CHAPTER IV.
THE TOMB BENEATH THE CEDARS.
THE last evening before the removal of the family from the Moat, the moon shone out brightly at intervals from a cloudy sky, touching with silvery light the gables and turrets of the mansion, the old church tower, and the edges of the tombstones that nestled amidst the grass and shrubs. Beneath three fine old cedars which wrapped one spot in the churchyard in gloom, was the family vault of the Falconers, and thither from her last visit to the cottage of the dying gardener, Mrs. Falconer directed her steps.
It was not with any superstitious or fanciful idea of communing with her husband's spirit that she sought the place where his dust reposed, but, with the natural tenderness of a bereaved heart for the hiding-place of something it has loved and lost, she liked to associate her farewell to the home in which he had left her, with the remembrance of that separation which had made her life a lonely pilgrimage, and her heart for a long time a mere storm-swept wreck.
But she did not now forget that he whom she so deeply loved and truly mourned was "absent from the body," and because of his faith in a crucified Redeemer was "present with the Lord."
And though the tomb that enclosed the mortal part was to her a consecrated memorial place, yet she could calmly leave that behind, in the knowledge that the Saviour and His heaven, where the hosts of the blessed are, cannot be limited by time or space, and would be as real and near in the crowded haunts of busy life as in the moonlighted solitude of the grave beneath the cedars.
There the gentle voice of the much-tried mother soothed her excited boy, and her loving arm encircled him as they leaned together over the marble slab that bore the record of so many honoured names.
"Guy, my son," she whispered, "here let all your wrong feelings be laid aside, and your young life be consecrated to new and noble purposes."
"Oh, mother, it is so hard," murmured the boy.
"I know it, Guy; but I never felt it so hard as to-day, because it has revealed to me the weakness and cowardliness of your heart, which fails at the first touch of adversity. A sorry protector for us indeed, if Maude and I had no other."
"Oh, mother!"
"I see at least one good reason for the reverse which has come to us, Guy. You would have become the ruined child of ease and selfishness, and you may now be something better, if you choose."
"But, mother, suppose it is good for me, it is not good or right for you—it is cruel, wicked, unpardonable for you."
"My dear child, it is as good and right for me. And here by your dear father's grave I am able to forgive fully and freely, as I hope to be forgiven, all whose conduct may have seemed to injure us, and I charge you solemnly before God to do the same. No peace, no rest can help the unforgiving spirit, and so long as you encourage hate and anger, you will be the unhappy slave of unspeakable wretchedness.
"Moreover I deny your right to associate me with your sinful murmurings against God and His ways, and I forbid it. I know that all is wise and well. 'Whom the Lord loveth, He chasteneth.' 'They that trust in Him shall not want for any good thing,' and there I find reason and assurance enough to bear me through everything.
"Guy, my darling, try to tread with me this peaceful path, renounce this angry, bitter, troublesome old self, and be a new creature by God's grace, forgiving, submissive, patient, Christ's dear servant, your mother's faithful prop and help, and the worthy son of him whose life and example is echoed in the instruction I have tried to give. Oh, let it be seen that I am faithful to my trust from God and him."
"Oh, mother, mother," sobbed the boy; "I see, I know I am wrong—I will try—"
"To forgive, and to ask forgiveness, dear child. Oh, what a load will roll off your heart as you feel the soothing sweetness of God's pardoning love, and the godlike power to forgive as you are forgiven! Guy, my son, I shall feel that I am the happy mother of the truest hero of your race, for 'greater is he who conquereth his own spirit than he that taketh a city.'"
They stood awhile in silence, the mother and her son; what prayers and thoughts rose out of full hearts there were no words mighty enough to tell, but at last drawing her gently away,—
"Come, mother," he said softly, "perhaps the angels may note to-night, and so shall I."
And it was a night to be remembered, though not chiefly for its trying farewells. There was a cloud, and no need to ignore it, but there was light behind it, and it began to fringe the cloud and to illumine life's future with touches of beauty and hope, which a few hours before seemed impossible to the despairing spirit of Guy Falconer.
* * * * * *
Early the next morning, all the inhabitants of the Falconer Range were astir; groups of people well-to-do, and groups of poor people, and of children innumerable, gathered about the park gates and along the village street, and when Joe and the black horses emerged from the park with the much loved exiles behind them, there was a rush to the carriage windows, hands were shaken and kissed, and murmured benedictions burst from many lips. Old men uncovered their grey heads, women sobbed, and children for once moved quietly.
In vain the occupants of the carriage strove to smile or seem calm; in vain Joe made hideous grimaces to keep up his dignity; in vain Mr. Herbert, who had mounted escort for a part of the way, rode gently amongst the people, and entreated them to restrain their feelings for the sake of the dear, tried lady from whom they had to part; in vain Guy impatiently called out his orders to Joe to "drive on;" the solemn black horses, perfectly self-possessed, were masters of the position, and all poor Joe's struggles failed to move them beyond their own conceptions of the occasion.
Before the Falconer's Arms they nearly came to a stand, as if there were something special to be noted there. And perhaps there was, for the worthy landlord and the dame his wife had made decided demonstration. Blinds were down, and shutters closed, a black crape scarf was thrown over the far-famed sign, and the whole family stood bare-headed under the beautiful elms in solemn silence.
At the village school, the children stood in silent array, and the tallest of them presented a basket filled with little pin-cushions, needle-books, and such like tokens of loving handiwork. And a boy, gentle and modest-looking, handed up a little carving in wood of the front of the Moat House, which he had privately executed in his leisure time.
All this, with an occasional "God bless you," "May you come back to your own again," marked the progress through the village. And then Joe, exasperated beyond endurance with his self-sufficient steeds, commenced a most unusual belabouring of their shining coats. Mr. Herbert, equally out of patience, adding the stimulus of the riding whip, so that the stately march was at last urged into a brisk walk, such as they usually assumed for a funeral at a distant church when wayside observers were neither numerous nor mournful.
