to a wooden box in the corner, which served for a
cradle, into which she placed the now sleeping child.
Then you might have seen her put her hand on a chair near, and
straighten herself up as well as she could, but it was not much after
all, for her poor little back was terribly crooked, and now ached
almost insupportably with the weight of the baby.
But no cross, irritable word passed her lips. She went back slowly to
the little ones, and then their worn mother's welcome call came, and
the children started to their feet.
"Mind you don't get to no play," she observed, opening the staircase
door for them to go through, when she had given each of them a slice of
bread.
Then the little deformed sister hobbled after them in the hope that she
might get them to bed without further trouble.
When she came down again, the father had finished his supper, and the
mother was clearing up for the night.
"He ain't in again," he was saying angrily; "what's he up to now?"
"I don't know, I'm sure," said the tired mother. "He ain't often as
late as this."
"Often!" growled the man. "I say, Janey, what's that good-for-nothing
brother of yours about?"
Janey had come to the fire. Her face was very pale, and her hands blue
with cold.
"Why, father," she said, "you know what a hard master Jim has, and he
can't always be sure of his time. He must stay if he's wanted, ye know."
Janey spoke gently, but the father only answered:
"That's always what young folks say. I don't believe anything about it,
but if he wanted to be home, he could."
Janey was silent for a moment; it was difficult to know whether to
speak or to be quiet. At last she said:
"You know, father, when you sent me out t'other night to 'The Bells,'
when you was suspecting of Jim's being up to mischief, just the same as
you are to-night? Well, I met him coming out of his master's all right
enough, and three or four more of 'em too. They said 'Good-night' as
pleasant as anything, and he set off tearing home as fast as he could.
He never see'd me, he was in such a hurry."
"Well, well, girl, let him alone now, and get to bed. I don't want to
be too hard on him, only I'll not have him taking to bad ways."
He had looked in the little thin face, and her words and her pleading
eyes had softened even his heart for a moment.
"May I have some supper, mother?" asked Janey, as she heard the
cupboard door slam, which was a sign that all had been put away.
"There, yes, child; why didn't ye ask before?"
Janey did not answer, and her mother cut her a slice of bread, adding a
piece of cheese, which was a great treat.
Janey put it down on a side shelf, and began to draw the fire together.
"What's that for?" roughly asked the father.
"He'll come in cold," faltered Janey, "and ain't you going to leave any
supper for him, mother?"
"Yer father says I ain't to," she replied, and went slowly upstairs,
followed by her husband, and Janey was left alone.
How nice that cheese smelt! How hungry she was! But though she went and
looked at it longingly, she left it untouched. After a little time, her
brother's quick step came running along the pavement, and he came in.
"Hulloa, Janey, you up? I say, don't he keep me awful late; it's a
shame. I say, Janey, where's my supper? Ain't mother got it for me?"
Then, before she could answer, his clear brow darkened, and he said:
"I see what it is. Father thinks as it's my fault, and he won't allow
me none. But it's cruel hard to work as I do, and then to go to bed
without no vittles."
"Here's this, Jim," said Janey. "I've saved it for you from supper."
The hungry boy asked no questions, but seized upon it, saying, when it
was nearly gone, "I could 'a eaten three times as much, and not 'a hurt
myself, that I could."
Janey sighed.
Her brother looked up. "Well, it ain't your fault, and I'm much obliged
to you for seeing to me. Look here, Janey, I forgot I'd got a' apple in
my pocket for you; a chap as I knows gave me two, and I saved this one
for you."
"Oh, Jim!" she said gratefully, tears coming into her eyes.
"You look mighty pale," he said, as he stuffed in the last mouthful.
"Janey, what did ye have for supper?"
"This," she said, smiling, holding up the apple, which she had already
begun on.
"And this bread and cheese—was—yours? Oh, Janey!"
"That don't matter a bit," she answered; "and now you've brought me
this nice apple, I don't feel at all hungry."
Jim looked ruefully at her, and at his empty plate. Then a sudden idea
seized him; he got up and went determinately to the cupboard.
"Oh, 'don't!'" said Janey, coming and putting her little thin hand on
his arm. "Jim, I wouldn't have you do that for anything you could give
me."
She pulled him away with gentle force, and he sat down again sullenly
in his chair. "Janey, I can't stand this much longer."
"Oh, yes!" she answered beseechingly. "You can. I know it's terrible
hard, but, Jim, father 'ull be better by-and-by. I know he will, 'cause
I'm always praying about it, and if you'll 'ave patience a little
longer—"
She hung round his neck and kissed him, telling him in broken words how
the Saviour she loved would help him, even in this, if he would ask Him.
And at last, Jim said huskily that "he'd try."
And then they blew out the lamp, and went upstairs in the dark. Jim
crept into the little cupboard on the stairs he called his room, and
the little peacemaker went in among her little sisters, and wearily
took off her clothes.
"'They shall be called the children of God,' my text said this
morning," she whispered softly to herself as she lay wakeful, because
of the pain in her back. "I wonder who it is who's to be called the
children of God? I wish I could be, but I think I am, because, though
I'm so very unworthy, if Jesus is my Saviour, I 'am' a child of God."
With this thought, so resting, so large, so full, came other thoughts
of the wonder and delight which would one day be her portion, instead
of the pain and weariness and strife of her present life. Her tired
eyes closed, her back ceased to ache so badly, and with a sweet smile
on her pale lips, and a prayer that her father might soon be kind to
Jim, she slept.