Joe's foresight had provided for the occasion, though he had not dared to controvert his master's orders, so far as the first three miles were concerned. There however, he had soothed his own feelings, and obliged his passengers by securing a relay, and joyfully began the acceptable exchange.
While this was proceeding, a carriage-and-four drove briskly up to the inn door.
The gentleman who was driving threw the reins to his servant, and dismounted, noticed the dignified black horses, asked a question or two of the ostler, held a short parley at the window of his carriage, where appeared the pleasant faces of a middle-aged lady and a young girl, and finally bidding Joe "hold in," advanced to the chaise door, and hastily opened it.
"I beg your pardon, madam," he said, "but we cannot let you pass us on the road without a word. We meant to have put up at the Falcon Range last night, hoping to have stopped your journey this morning, but the horses were too tired. Is it too late? Cannot you return now? But I forgot—you don't know me. Roger Hazelwood, madam—at your service. Here! Dorothy, Evelyn! Come and speak to Mrs. Falconer, the lady from the Moat."
THE MEETING ON THE ROAD.
Guy and his sister hereupon resisted the strong desire to see again the bright face of the girl as she peeped round from her corner in the carriage, and utterly amazed and confounded, saw the elder lady alight and advance to their mother. Her countenance was sweet and fair, with a mingled expression of sympathy, respect, and humility, and in the most winning of voices she entreated Mrs. Falconer to delay her journey at least for a time, and return with them to the Moat, echoing her husband's regret that they had not arrived in time to make their request more opportunely.
"Dear sir, dear madam," said Mrs. Falconer warmly, "I can but attempt to express my thanks; I could not have anticipated such kindness, but our arrangements are made, and we are proceeding at once to London."
"Well, I'm very sorry," said Squire Hazelwood; "it can't be helped then, I suppose, but I'm a bad hand at writing; I let the lawyers settle everything, and I did not know how matters stood, else I would have said my say in proper time."
"It is indeed too late now," said the lady, taking Mrs. Falconer's hand with a gentle pressure; "but we may perhaps meet again under happier circumstances." And drawing back with a curtsey, she re-entered her carriage.
"The sooner the better," said the Squire; "Evelyn is shy, but she means well, silly child. Good-bye, madam; your hand, young sir—we must be friends you know, though the Moat is between us. I hate feuds, and would rather carry your God-speed with us among the people who may be pardoned for feeling that we can't supply your place."
"May God-speed you, sir, I pray so with all my heart," said Mrs. Falconer earnestly, giving her hand into that which her son had scarcely touched.
And so they parted on life's highway with its "changes and chances," unexpected and unknown, but all appointed and ordered in the omniscient love that links together only what works "for good," and drops out of the chain all that we mistake and mismanage for ourselves.
The carriage-and-four rolled deliberately through Falcon Range, where, notwithstanding the novelty of a private equipage in mail coach style, doors were suddenly banged, and surly faces peered from cottage windows; the crape yet hung over the Falconer's Arms, and its landlord stood with his hands in his pockets, and his hat on his head, not deigning to salute the purchaser of the estate of the Falconers, even though his pedigree dated back to the Saxon instead of the Norman Conquest.
But the generous-hearted English gentleman was more touched by the evident sympathy of the villagers for the late occupants of the Moat than disturbed by the slight to himself.
"Poor things," he remarked afterwards to his wife, "I like them for it; who wins their hearts will keep them, and I hate weather-cock friends. However we'll wait our time, Dorothy, and if you don't find your way within those noisy doors that said so plainly, 'You shan't come here,' I shall be more surprised than ever I was in my life yet. So I'll bid you welcome to the Moat, if nobody else does."
And gallantly kissing his wife and daughter, he left them to explore their new abode.
There had not been very much to regret in the removal from Hazel Copse, which had been a long contemplated event, and where many circumstances had estranged them for some time. All that they particularly valued in the form of servants, pet ponies, horses, dogs, and other delights, accompanied them, and Squire Hazelwood of the Falcon Range would be a more important personage in the world's history than the Squire of Hazel Copse. At least so thought the little spoiled heiress of his house and fortune, as she flew about exclaiming with rapture over all she saw.
"Such a dear old place, mother," "Come here," and "Go there," was the frequent interruption to the work of the lady in newly arranging her household, as Evelyn lighted on a terrace walk, or penetrated some dark corner, or, best of all, explored her way into a real "tapestried chamber," haunted of course, ever since Judge Jeffries, of evil renown, tarried there for a night in the civil wars, and was reported to have left some token of ill, like an ancient leper, in the walls of the house that sheltered him.
Evelyn declared herself bold enough to face any wig and gown that might venture from behind the arras, but beyond a saucy rat of venerable lineage, and a few hungry spiders on the search for flies, she never discovered anything to test her boasted courage.
The mansion itself might have served as an illustration of the varieties of English architecture since the first Falconer planted his lance on the sunny slope where his castle was to stand.
There was a tower, ivy-clad and crumbling, remnant of feudal times; there were gables and turretted roofs, porches and pilasters, oriel windows, lattices, arches, and griffins, in fact tokens of all tastes and fashions—Plantagenet, Tudor, Stuart, and Hanoverian, with carvings and heraldic devices blending the armorial bearings of all the family alliances of the ancient House innumerable.
There were huge fire-places, oak parlours, and deep bay window seats; a hall decorated with the old armour of knights, and the antlers of hunted stags, the crusader's sword and the palmer's staff, the banners of rival Roses, the doublet of a cavalier, and the buff coat of a Round-head, the falconer's glove, and the sportsman's fowling-piece, all named and dated with aristocratic pride, harmless and pardonable.