"'Blessed' are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children
of God.'"
* * * * * *
Marian stopped, and the eager little listeners said, "Isn't there any
more?"
"No more," said Marian, shaking her head.
"And did the father get kind?" asked Ruth.
"Yes," said Marian; "for I've found that when we trust things to God,
He sees to it."
"I have found that also," said another voice behind her, and Marian
turned round in dismay to find that Mr. Fortescue had been a listener
too.
"It was not fair," she said, feeling mortified.
"I did not think you would mind, Miss Marian," he answered. "I came in
as Salome went out just now, and you were all too busy to see me. I sat
down without any pretence of quietness. Pray, forgive me."
"I thought it was Salome who came in again," said Marian; "I should
have been dreadfully shy if I had known."
She tried to laugh off her annoyance, and began to put on her hat to go
home.
"There is tea coming," said Sydney. "I did not know it was tea-time."
"That's because Marian has kept us so happy," said Ruth. "Marian, do
stay and have a cup of tea with us."
"Yes, do, missey," said Salome; "I've brought up lots of dese cups on
purpose for you. Mr. Fors'cue will have one of Salome's cups of tea
like de others?"
"Certainly I will," he answered, well pleased. "I've never had tea with
you up here before. This is delightful."
He took Sydney on his knee, and then told them how nicely everything
had been arranged for Mrs. Bruce's funeral, and said what a comfort it
was it had been fine.
"And did poor Margaret keep up well?" asked Marian.
"She was very, very pale, and Mr. Courtenay seems very anxious about
her. I fear she will feel her mother's death more than anyone will
know."
"You see she has had so many losses."
"Yes, and her constant attendance on her mother, which has been so
beautiful to witness, will make the blank doubly great."
Salome had been busy with her cups, but now, as she handed them to her
visitors, she said:
"De best thing you can do for de dear young misses is to pray dat de
Lord may comfort her. I've seen in my time so many things that do dear
Lord help in—numbers of things. You go on askin', and you see if de
answer don't come."
"I am sure of it, Salome," said Mr. Fortescue, "if it is in accordance
with His will. We must wait for that. Look what an answer I have had
about my dear father, and now I am praying for my only sister. She
cannot understand it at all, and thinks both my father and I must be
mad."
"Does she?" asked Marian. "I thought she was so very very kind to you."
"Kind? Yes, but displeased and disappointed that I have come back an
altered man. But she is a dear sister for all that, and I want you to
know her, Miss Marian."
"Did not Margaret propose to ask her to The Towers?" said Marian.
"Yes, but Mrs. Bruce's death has postponed it. I want her to know you,
so much."
"Do you?" asked Marian. "I am afraid I should not do her any good."
"Why?"
"Because I am only fit to talk to children, and do home duties. I'm not
grand one bit, or able to make myself agreeable."
He laughed pleasantly.
"At any rate you satisfy your friends," he said. "Salome, what a
delicious cup of tea this is! I never tasted anything so good."
"Perhaps it's de colour of de cups makes a difference," answered
Salome, with a shadow of a twinkle in her eyes.
"I don't see how it can be," began Leslie.
But Mr. Fortescue only smiled, and said he would notice that another
time; and when he set up housekeeping, would be sure to get the same
colour as Salome's.
And so the tea-party ended. It had already got dark, and Marian once
more sought for her hat, and prepared to go.
"Come, Muriel and Leslie," she said. But they were quicker than she,
and were down the stairs before she could turn round.
"I am coming with you," said Mr. Fortescue, "so do not trouble about
them."
"I do not mind going alone," laughed Marian; "there are no wild beasts
in our garden, and if there were, Leslie and Muriel would not be much
protection."
"Still, you do not mind my coming?"
"Not at all, only I did not wish to bring you out of your way."
She peeped into the dining-room to bid her aunt good-bye, and then went
out into the garden.
Mr. Fortescue was silent till they reached the gate, then he said
rather anxiously:
"I fear you have not forgiven me for coming in, Miss Marian? I would
not have vexed you for the world."
"Oh, no," answered Marian, feeling very hot and uncomfortable, "I shall
not think of it again! I ought to beg your pardon for speaking so
hastily. I ought not to have been so vexed; I do not know why I was."
"When I heard your voice, I thought at first you were reading aloud
(for I could not see your face), and then when it began to dawn upon me
that you were not reading, I so longed to stay that—"
"That you put your honesty to sleep?" asked Marian, trying to laugh.
"Something like it. And it is that I want you to forgive, will you?"
"Oh, yes!" answered Marian. "Please say no more about it."
"I have had such a happy fortnight, Marian, since I came back; so
different from the long, weary, weary months when I could only know for
a certainty, as I thought, that no bright future would ever be in store
for me."
But Marian answered, "Ever? I thought—"
"Oh, yes! I was only referring to earthly happiness. You cannot think
how nice it has been to get to know you better, and to be with you
without that weight crushing me."
"What weight?" asked Marian, her heart standing still; for why did Mr.
Fortescue keep on linking her name with all he said.
But this time he did not answer, and Marian grew a little frightened.
They had come almost to the door at Sunnyside, and the light of
the hall lamp fell on his face. He looked down at her with sudden
inexpressible tenderness.
"Marian," he answered, "I know I am many years older than you; I know
you have never given the matter a thought. And yet—yet ever since I
first began to teach you, ever since I first saw your peacemaking way
with the little ones—long before I had a hope that I should be able to
marry,—I had made up my mind that you and you only of all the world
would be the wife I should have, if I ever had one at all."
"I?" echoed Marian, too surprised to say another word.
"Yes, you, Marian. Now I have told you; and what do you say about it?
But I do not want you to say one word till you have thought it over;
only tell me that you do not think it utterly impossible."
Marian was very pale; she looked up in his face, and then on the ground.
"I will wait," he said gently. "You have been taken by surprise. I have
been worse than one of those wild animals my little dove was not afraid
of."
His tender tone reassured her, and she was just going to speak when
Leslie rushed to the glass door and threw it open.
"Oh, there you are!" he exclaimed. "What a time you have been!"
"Yes, I have," answered Marian, gaining her voice at last. Then,
turning to Mr. Fortescue, she added in a low tone, "I feel so surprised
that I do not know what to say, but I should not like you to be
unhappy."
"And I shall be if you do not say 'Yes.'"
"Shall you?" asked Marian, looking up.
"Very unhappy; so you will think kindly of it, I am sure."
And Marian nodded, and went indoors. She ran up to her mother's room,
and throwing her arms round her neck, burst into tears.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: "Blessed are the peacemakers:
for they shall be called the children of God."]
CHAPTER XIX.
_LILIAN'S PEACEMAKER._
"AND this is Marian?" said a ringing voice, belonging to a face and
figure the most beautiful Marian had ever seen.
"Yes," she answered, turning rosy red.
"And I have come all the way from Scotland to see you, and now have you
no welcome for me, little one?"
She put her arm round the shy shoulders, and looked down into the
blushing face. Then thinking she had been almost unkind, she stooped
and kissed her, saying:
"Your little note was so nice that I could not but come. But why did
you let Evan go away till he had seen me?"
"He said he had business which must be done."
"Eh? Oh, well, in the old days Evan never had any business." A shade
crossed her bright face. "But I must get used to him as he is."
She was taking off her hat and smoothing her luxuriant hair in
Margaret's spare room, whither Marian had been sent to make her
acquaintance and attend upon her.
Marian looked on in silence. Her heart was very full. Only this morning
she had parted from Mr. Fortescue, and his last words were sounding in
her ears—
"Marian, when I come back next week, you will say what will make me
happy?"
And she had said nothing, had been frightened and vexed that she had
had no courage to answer. She began to understand that it would make
her happy too to give the reply he wanted, and she had let him go and
had never said so.
Now here was his sister—this Lilian who had given him, long ago, that
fifty pounds which had kept him from starving. Yes, Marian did not
forget that. But how should she get on with this bright, fashionable
girl, who looked at everything from such a different standpoint from
hers?
Meanwhile, Lilian Fortescue was making up her mind about the little
lady sitting so quietly there with folded hands, of whom her brother
was so proud and fond, and she felt puzzled; for who could know Marian
from seeing her for five minutes?
"I am ready now," she said, and then they went downstairs together.
"Marian is going to stay with us for a little while," said Margaret;
"for though she only lives next door, we should never see her, she is
such a busy little person. It is quite a treat to catch sight of her."
"Oh, Margaret," expostulated Marian, "I come in and out as if this were
my home almost!"
Margaret laughed, and added, "But you do not stay, Marian. However, I
do not quarrel with any girl for keeping at home."
Margaret, in her fresh grief at her mother's death, felt it a great
relief to have her young sister-in-law to help in the entertainment
of the Scotch young lady. But she did not guess that besides this,
Marian's peaceful society would be a rest to her own weary spirit.
"This is bad weather to pay us a visit," she said, exerting herself to
talk, "but I hope, in spite of the cold, you may enjoy yourselves. Do
you ride much?"
Lilian brightened up.
"I love it dearly," she said.
"We have several horses, and my husband is very fond of riding, so
perhaps that will be a resource. Then, you know, you will have to get
acquainted with the inmates of all the Cliff houses: if only our boys
were here. But our relationships are very puzzling."
"Yes," said Marian. "If Miss Fortescue can say them off at the end of a
fortnight, she will be clever."
"Shall I?" asked Lilian, looking up, surprised that the demure girl
could say anything bright.
Margaret saw the look, and smiled to herself.
"She looks down on our treasure," she thought, and was very glad that
at the moment, Courtenay came in, and dinner was announced.
No; the Cliff was not the same without the two boys, and every day made
it more apparent.
At first Mrs. Bruce's sudden death had taken up everyone's thoughts.
But after a week or two, the blank became more and more great, and
Courtenay found himself asking for Alick, or expecting to hear his step
continually.
As to Margaret, the loss of the three whom perhaps of all on the Cliff,
next to her husband, she had loved the best, was so great that she
drooped exceedingly, and Courtenay hailed the advent of their two young
visitors as something to occupy her and change her thoughts.
So a few days passed away. The girls found an unexpected and charming
occupation in using their water-colours. Marian had happened to say one
day that she wished she could paint, and Lilian had eagerly volunteered
to teach her.
"We shall get quite sisterly over this," she said, looking up into
Marian's absorbed face.
Marian started and blushed.
"It is very nice," she answered; "more nice than anything I ever did
before."
"Better than stocking-mending?" asked Lilian, a little disdainfully.
But Marian looked up gravely.
"I do not believe you would grudge mending stockings for those you
loved, Lilian?"
"Perhaps not," answered Lilian lightly; "but you take everything
so seriously. That is like Evan. Why do all the good people make
themselves so obnoxious?"