The gardens and grounds were even more attractive, with quaint borders, straight walks, and clipped trees in my lady's pleasaunce, winding paths to wild dingles and dells, accommodation for every kind of the animal creation of the British Isles, from stables and kennels for my lord to covers for foxes, and nests for hornets; there was a lake for fish, a rookery for birds, and far-spreading meads for cattle.
Of the original "Moat," there remained no precise indication, unless the dingles which terminated the shrubbery, and a river which divided some meadows, had once done guardian duty in that capacity,—a reasonable surmise, from the fact of a broken arch in near neighbourhood, where resolute antiquarians discovered symptoms of portcullis pretensions, though a portly bailiff had left on record his belief that it was merely a remnant of modern masonic skill, erected of material cleared away from a fallen tower of the old castle, and in which sheep used to be penned on washing days!
There was no auction at the Moat House. Things were to stand as in past time, with the addition of a few valued possessions from Hazel Copse, for which there was ample space in chambers long disused, and which were now opened, renovated, and made to partake somewhat of the sunny spirt of the new owners of the mansion.
The Squire was busy with lands and live stock, the lady with domestic improvements, and Miss Evelyn, as long accustomed, ran wild over everything, including the stiff prejudices of dependants and villagers.
CHAPTER V.
A LADY OF THE OLDEN TIME.
A RETROSPECTIVE glance at the antecedents of fair Mistress Hazelwood peeps into her old-fashioned, hospitable home at Daisy-Meade, where she fulfilled the mission of one of the bright spirits that seem sent into the world to round off sharp corners, pad rough edges, fit in curious angles, and sheath drawn swords. Quick to observe without seeming to detect, prompt to act without attracting notice, her influence worked just where it was wanted, and her word was spoken just when it would have weight.
People often wondered how certain good things came about, and possibly congratulated themselves on their own wisdom and foresight, when, if truth had appeared from behind the scenes, it was Miss Dorothy's wise suggestion, or gentle hint, or kindly act, or invisible influence that wrought round the circumstances, and shaped them into acceptable form.
Her father was "a fine old English gentleman of the olden time;" a little obstinate, perhaps, as such old gentlemen are said to have been, but having excellent common sense, devout belief in God and the Bible, and whether or not he read "the whole duty of man," he did it, so far as he saw it, with consistency and decision. He had the usual country tastes and occupations, with unusual refinement of mind and tenderness of feeling, which were invaluable to his children when bereft of their mother's care.
His notions of female character and duty and position were derived partly from their illustration in the life of his own much loved wife, and also from an old record of principles which they studied together, in one of the books of their scanty library. It is to be found in most libraries still; but in modern book-seeking days, when people are more interested about wrong roots of things speculative and imaginary, than right ones real and trustworthy, it is left to be regarded more as a curious relic which has seen its best days, than an authority that "lives and abides for ever."
Howbeit the Squire of Daisy-Meade thought and said, and endeavoured to enforce his idea, that woman's endowments, both by nature and grace, are to be exercised in private life, and felt in the blessedness of home; not armed to the teeth for strife and debate, or fussy and famous before the world, which mocks while it applauds, and sneers while it submits to the intrusion of things out of place.
And Miss Dorothy had so wonderfully impersonated his views, that he inconsistently shrank from one of their consequences, and petulantly denounced the covetous spirit of certain young squires who hovered about the sweetest flower in Daisy-Mead, wanting to transplant it for the home "help-meet" it had bloomed to be.
"Dorothy, my dear," he said one day as he was settling himself in the great chair for his afternoon nap, "can't you be a little more disagreeable? Talk loud and fast, be self-willed, or extravagant, or something; perhaps if you would make a dash on Silvertail at a five-barred gate, or be in at the death at the next hunt, or appear at church in some fantastical mopsey gear, it might do. Nobody shall send you to Bedlam for it."
Dorothy opened her merry eyes at her father and laughed.
"Aye, you may laugh, you puss, but I really am at my wits' end. Here's another thief come reconnoitering my unfortunate premises, and I don't know what to do."
"Let him know there is nothing worth stealing here, father," said the young lady, carelessly.
"But you see, he is not of that opinion, Dorothy, and doesn't regard mine, being evidently desirous to manage his own affairs."
"Then say there is nothing that will allow of a theft, your property is too well guarded."
"So be it, my dear. What should I do without thee?"
"You can't part with me, father, and until you can, I shall never go; so please take your nap. And, father, I'll practise for the five-barred gate, and surprise the hunt next opportunity."
The Squire smiled, and drew a silk handkerchief over his face, and dozed; while Dorothy went on with her work, kept the dogs quiet on the rug, and prevented the logs from scuttling down with crackle and thump on the hearth as they burned away.
Suddenly the silk handkerchief was withdrawn, and the Squire awoke from a dream about thieves and good little daughters.
"But, Dorothy," said he, doubtfully, "if you wanted to go, if some booby that you liked came prowling, what then?"
"Dear father, I shan't like a booby," said Dorothy, with her silvery little laugh; "you are very complimentary in the anticipation of such a monstrous choice."
"Well, well, there's no wisdom in meeting trouble half way; only, my girl, I couldn't tell what you might say to young Hazelwood, if he should dare to tell you what he told me this morning; but I'm glad it's all right, and now I'll finish my nap;" and the handkerchief was drawn over his head again.
Poor Miss Dorothy! The needle had dropped from her fingers, the merry light faded from her eyes, the colour came and went on her cheek. What! Could it be possible?—The handsome, gallant young squire of Hazel Copse, the admired of all the ladies round, the generous, warm-hearted, pitiful young master who excused old Wilks his rent when he fell ill and couldn't work; forgave poor Slade for poaching, and refused to prosecute; saved Widow Crane's boy from drowning, and took care of them all, until Wilks got well, and Slade got honest employment, and the boy came through the fever;—the best huntsman in the field, Captain in the Militia, and the possible choice of the county at the next election;—and more and better than all, the most regular and apparently sincere worshipper in the parish church, and the best helper the vicar had in whatever good he proposed to do. Amazing!