But even as she said it, she knew it was untrue.
"Some day, when you are in a serious humour, I'll explain it to you,"
said Marian.
"Am I not serious now then?"
Marian shook her head. She and Lilian had by this time become very
intimate, but there was an invisible barrier between them, over which
they did not step.
"Tell me what you do at home?" said Marian.
"I? Oh, I ride about with my father, and keep house, and entertain
company, and dress myself and make the most of my looks, and talk
nonsense, and practise for two hours a day, and—"
"What a list!" said Marian, busily going on with her painting. "But to
me, Lilian, all that does not 'sound' very peaceful. It may be, but it
does not sound so."
"'Peaceful'? Marian, I do not know such a word in my vocabulary. Now I
see the secret of you. Is not that the motto you have put up in your
room at Sunnyside?"
"Not exactly a motto. My text I suppose you mean?"
"Well, your text. Say it, Marian, and explain it to me; I really will
be serious."
"To-night," said Marian, "you know, we were going to have a moonlight
stroll on Margaret's terrace, and I will tell you then, if you do not
mind. I can't talk while I am painting, not on those things."
Lilian was a little curious, but more careless about the whole
matter. She liked Marian, but it was in spite of her religion, not in
consequence of it.
As to Marian, she had passed many anxious hours of thought about this
gay young girl who had been thrown in her way.
"Margaret," she said that afternoon, when their guest was out riding,
and they found themselves alone, "I cannot make any impression on
her. I tremble to think how important it is that she should think of
these things, and yet I have not courage to begin the subject in good
earnest. What can I do?"
Margaret smoothed the soft cheek with her hand in silence for a few
moments, then she said:
"Do you know, Marian, that reminds me of how I used to feel with my
dear mother years ago, when she cared for nothing of the sort? Oh, you
cannot think how difficult it is for anyone to speak to a mother!"
"I can," answered Marian. "I think near relations must be the most
difficult."
"It was some time before I could venture, and I used to break the ice
by reading a chapter to them every day (but I have told you that), and
mother and father used to listen. Then gradually their hearts began to
open, and after a while, God helped me to speak plainly to dear mother.
She was very angry, but for all that, the seed took root. And almost
the first words she spoke to me when I reached India were, 'Margaret
used to tell me about Jesus.' Was not that reward for any effort?"
Marian listened with beating heart; could she ever be so brave?
When she went to her room, she knelt down by her bedside, and asked to
have courage to begin the subject, and be strengthened to say the right
words.
That evening she thought Lilian was particularly flighty. She talked
and sang, and looked so beautiful, that Marian sat and gazed at her,
and felt it would be impossible to say a word to such a lovely,
fascinating creature.
By-and-by, she turned round suddenly.
"Little sister," she said, in a smiling whisper, "you are very silent.
Where is that walk you promised me? Or have you forgotten it?"
"Forgotten" it? When every thought since early morning, when they had
sat painting together, had been centred on this interview.
Lilian ran to the window, and peeped out.
"Lovely!" she said. "How I wish Evan were here. Come out, Marian, and
blow away your cobwebs."
Marian only knew of one way of blowing away cobwebs, and that was
casting all her care upon Him who careth, and these words reminded her
of it. While she went for her shawl, she had time to raise her heart
for one moment in an earnest entreaty that this care might be removed,
and then she and Lilian met in the hall, and went out.
"Yes, the moon is very lovely," Lilian exclaimed. "Do you not wish you
could paint it? But how few do justice to moonlight? Look how dark
the shadows are on the water, except the place where the rays strike.
There, Marian, do you not see?"
"I see," answered Marian thoughtfully.
"It seems to me something like my life," pursued Lilian, half in spite
of herself, "just light where I walk, and dark everywhere else. Such
a pleasant pathway for me, but outside of it, so many dark bits which
might be very gloomy."
"Oh, Lilian, you give me the shivers!" said Marian.
"Do I? I did not mean to do that. Let us go in then."
"But," said Marian, making the plunge, "you were going to have a talk;
and your words reminded me of just what we were going to talk about.
Now it seems to me that instead of that silver pathway being an emblem
of your life, it is just the other way. Your life is like the restless
waves in the dark, and it is only the love of Jesus that makes the
pathway bright."
"Nonsense, child," said Lilian, half-angry, "mine was a much prettier
thought."
"But, Lilian, we were going to be serious, and, after all, these
similes are not to be depended on. Do you 'really' want to know about
my text? Because, if you do, I want to tell you so much; for—"
"Well, little sister?"
"Don't say that, dear," said Marian, distressed. "But oh, Lilian, I
am so unhappy that you trifle with things that I believe are the most
important in the world."
"I am not trifling now. You can say what you like, and I will listen;
for though I seem so giddy, Marian, I'll confess to you, what I have
never confessed to anyone before, my heart aches terribly sometimes."
Marian's arm stole round her waist, and her head, with its soft,
shining hair, laid itself on Lilian's taller shoulder.
"I did not guess that," she whispered; "then my text may speak a
message to you."
"How can it?"
"'Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of
God.'"
"Well?"
"'He' is the Peacemaker; 'He' is the child of God Who has pleased His
Father in all things, and has made peace for a lost world."
"'He?'" questioned Lilian.
"Jesus Christ our Saviour. I put up that text, Lilian, for two reasons.
The first was by far the most important in my thoughts. It reminded me
that 'He' is our peace. The Lord hath laid on Him the iniquity of us
all. He is the best of Peacemakers, and His Father acknowledges His
perfect work by saying out of heaven, so that it should come down to us
even to-day, 'This is my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased.'"
"Why was He well pleased?" asked Lilian softly.
"Because He was making peace for this sorrowful world—'my' peace,
'your' peace, Lilian."
"Not mine," answered the girl slowly. "I have never wished for it, nor
sought it. Now—"
"Now you do?" asked Marian, pressing her closer. "Oh, do say you do!"
"I cannot say that to please you. I wish it with a kind of weary wish
that I had something solid to rest on, but to-morrow I may be as
light-hearted as ever; and I fear that so it will ever be."
Marian was silent. What could she say more?
"And supposing that to-morrow should never come?"
Lilian shrugged her shoulders.
"Can't you trust Him as your Peacemaker?" Marian asked wistfully.
"To make peace for what?"
"Because of our sins; that's what He makes peace for. We never could
meet God if He did not make peace. Why, Lilian, have you never thought
of that for one moment? If a rebel wants his conqueror to show him
mercy, do you not suppose he had better find some way of appeasing the
conqueror's just wrath?"
"I suppose so."
"And is it not wonderful that God has found out a plan by which we
sinners can come near Him without fear?"
Lilian was listening intently.
"And so He sent His Son, that 'whosoever believeth in Him should not
perish, but have everlasting life.'"
The moon still shone on the rippling sea, and the light clouds passed
over it, and then it came out as bright as before, and still the girls
stood silently watching it.
"I begin to see at last," said Lilian, turning caressingly towards
her companion; "and seeing even dimly makes me understand many things
which Evan tried to teach me. Marian, if what you say is true, I need a
Peacemaker as much as anyone."
"Then you will not wait, but find one to-night, will you not, Lilian? I
cannot bear putting off."
Lilian kissed her tenderly, and only answered—but it was in a
reassuring tone—"I have found that out already."
And with this, Marian was forced to be satisfied.
But when she was in bed, lying awake looking at the moon, and praying
for the girl who all at once had become so dear, a light tap at her
door was followed by a white figure crossing her room.
"I shall not frighten you, little sister?"
"Oh, no! Do you want anything?"
"Only to tell you that 'I' do not like putting off any better than you;
so I have come to the Peacemaker, and asked Him to make peace for me."
"And He has?"
"Yes; did you expect Him to cast me out when I came?"
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
[Illustration: "Blessed are they that are persecuted
for righteousness' sake: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven."]
CHAPTER XX.
_THE RECOMPENCE OF THE REWARD._
"HERE is a telegram, Courtenay," said Marian one day, soon after the
foregoing conversation, entering Margaret's sitting-room about eleven
o'clock.
Margaret looked up. What ill news could come now?—was her first
thought. And then her second was, that He who loved her ruled.
Courtenay took it calmly. A telegram comes so often nowadays, that if
Margaret's nerves had not been weak, she would not have feared the
contents of this one.
"From Fortescue," said Courtenay, reading out:
"Will you ask Alick and Lionel's parents if they may come to Leesworth
for Easter at my expense?"
This was Thursday. To-morrow would be Good Friday. It fell this year as
early as it possibly could fall.
"Then I suppose Fortescue is coming with them. Margaret, love, you will
have a large party."
"But 'I' can go home," said Marian.
"Indeed, you shall not! Why, Marian, you are my greatest help and
comfort," answered Margaret earnestly, "Do not go and forsake me."
"Forsake you?" said Marian, kissing her affectionately. "But I have
been here nearly a fortnight already, and you will be getting tired of
me."
"That is likely," answered Margaret, "but it shall be as you wish,
dearest. Only, if I am asked, I shall say, 'Stay.'"
"How nice it would be for them to come home," said Marian; "the Cliff
is not the same without them."
Just at this moment, Lilian entered and caught the last words.
"Without your boys? Is there some project for them to come? I should
like to see them before I go."
"You are not going yet, Miss Lilian?" answered Courtenay. "Not if you
are happy to remain with us a little longer."
Lilian put her arm round Marian. "I have so much to thank you all for,"
she said gently, "and especially this brave little woman."
Marian looked up with a smile, and then said to Courtenay, "Shall I run
over and ask father about Lionel?"
"But I do not understand it all," said Courtenay. "I thought Fortescue
was in Scotland."
"I suppose he is passing through London, on his way back."
"Perhaps so. Poor boys! If I had thought they wished to come home, I
would have provided the means. But I thought they were too busy—"
"Yes," said Marian, "father did talk about it, Courtenay. But he said,
'Much as he wanted to see them, it would be better not to unsettle
them, as they had not mentioned it.'"
"Oh, well, here it is put into their heads, and so now what is to be
done? Is the telegraph messenger waiting, Marian?"
"I believe so."
"Then let us go over together, and ask the momentous question at each
house. Marian, I declare my heart feels lighter. I do long to see them
again. Two months! Have they been gone two months?"
In less than half an hour a telegram was on its way back, giving
permission from Mr. Malden and Mr. Chantry. And in a very short time
after that, came another from Mr. Fortescue, announcing that they would
all arrive at seven o'clock.
"Now, Courtenay," said Margaret, "how are we going to dispose of them?
Are they to come here or to be at their homes?"
"I thought of that. But do you know, Margaret, I am afraid it would be
very selfish to ask them here? The two other houses need cheering quite
as much as we do. And my father and mother would prefer for Marian to
come home now, they say."