Could this gentleman really have thought of her, the little daisy of the Meade, as some of the silly old people called her? And her father had called him a booby, and she had coolly assented! What a miserable mistake!
But, after all, what did it matter? She could not and would not leave her dear, kind father for any squire in Christendom, so there was an end of that. And Miss Dorothy calmed down, and picked up her fallen needle, and a very soft little sigh escaped as she resumed her work.
The kind old gentleman was not so sleepy as he seemed, and out of the corner of an eye, and a convenient little hole in his India-silk handkerchief, he had carefully watched his child; noting the start, the colour, the expressive mouth as she sat thinking, and his quick ear caught the little sigh. So, after a suitable make-believe sleep, he pretended to awake, shook himself, whistled to his dogs, and went out, thinking hard about what he would have to do next. The simple fatherly heart had no thought of hindering the happiness of others for his own; and feeling in a strange maze upon the subject, he stumbled against the cause of his disquietude.
"Ah, I thought so, sir; you couldn't wait a whole day, it seems, before coming to know whether you may rob an old man of his best and sweetest. Look you, sir, ask my best horse, my finest field, or biggest barn with all its fresh-gathered store, and you shall be welcome; but Dorothy, my singing-bird, my home-sunshine, I don't know how to part with her yet."
"Well, sir," said Mr. Hazelwood, frankly, "I do feel very like some house-breaker in your presence, and my dismissal will pain no one but myself; but I have strictly obeyed your command of a week ago to abstain from any attempt to plead my own cause, and now you must give me your decision."
"All fair and straightforward for a thief, I admit," said Dorothy's father. "I honestly tell you that I took the week since you broached the subject to make searching inquiries about you, and I took the last few hours to fathom my Daisy's mind, if I could. If you won't give me any more time, you must just find it out for yourself."
"Sir, if your daughter cannot willingly and happily become my wife after I have convinced her of my affection, I will never again distress you with my suit."
"Well, well, likely story; you don't believe in disappointment, not you," thought the old man; "it's all up if I give him the chance he asks. I wish he'd broke—no, no I don't,—selfish old fool!
"Well, sir, I can't help myself, it seems; wherever she goes, her father's heart and blessing go with her. She's in there at some woman's work you may be sure," pointing back through the hall: "but I'm just going down to look at the hop-ground; you can come too if you care for the crops this year," he added, drily.
Mr. Hazelwood seized his hand with a right earnest grasp.
"The hops must wait this time, sir, and I thank you with all my heart." And darting away, he left the good father to contemplate the painful loneliness of his closing years.
It was not a cheerful walk, and so prolonged that Dorothy was anxiously watching for him in the path from the hop-grounds.
"Well, my child, is it settled?" he asked, drawing her within his arm.
"Yes, sir," said Dorothy, demurely, "if you please."
"Humph, you have forgotten that you don't like boobies. How soon must I give you up?"
"Not before seven years, father, and another seven to that if it would make you sad to do it."
"Ah! A Jacob and Rachel sort of business, is it? But they say Hazel Copse wants a mistress now."
"I can't help that, father. Daisy-Meade wants a mistress too, and I am queen here until you choose to dethrone me."
"Well, well, my child, who knows but I may be—"
Dorothy's hand was on his lips, before what might be, could be spoken.
And if Mr. Hazelwood could have seen the mingled love and pain that were depicted on each face for the moment, he ought to have felt some compunction for the disturbance he had made.
"But what must be must, and should be faced manfully," the old Squire said. And he set about plans for furthering the hopes of his son-in-law elect, who had rashly quoted the patient patriarch in deference to the filial affection of his ladye love.
Before a year expired, he resigned his farm and its business into the hands of his son, who had qualified himself for the responsibility, and at the earnest desire of Mr. Hazelwood, took up his chief residence at Hazel Copse, where he could watch and be tended by his transplanted flower, and see her bloom into matronly beauty, the light of another home.
Such was the lady who paid her momentary visit to Mrs. Falconer at the carriage door, and whose thoughts as she moved about in her new and spacious home continually reverted to the banished ones, possibly shut up in some dingy house of the city street.
Everywhere she traced the graceful tastes of the late mistress of the Moat, everywhere she heard regrets for her departure, and praises of her character; and the desire grew strong within her to prove sympathy and respect in some substantial manner.
But Mistress Hazelwood's instinctive practise was to hide her own loving impulses behind her husband's actions, and to claim for him the tribute, while she shared with him the pure pleasure of generous and useful deeds.
She knew well how a little suggestion expanded in his mind, and often went beyond all her expectations. Presently he would certainly perceive some way to benefit those who had been suddenly deprived of so much that he and his were now enjoying.
In the meantime, there must be no grasping at a shadow and losing the substance; no craving for future usefulness in some congenial form, while duty ready to her heart and hand lay before her in God's appointment.
Those closed doors in the village had chilled her, and must be opened somehow; she must try to supply Mrs. Falconer's place. Her devout and humble manner as she took her place in the great family pew at church on Sunday was particularly approved by the clerk, who commented thereon to the good old gardener, who had not yet required the epitaph.
But of Miss Hazelwood, he could not so favourably report; for she had looked about her, and stared in a peculiar manner at him when he delivered his first "Amen," which he had meant to render unusually impressive, and she did not seem impressed at all,—at least, not respectfully so.
"But she is but a young thing, and must be taught better. Hazel Copse was but an outlandish sort of place, and maybe young Miss had never heard before an 'Amen' as it should be. As for the Squire, he was certainly a pleasant gentleman enough, and not too proud to shake hands with an honest poor man. He had himself looked in at the gardener's cottage with a bunch of grapes for the invalid, which was a good sign; and he would have power to do a deal more than Mrs. Falconer could do in the way of gifts; so perhaps when they came to be known, and the pert little Miss had mended her manners, things might not go so badly after all."
Mr. Herbert heard opinions and remarks, and wisely left matters to take their course. The turn of feeling in the village would be all the stronger when resulting from personal experience, than if constrained by any pressure of advice or suggestion from him.
In honourable sympathy with the general feeling which attended the transfer by purchase of an old family estate, there were no rejoicings at the Moat; and the chief changes to be noticed were the presence of a master and manager of his own affairs, with a bright cheerful little lady for his help-mate, instead of the calm pale face of the widow in her suit of undeviating black, and instead of the poor young heir and his graceful sister, only the one radiant presence of the butterfly heiress, whom nobody could ever resolve to correct or punish. She bounded about like a ball, dived into things serious and comic, resolutely refused to mount the black pony, which she learned had been Guy's, and most irreverently mimicked Mr. Spadeley's impressive "Amen" in his own place of dignity, when exploring the church.
But in the churchyard, she conquered him quite; listened to his tales of the heroes of the Falconers' line; gleaned wonders of village lore from names and dates and epitaphs; trod softly round the tomb beneath the cedars; made him lift her high enough to read the record on the marble slab, and before tripping away,—
"Thank you," she said, gravely. "I wish Mrs. Falconer and the children had not gone away from the Moat; there is plenty of room for us all, and I can't see why they should go; can you, Mr. Spadeley?"
Mr. Spadeley pushed back his hat and rubbed his shining head meditatively.
"Well, Miss, you see, people don't like staying in their troubles where they've seen better days; and the Moat's bought from right over their heads you know."
"Is it? I didn't know; I thought they sold it to my father because they wanted some money."
"Aye, more shame for them that did it that's in a foreign land; but there's no blame for it to them, or to your father, little Miss, so don't put the cap on the wrong head; it's got a thorn or two in it, depend upon that."
"I see," said Miss Evelyn, looking very profound. "And tell you what, Mr. Spadeley, they shall come back again and be happy here, or else I'm not Evelyn Hazelwood; you'll see, Mr. Spadeley; good morning to you, you'll see." And shaking her little head as she looked back at him, she darted off with a new light in her mind.
"I'll see!" repeated Mr. Spadeley in immense admiration. "I shan't see anything prettier nor you one while. Bless your little heart, it's a pity you can't do all you'd like to."
And leaning over the handle of his spade, the worthy sexton made a long meditation. Then suddenly lifting himself up, he struck it vigorously under a weed.
"I have it!" he exclaimed. "That 'll do! And, my little lady, as you say, we'll see,—yes, yes, we'll see what we shall see, and be right glad and satisfied, after all's said and done!"
What vision brightened the end of the vista through which he had been mentally looking, possibly his daughter Jane and the landlord of the "Falconers' Arms" might know soon, but there was no one near to whom to tell it at that moment.
CHAPTER VI.
DAILY BREAD.
AFTER many a weary walk in search of apartments cheap enough to suit her altered circumstances, and wholesome enough for her country plants, so suddenly transferred to a new atmosphere, Mrs. Falconer at last engaged three rooms within easy distance from one of the parks, and then began to consider how best to augment her income, and complete the education of her children. Its object now was changed; the routine which before was pursued in preparation for adorning the station in which they were born, and fitting them for its duties and responsibilities, must now be directed to some special kind of occupation for emolument, and the choice was difficult.
Hitherto Guy had enjoyed the benefit of a good school, and the advantage of assistance from the young pastor of Falcon Range, who was not only a faithful minister of Christ, but also an accomplished scholar; and Maude had not yet passed beyond the hitherto sufficient instruction of her mother.
To enter her son at a public school, and to obtain professional help for Maude with a view to earning a livelihood, seemed the only course to pursue at present; and in order to do this, some unusual effort must be made by herself.
Chief among the attainments of earlier days was great skill, added to the natural taste of an artist; and Mrs. Falconer found encouragement from certain patrons of the Fine Arts, of which she was not slow to avail herself.
To conceal this plan from her children was next to impossible, so she resolved not to attempt it, but rather to claim their gratitude to God for such a graceful and congenial means of assistance. But to poor Guy's unsubdued spirit, the idea was intolerable, and he refused to attend any school or incur any expense to be provided for on such terms.
"I mean to work myself, mother. I have given up all thought of being a gentleman," he urged.
"My son must be a gentleman, whatever else he may be," said his mother, smiling. "I only want you to fit yourself for work, dear Guy, and when that is done, I will not refuse to profit by your labours. You do not yet recognise God's will and providence in our lot, as I had begun to hope."
"Oh, mother, it will drive me mad to see you obliged to work! I cannot bear it!" exclaimed the boy.
"Then, Guy, I must follow the troubled father to kneel at the feet of Jesus, until He in pity casts out the evil spirit that torments my child, my only son; you cannot see and sympathise until this is done. I have no desire to over-tax my strength, or grieve my children; I am only trying to follow, as nearly as I can see it, the loving Hand that beckons in what only our own wilfulness and discontent can prevent from being a 'way of pleasantness' and a 'path of peace.'"
Maude drew closer to her mother and tenderly kissed her brow.
"Oh, Guy," said she, "why do you add to our sorrow by your naughty anger against God? Do you think He does not love this dear mother better than we do? And couldn't He have prevented all that has happened if He thought it right? Take care, dear brother, or we shall have the hard pain of finding out that she has to suffer for our sakes, because we are rebellious and proud, and must be humbled and proved, and made good somehow."
"People can be good, I suppose, without having such miserable things happening to them," said Guy.