Margaret looked disappointed. "You do not know how good she has been
to me, Courtenay. When you and Lilian have been out, she has kept me
company, and I am sure it is not because she does not like riding as
much as anyone, but it is her unselfishness. She has chatted away as
pleasantly, or read to me as cheerfully, as if—"
Margaret's words quite failed her.
"You are not a very unpleasant person to do things for," smiled her
husband.
"Ah, but I am not as interesting as if I were well," said Margaret,
sighing.
So before night, Marian's few belongings had been carried home, and
Lilian had poutingly told her she should never forgive her.
"Why I am coming back this evening," said Marian. "When Lionel has told
father all his news, we are both coming in here."
Lilian was not half satisfied, but Marian had assured her it was what
she herself liked best. And so she saw her go, and turned back into The
Towers, feeling as if a bit of sunshine had been shut out.
And then Courtenay's carriage had gone to meet them. And in due time,
the wheels were heard returning, and Alick and Lionel got out before
it turned in at The Towers' gates, while Mr. Fortescue drove up to the
steps in solitary state.
His sister and Courtenay were in the hall to meet him. And when he
entered the drawing-room, one glance showed him that Marian was not
there. This was a shock to him, as he knew from Lilian's letters that
she had been staying at The Towers. And he glanced in their faces to
see if he might guess whether there was bad news in store for him. But
they all looked very happy, and much the same as when he left them, so
he took courage again.
Meanwhile, at Sunnyside, Lionel was seated close to his father's side,
holding his mother's hand in his, and talking as fast as his tongue
would go.
"How you have grown!" said his mother for the sixth time at least. "And
how much older you look! Why, Lionel, you cannot be called a boy any
longer!"
"Of course not, mother. We were past that before we left home, only you
would call us so. In London we stand on our merits as gentlemen."
Marian laughed. "Lionel, your old stilts are out in the shed. Have you
grown too tall for them?"
"Why?" asked Lionel.
"Because I thought you had brought a new pair down with you."
"Oh, that's it, Miss Marian! So you have grown saucy. But seriously,
mother, this is a jolly dodge of Fortescue's. I call it very kind of
him."
"Very," said Mr. Malden; "I could not have had a greater pleasure given
me. I was quite wearying for a sight of you, Lionel; and as to mother—"
Mr. Malden's eyes turned to the beautiful, patient face, but hers were
riveted on her son's.
"What had London done for him?" she thought.
"But we shall have to go back on Monday night. I cannot miss any of my
lectures, and as to Alick, I can tell you, he has to work like a slave."
"No; has he?" asked Marian.
"And if he were one minute late, the whole lot of fellows would make it
a case against him. They hate him, that's the truth."
"Hate him?" asked Mrs. Malden, too astonished to say another word.
"Perfectly hate him. I'll tell you about it, for Alick never will. Oh,
here's tea, hurrah! But I'll tell you at tea."
He proceeded to wheel his father's chair into the dining-room. But as
they crossed the hall, the glass door opened, and Mr. Fortescue came in.
He waited a moment till the chair had gone through the dining-room
door, and was put into its place, and then he came forward.
"I could not sit down to dinner till I had seen you," he said,
addressing himself generally, but taking Marian's hand. "But I hear you
are coming in presently."
"Yes," answered Marian, "though I do not think mother is coming. I wish
you would, mother."
Mrs. Malden shook her head happily. "I would rather stay with dear
father, but if Margaret were well enough to come over here—"
"I fear she is not," said Mr. Fortescue. "She did propose it, but Mr.
Courtenay would not hear of it. He said the risk was too great, as she
is not strong."
"No, he is quite right; Marian and Lionel shall come for a little while
presently."
"I will come and fetch them after dinner." With that, he went off,
looking as if he would rather stay there.
When they had seated themselves, and had fairly begun their meal,
Lionel said:
"Now, Leslie and Muriel, you must hold your tongues about what I'm
going to tell father, because Alick will not have it talked about, and
I did not know you youngsters were coming down to tea."
"We always do now, and we shall not repeat anything," said Muriel.
"All right then. And as to that, I should like you to hear it if you
don't go and make a fuss and talk about it.
"Well, father, you must know that Alick got very quiet after a week or
two at his warehouse; and for the matter of that, so did I. We both had
found out things that were not 'couleur de rose,' and it upset us a
good deal. But we had come to a tacit understanding that we could not
go over every little worry to each other, so we said nothing, and bore
it. I'll confess to you that that was the darkest bit of our London
life as yet.
"After awhile, Alick looked so pale and downcast that I thought the
time had come to speak out, and I asked him if things were not going on
satisfactorily at his place.
"'Pretty well,' he said wearily.
"'I wish you'd tell me,' said I, feeling downright anxious about him,
and having visions of Aunt Greta, and Salome, and everybody, coming up
to receive his last messages."
"Lionel!" said his mother.
"I did indeed, mother. Trust the first two months in London for taking
the pluck out of you. But it's better now.
"'There is nothing to tell,' said Alick; 'nothing but what everybody
new has to bear. They want to mould me into one of themselves, and I'd
rather die first.'
"'Hurrah,' said I, clapping him on the back, 'then I don't mind. Now,
Alick, out with it; for I began to fear from your way that they had
made you into one of themselves. Go ahead.'