"A trial, to be such, must strike where we feel it," said Mrs. Falconer. "Many things might have happened, and have produced no effect. This, which has altered the whole tenor of our lives, must produce some effect. Our Heavenly Father chastens only for our profit; therefore I feel He has sent us a blessing in disguise. Let us penetrate the disguise to find the blessing, and so honour Him in adversity as we should not have been able to do in our late comparative prosperity. And, Guy, if ever we should have the means of helping others, how much wiser and more tender will be our sympathy with those whom God brings low. Oh, let us be assured that He knows best the kind of discipline His people need."
"Hark! What is that for?" said Maude, as the solemn toll of a minute bell struck from the tower of a neighbouring church, soon re-echoed by others at a greater distance.
"Perhaps," said Mrs. Falconer, softly, "some whom no such trial as ours could have touched, Death has stricken. May it be in mercy to the mourners."
In a few minutes, the landlady, pale and breathless, burst into the room.
"Oh, ladies! Oh, Mrs. Falconer!" she gasped, "Have you heard? Oh, such a sorrow, such a dreadful blow!" And regardless of everything but this great sorrow, she sank into a chair and sobbed aloud.
Alas! Her news, when she could tell it, was indeed a sorrow. It thrilled the heart of England as no such event had ever done before, and from the palace to the cottage there was mourning, lamentation, and woe. * Death had stricken suddenly where no other kind of blow could have fallen with such mighty weight of trouble. And as the children each clasped the hands of their mother, and gazed in her pale sweet face, they both felt that the loss of property, position, anything they had possessed, was as nothing compared with the anguish it would have been to lose her, their tender, true, best earthly friend.
* Death of the Princess Charlotte.
Then she turned their thoughts to the suffering that no regal state could evade, no lofty titles resist; and they knelt together to pray for God's pitiful help for the stricken mourners around the lifeless form of their most deeply, dearly loved.
That afternoon, Mrs. Falconer was glad to send Guy and his sister to walk in the park and to be alone. Her heart was very full, and she needed time to think and pray, even also to weep; for the news of the morning had touched her deeply, and knew something of the agony of a separation that only death could inflict. Tears of sympathy are like a spring shower, refreshing the parched ground, to be followed by new verdure and fragrance; and in loving prayer for others, the widow almost forgot for the time her own anxieties.
One friend had sought her out, and obtained a ready welcome whenever she chose to come; for she brought in her own large heart much of the Spirit of her Master. And if it were not always manifested in the gentlest, meekest way, it was not because or any self-sufficiency or conceit of her own opinions, but rather from the quick, vigorous grasp which her mind took of things that she deemed worth thinking about. She was, moreover, a woman of business, and went straight to her point, whatever it might be, with very little courtly preface or circumlocution.
Such persons are not very common, and the world rather objects to them; but when natural quickness and decision are softened by Christian love and ruled by Christian principle, they become valuable leaders of thought and action.
God's gracious plan is not to crush out the individualism of human character, but to consecrate and utilize all that is susceptible of sanctifying influence. His gifts are manifold in natural things, and when the supernatural takes possession, it is like a new steersman taking his place at the helm of an ill-directed ship, when she is constrained to yield to a master's hand, and to stand for the destined haven. It is the same ship, the same masts, sails, and tackling, but a new will controls; her course is altered, and all her appliances are made to serve their proper purpose. Some chains may rattle more than others, some timbers creak and strain, but they are doing their duty for all that, and the trifling jar upon sensitive ears is forgotten in their indispensable usefulness.
It is a pity when useful people do not try to be lovable also, because "God is love," and whoever belongs to Him and desires to do His work ought to imitate in his heart as well as his hand. Real kindness and positive service may lose their value in an uncouth manner or ungracious tone, and in a moment turn gratitude to gall.
But whatever might be the estimate of the Honourable Mrs. W— in committees of management (for she never gave her name where she did not intend to work), she knew well how to appreciate character, and the kind of sympathy and aid to render; and if she found some whom she was extremely disposed to snub, she knew full well when across her path came those whom her Lord and Saviour would have to be cherished and comforted.
On that day of national grief, the committee meeting of a certain institution supported by public subscription broke up in surprise and concern. And Mrs. W—, with plans maturing in her hands, and on which no decisive sentence had been passed, made her way to Mrs. Falconer's lodgings, and using the freedom of friendship, walked up unannounced. To her gentle knock, no answer was returned, and she pushed the door open. Mrs. Falconer lay asleep on a couch, tears yet undried on her cheek, and a smile of peace and tranquility on her lips.
The visitor glanced round the apartment. There was an easel bearing an unfinished picture of some lovely spot, an open portfolio of designs and copies, brushes and paints and chalks, a few books, a delicate piece of ladies' fancy work, on which Maude was sometimes employed; and from the hand of the sleeper, a little Testament had slipped.
From these surroundings, Mrs. W—'s gaze returned to that still beautiful face, and she almost shuddered to see how very worn it looked, how delicate and thin the cheek, how care-lined the brow.
"This will never do," thought she; "something must be done, or she will die." And she crept softly to a seat to await the awakening, which soon came.
"Dear friend!" exclaimed Mrs. Falconer, rising up, "what must you think of my idleness? But I was a little tired, and forgot myself."
"And a very good thing too. I wish you would forget yourself in similar ways a little oftener," said Mrs. W—; "but now you must go out of town, and get strong, and find some other occupation than this painting."
Mrs. Falconer shook her head and smiled.
"You know I tried to combine variety, but I have not yet succeeded in obtaining any pupils."
"So I supposed; and knowing that you are blessed with good sense on which Christian principle can act, I have come to say what no other lady on our committee would undertake, lest you should feel hurt and annoyed. And yet not one of them would shrink more than I from paining you."
And taking Mrs. Falconer's hand, she sat down by her side and allowed the love that filled her heart to send its sweet radiance over her face with a charm that seemed kept for special occasions.
"I know it, dear friend," said Mrs. Falconer; "but why this preface to me? You know that I should not so misapprehend you."