"Alick seemed very pleased with my warmth, and presently said (as near
as I can remember):
"'There is very little to "go ahead" about as you call it, Lionel. I
suppose in many warehouses the young men are taught and expected to
deceive. The manager of our department is responsible for making it
pay, and we are quietly made to understand that no nonsense is allowed.
By that they mean that conscientious scruples are not to be thought
of. We are instructed (or hardly instructed, but expected) to pass off
goods which are not of the quality asked for; we have to ignore any
questions customers may ask, or to tell downright lies to get out of
them; we have to assure people that this cloth will wear longer than
that one, in order to pass off an unsaleable piece to an inexperienced
buyer. Should we any of us be caught doing anything else than this—and
there are countless variations in the untruths that are expected of
us—the manager comes down upon us and expends his most sarcastic wrath
upon us. He intimates sneeringly that he supposes we have well-to-do
friends, as we take so little care to keep our situations; at least
that was what he said to me this afternoon.'
"'Do you suppose he means it, Alick?' said I.
"'Oh, dear, yes! Not that he will give me notice on any occasion such
as this, but he will take an early opportunity of doing me a bad turn.
There is a fellow there who has seen him do it; he warned me to be
careful.'
"'That means, that he also wanted you to put your conscience in your
pocket?'
"'No; for he seems not to do so himself. He is a very quiet, useful
man, who seldom speaks, but keeps on his way in spite of them. That is
why I liked him.'
"'I'm glad you have one friend,' said I.
"'He cannot be called a friend exactly,' said Alick thoughtfully, 'but
I do believe he is a help to me, now I come to think of it.'
"'But, Alick,' said I, 'if you are doing "right," why do you mind?'
"'It is easy to say that, but almost impossible to explain it,' he
answered, getting despondent again. 'The right is not always apparent.
I wonder sometimes if I am making myself unpleasant for nothing—whether
I may, after all, be "straining out a gnat and swallowing a camel."'
"'"Are" you swallowing a camel?' I asked.
"'No—not that I know of—no, Lionel. But I find myself slipping into a
hope that Mr. Axleford will not come round; and even into wishing to
meet his views as far as I can without stepping over the line.'
"'That is the hardest of all, I am sure,' said I.
"Alick looked up. 'Yes it is, Lionel, yet what can I do?'
"'You will not think me irreverent if I say that it might be a help if
you could remember the Lord Jesus is standing by. All things would grow
clear in that light.'
"'So they would,' said Alick with a sigh of relief. 'I'll think of that
next time.'
"'And then,' said I, 'perhaps it would help you too, Alick, to remember
that you are not to be sad under this affliction, but to know that you
are "blessed," because you are being "persecuted for righteousness'
sake."'
"Then the clouds seemed to roll from Alick's face, and he took out
his books to study with quite a different look from what he had borne
lately.
"When we wished good-night, he told me I had been a great comfort to
him.
"'Then let us tell each other of our difficulties, Alick; for I am sure
it would be better,' I said.
"So we promised, and since then such a strange thing has happened.
There was a difficulty about the accounts, and some money was missing;
and what do you think the owner of the concern did? Though Alick has
only been there two months, he had him up with the other man, whom he
likes you know, and the charge of the books and things was given to
them, and they were taken into Mr. Winter's confidence in every way.
I assure you, father, Alick looked as if he had got a fortune when he
came home that night."
"Of course he did," said Marian.
"Now don't you love Alick more than ever?" asked Lionel. "Because 'I'
do. He has been persecuted for righteousness' sake; and he will be
again before he has done."
"And was the money found out about?" asked Leslie.
"Oh dear, yes! Two of the most uppish of the lot, who had been
ringleaders in despising Alick. They got the sack though."
"And that manager?"
"Oh, he has Mr. Winter's confidence apparently."
"How came they to choose Alick?"
"Oh, I think Mr. Axleford thought that, though he was too conscientious
for 'him,' he might be just right for accounts. And I expect he was
only too glad to get him out of his department."
Then, tea being over, Lionel proposed that they should go to The Towers.
"Do not be in a hurry," answered his mother; "Mr. Fortescue is coming
to fetch you."
"He is not coming to fetch 'me,'" he said, laughing. "So if you don't
want me any longer, I'll be off to find Alick."
Hardly waiting for permission, he was gone.
And Marian sat down with her work in her hand to wait.
Was it a very long half-hour or a very short half-hour before she heard
his step coming across the hall? She could never decide which it had
been.
Mr. Fortescue sat down by Mr. Malden, and talked to him quietly for a
few minutes, and then he asked Marian if she were ready.
"I will get my shawl," she answered, rising and leaving the room.
When she came downstairs again, Evan stood in the hall waiting to open
the door.
"Moonlight again," he said as they went out; "and I have so longed to
see this moon with you."
"Have you?"
"Do you not think it likely, Marian? I wanted to write to you, and
intended to do so, but afterwards, I thought I had better not. It has
seemed such a long fortnight to me. Did you think I should write to
you?"
"I did not know," faltered Marian; "you had not said anything about it."
"I thought when I was gone that perhaps I had pressed you too much—had
put my wishes too forward. So I decided I would leave you quite free of
me for a little while. My dear, I would not have you say 'Yes' for my
sake for the world. Marian, I am afraid I have been selfish."
"You need not fear that," she said gently.
There was a long pause, and they had almost reached The Towers' door.
Marian's tongue seemed tied, and Evan thought he had said all he could.
Had it not been for a certain tone in her last words, he had intended
to wait indefinitely. Now he felt something more must be said.
"Shall we walk up and down the terrace?" he asked. "The moon is so
sweet there."
Marian turned her steps in that direction. She would have given
anything to be able to speak.
"I shall go home to-morrow I think, dear, and come back again another
time. Would it not be best, Marian?"
She did not answer, because she could not.
"Eh, dear Marian? I have only worried you for nothing. I had better go."
"But I do not want you to go," she said at last, "not if you want to
stay."
"Marian, you do not doubt that?"
"Then please be happy. I wanted to tell you before you went, but then I
could not. I wanted to tell you—"
He bent lower, but he could not hear.
"That you do care for me really, dearest?"
"Yes, that was what I wished to tell you; and that making you happy
makes me happy."
Evan took her hands in his, and looked down on her face for a moment.
"Thank God," he said reverently. "Oh, Marian, how good He has been to
me!"
And when they went in five minutes afterwards, those in the secret
guessed in a moment that all was right. Evan was as joyful as on that
day when he had heard from his father. And Marian, though as quiet as
a little mouse, looked perfectly content, and sat holding Margaret's
hand, as if that were the only thing she could do.
Lilian came behind her and leaned over her chair.
"I may call you 'little sister' now?" she whispered mischievously.
And Marian answered shyly, "Yes, but it was very wrong of you before,
Lilian."
"Alick," said Lionel that night as they walked over to their respective
homes, "did you ever guess that there was anything up between those
two?"
"Not till lately."
"I always thought that he was not likely to marry."
"Yes, so did I. But one day, when Marian and you were chasing each
other about the garden, he was standing at the window watching you with
such a sad look on his face, and he said to me,—
"'Alick, we sing that hymn sometimes, "Thy will be done," without
thinking quite what it involves. I sometimes find it hard to wait for
that will.'"
"And what did you answer?" asked Lionel.
"I said I thought feeling it hard to wait meant a want of confidence in
our Father's 'love,' a fear that if we were not in a hurry, we should
never get what we wanted. He looked up earnestly, and put his hand on
my shoulder.
"'Thank you, Alick,' he answered. Then turning again to watch you both,
he added with a smile—such a smile, Lionel, as I never saw on his face
before—'God loves her better than I.'
"I think he had forgotten my presence, and I slipped out, and did not
remind him of it. I should never have told you, only that it has all
ended so happily, and he would not mind it now."
The moonlight had all passed away from the front windows, though the
sea in sight of them still glittered like a sheet of silver.
Marian, finding that Evan wished to speak to her father and mother,
had escaped to her room. She knelt down by her window, and leaned her
arms on the sill. Was it possible that she could be the same girl who
knelt there last night? she thought. How was it that she was at once so
intensely happy and yet almost sorrowful?
At last, she heard her mother's soft step behind her. Two arms were put
about her shoulders, and a voice said, "So you have decided, my child?"
"Yes, mother."
"And it has made you happy, dearest?"
"Only how can I leave you and dear father? Somehow I never thought of
that properly before," she whispered.
Mrs. Malden could have sighed, but she only said cheerfully, "I trust
it will be for your happiness, my darling. But, Marian—I should blame
myself if I did not ask you once for all—you are 'sure' that you
are not accepting him because you would be so sorry for him to be
disappointed?"
Marian hung her head, and Mrs. Malden grew alarmed.
"Because, dearest, if that were so, you could not do him a greater
wrong than to accept him now to save him sadness, and afterwards find
out your mistake."
"Is he afraid of that?" she asked sorrowfully.
"No, no, but tell me, dearest. Do trust your mother with all your
heart."
"I could not bear for him to think so," she answered softly, "because
it would not be true. Mother, I did not understand myself at first, and
it was all so strange and surprising that I was foolish. But when he
spoke this evening of going away, I thought my heart would break. And
now, if it were not for leaving you, I should be so happy that I should
be afraid."
Her mother clasped her closely, but did not speak. She asked no more
questions after that; she knew Marian too well to doubt her.
By-and-by Marian raised her head, and said simply:
"He told me that though his father was very anxious for his marriage,
and though he could hardly bear to think of leaving me any more (I
did not know he had thought about it for so long, mother), yet that
he would not take me away from you till I am twenty. That will be two
years, you know. He says it will be enough for him to be sure—" She
paused, and her mother listened for the rest, but it did not come.
"To be sure of what, dearest?" she asked at last.
"That I love him," she whispered. "When I told him that I thought it
was God had given us to each other, he seemed so happy, mother."
* * * * * *
And so Easter passed away, and the boys went back to London, and set-to
once more at the stern duties of life.
One evening Lionel, going to fetch a match out of Alick's room, saw
something fresh there, which made him call out:
"Hullo, Alick! When did you do this?"
It was a beautiful text, framed in oak, hanging over his mantelpiece.
Alick laughed. "I wondered how long you would be before you discovered
that."
"Who did it?"
"'My boy,'" said Alick, smiling, in remembrance of a name he had given
Courtenay years ago.
"Ah, I see. Well, Alick, it's a beauty. I suppose you told him about
all this that you've had to go through?"
"Yes, I wanted his advice."
"And what was it?"
"Just what 'you' said, dear old Lionel." Alick pointed to the text, and
repeated with emphasis:
"'"Blessed" are they that are persecuted for righteousness' sake: for
theirs is the kingdom of heaven.'
"Lionel, the sowing-time may be tedious, but what a harvest of blessing
is promised to all those who learn to do His will."
[Illustration: FINIS.]
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