"Then here it comes. Take care you are not shot down with it! I want to see you in more active life—painting and working here will kill you in six months. The lady superintending our Orphan Home has resigned, will you take her place? The salary is not large, but there are airy, pleasant rooms, attendance, many comforts, and immense opportunities of usefulness. Think of it, and I will call in a few days for your answer."
Mrs. Falconer's colour rose and faded again before she spoke, but not from pride or displeasure.
"Is it possible that I could perform the duties of such an office?" she asked, timidly.
"Why, if you ruled the old Moat, tenants, schools, clergy, village, and all, I cannot see any difficulty about it," said Mrs. W—, laughing; "any other objection?"
"My children," said Mrs. Falconer.
"There is plenty of room for them. Maude may assist you, and Guy, going daily to school, will never be in your way."
"Dear, kind friend, let me think and pray over it; and if my heavenly Father guided you to make such an offer, I cannot doubt that He will guide me to accept it; but I ought to wait and know."
"And when naming it to your children, tell them that you are invited to take charge for three months as a favour to the committee, but our present superintendent's term will not expire for two months, which must be spent in regaining your strength."
But Mrs. Falconer had engaged to execute certain paintings for a gentleman who had given a liberal order through a city agent, and she thought that the prospect of the institution, with purer air and more certain provision, combined with the hope of active usefulness, would prove tonic enough for the fulfilment of her promise.
Whatever Guy felt, he said nothing against Mrs. W—'s proposal, yielded to his mother's wish that he should attend the public school where she knew that honours might be won, and so passed a few weeks more in peace and patience.
Mrs. Falconer enjoyed her task with all an artist's enthusiasm, but she felt that her bodily strength was giving way, and began to fear for her interesting work, lest it should never be completed. One day as she sat at her easel, a faintness came over her, and when she recovered, Guy had taken the brush from her hand, and stood looking at her picture.
"It wants animation, Guy," said she; "if I am able to-morrow, I shall introduce a few sheep grazing here, and a motherly dame crossing my little bridge with a red cloak on and a plump baby in the hood."
Guy said nothing, but quietly put away the picture for that time.
And when his mother drew it forward the next day to pursue her work, there trotted a small flock of sheep in a dusty road, and a creditable little old woman in a red cloak was passing the bridge, with the plump baby crowing over her shoulder.
Maude came to look and admire, but she knew nothing of the stolen march of old woman and sheep, and suspicion could only fall upon Guy.
"Will they do, mother? Is your idea carried out at all?" he asked, when she smilingly taxed him with the addition.
"Admirably, my dear boy. I shall not think of touching them. I had no idea that you had such a correct eye, or such a skilful touch. Why, Guy, you must certainly be an artist!"
"I want to help you with the other picture, mother, so when you are tired, trust me with it a little while, and we shall soon have them all finished. Then with the money to be paid for them, you are to go somewhere into the country."
Mrs. Falconer was very conscious that her strength was failing fast, though she felt no pain, and detected no disease. Maude's once rosy face was paler and thinner, and Guy had seemed suddenly to become so tall and thin that it startled her to notice it.
She had decided to accept the superintendence of the institution for a three months' trial, and hoped the change would benefit them all; but she could not afford any other, and therefore it must not be thought of.
Mrs. W— was out of town, and there was no one to detect or remedy the state of affairs. The pictures must be finished; the last pound of the half-year's income derived from her pension as the widow of a British officer had been broken into, and the dread of debt fell with its blighting shadow upon her spirit. Still she prayed, and trusted, and worked on; and her son worked too, but in bitterness of heart, and grew more silent and moody. While Maude retired from their presence often because tears would blind her eyes, and fear began to take sad forms in her mind.
But that dearly loved mother's faith, illustrated in the submission, patience, and humility of her life, was a "living epistle," which her children could not but read to their own profit. Never had either of them so realized what she was, or so tenderly loved and valued her. But to see her fade away before their eyes from the effect of circumstances concerning which she was blameless was a very hard, bitter trial.
"Maude," said Guy one morning, "I feel so wicked and so ill, that if the fees were not paid in advance I would not return to school at all. I would rather stay at home and finish that picture."
"Oh, Guy! I do believe if you could get rid of the wickedness, you would of the illness too," said his sister, affectionately. "Do you know, I have felt so much better since I have tried to give up."
"Give up! What do you mean? Haven't I given up too, and done just what I thought our mother wished?"
"Well, I don't know. Perhaps so, Guy, but still it doesn't seem to me quite like giving up, either. You are like the man with the iron collar round his neck, bearing it because he can't help it, and hates it all the while, and feels that he is a martyr to some tyrant's will; there's no nice expression in his poor face."
"Well I'm sure, Maude! Do you mean to say I look like that unhappy wretch you saw in the picture the other day?"
"Not quite, no, no, dear Guy, but you remind me of him; while our mother, whose trouble is so much greater than ours, wears no iron collar, but only just the silken cord of love that binds her in willing subjection to a Father's holy will; and I think her dear face looks more and more like an angel's every day."
"And she will fly away from us one of these days, Maude; I can see it—I am sure of it."
"Oh, Guy, Guy, can you really think so? And yet you can't give up before such an awful sorrow comes on us!" And Maude burst into tears, as her brother thus confirmed the fears she had not found courage to utter.
"Why, what do you mean, sister? How could my 'giving up,' as you call it, make any difference?"
"It might, oh indeed it might, Guy. Don't you see this? God loves our mother, and hears her prayers; and she prays,—oh, I have heard her when she thought I was asleep,—she prays that the loss of your earthly inheritance may be far more than compensated by the inheritance that can never be taken away, and that under the privation of your own way and pleasure, you may be drawn to feel the need of God's lovingkindness in the way and according to the means He sees best."
"Well," said Guy, "and what then?"
"Why, you see, God will give her her heart's desire, because He has said so. 'Delight thyself in the Lord, and He shall give thee the desire of thine heart.' She 'delights' in Him, she just lives with Him. And if words won't do, you know what children must expect; and if one blow won't do, another blow must come, for God says, 'As many as I love I rebuke and chasten.' Rebuke first, then chasten. Oh, brother, can't you see now what I mean?"
Guy had turned to look wonderingly at his sister, usually so quiet and gentle, and now her countenance flushed with unusual animation.
"I never knew that you thought all these things, Maude," at last he said; "you seem to have got suddenly almost as wise as—as—" He stopped. "As our mother—" he had nearly said, but that would have been a positive admission that she was right.
"Dear Guy," said she, "haven't I been learning in God's school lately, and 'who teacheth like Him?' I only want to be His willing, obedient scholar, and to have my brother with me. And oh, if we could together say, 'Thy will be done,' we might together ask that our darling mother might be spared to us. But what if our hearts are so naughty and rebellious and so angry at not having things our own way, that our heavenly Father will be obliged to strike harder yet?"
"Not you, Maude, not you," said Guy, in a half-suffocated voice.
"What touches my brother, touches me also," said Maude, lovingly drawing closer, and putting her arm round him; "and I know mamma would be willing to die, if she thought a sorrow like that would bring you to the Lord Jesus for forgiveness and peace. Oh, brother, we don't half understand as she does the value of an immortal soul, or the wonderful blessing of being a child of God!"
Guy was unusually subdued, and gently returning his sister's embrace, rose and left the room.
By the side of his bed, in the little mean room he had despised, he knelt down and wept hot tears of self-condemnation and shame. He had thought that at the tomb beneath the cedars, he had for his mother's sake laid down wrong feelings and vindictive passions; but even if he had, they were but one form of the mischief which he was allowing to riot within him, and he felt that the root remained yet. Nothing that could really help him came to mind, but the prayer he had uttered in form only, from childhood:
"Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within
me."
And now it seemed to breathe for him just what he wanted.
When he returned to their humble sitting-room, he looked so exhausted and ill, that Mrs. Falconer, who was preparing for a morning's work at her picture, looked anxiously at him again and again.
"I'm all right, mother," said he, cheerfully, answering the troubled gaze, "but I should like to paint for you this morning, and it won't matter about school, for there are only exercises and drill, which I—I—don't care about. And I can go in the afternoon."
"You don't feel strong enough, my dear boy," said his mother; "is not that the reason?"
"Just a little queer, but nothing of any consequence, so pray don't send for a doctor," said Guy, laughing.
Mrs. Falconer felt a pang of anguish for a moment. Alas! If medical advice should be necessary, she could scarcely afford to seek it. But was not this all in her heavenly Father's hands? And "Thy will be done;" "Jehovah-jireh," whispered peace and rest to her fluttering heart.
And then Guy took the palette and brushes, and his mother watched and instructed his work as the bold foreground of a landscape which she had sketched began to assume shape and colour; while Maude devoted herself to the before mentioned piece of needlework.
Just at such a moment, a fine, strong, sunburnt country-gentleman was puffing and flapping about in the narrow street something like a whale in shallow water, and not in the most amiable of tempers, to judge by the impatient thumping of small knockers, or pulling of broken bell-wires, as he applied at several neighbouring doors, and ended his startling summons at that of the house in which Mrs. Falconer resided.
That he had been admitted and was plunging up the dark stairs became evident, and his impression of No. 20, — Street was not complimentary to the lady of the house.
"Whew," he muttered as he stumbled behind her, "this after Falcon Range!—What a den!"
"They are good enough for your betters, sir, whoever you are," said the indignant landlady; "my rooms are the best and cleanest in the whole neighbourhood, and I'm not to be insulted by anybody's ignorant notions."
"Well, well, my good lady, I beg your pardon I'm sure."
And the mollified landlady withdrew as the visitor turned with interest to the startled group before him.
"I must also beg your pardon, Mrs. Falconer, but I have been seeking you all the morning, and must now deliver my errand, and get home again. I regret to see that the bloom has faded from these young cheeks, but we will have it back soon; London does not suit young plants."
"They are growing fast," said Mrs. Falconer.
And a look was turned towards her which seemed to say, "And pray how do you account for your own sickly appearance? Are you growing too?"
Hat and umbrella being disposed of, and the visitor seated, there was an awkward pause.
"You are justly wondering what has brought Roger Hazelwood to London, and to you, madam," he began, "and as I never can get through a circumbendibus creditably, I must just go straight to the point. We—that is, my wife and daughter and I—are very much pleased with the old Moat House; it is everything we could wish, excepting—"
"Sir, I beg your pardon," burst in Guy, hastily, "but did you come here to tell my mother this?"
"Patience, young man," said the Squire, with an amused smile, "I certainly did, though the tail of my speech is more to the purpose; only I could not thrust it in backwards.—Excepting that it is a great deal too large for our small party, and requires a comfortable merry group to make it feel warm and homely. Now for you to be shut up in this foggy hole (I beg pardon) while the whole Falcon Range is longing to have you back again, seems nothing short of insanity; so I came with our united request that you all return with me, and live where you are so well loved, and teach us how to win and wear a share of the hearts of the people around us."
Mrs. Falconer and her children sat speechless, gazing with wonder at the kind, earnest face of the Squire, who evidently meant every word he said. And what was to be said in return?
"I have been uncouth, I'm afraid, madam; my wife would have done better than I, but I could not allow her to take the journey, therefore she will talk over matters with you after you get back. You are not going to refuse my escort, I hope. Look at your son and daughter, Mrs. Falconer, look into your own mirror for a moment, and I am answered; you cannot deny that the argument is strong in my favour. Besides, my Evelyn wants a companion, that black pony of Master Guy's wants exercise, the parson wants his helpers, and the old people want their flannel things against the winter. You'll come?"