Josie gulped down a sob.
"Now you'll be against me!"
"Never, never!" said Anstice, kissing her warmly. "I love you for telling me about it yourself, instead of letting me hear it from someone else. You will be more gentle and self-controlled next time anything annoys you, I am sure. We'll put it from us and forget all about it. Now, after I've had a cup of tea we'll open some parcels. That will be fun, won't it?"
Tea was in the hall, an innovation that Justin had started since Anstice had been away.
"We always used to have it here in my parents' time," he said, "and I like it. You haven't to get into different togs and drawing-room shoes."
"I think it's a very good idea," said Anstice.
The children had had their tea, but were allowed to undo the presents which Anstice had brought them from town. A beautiful paint-box for Ruffie, a set of Dickens' books for Georgie, and a Japanese papier-mâché writing-case fitted up with stationery for Josie. Their father's present was a set of parlour croquet. These gave universal delight, and it was the greatest difficulty to get them to bed at their proper time.
Later that evening, Anstice and Justin sat over the drawing-room fire chatting together.
"I think we must have the Dermots here," said Justin. "Now you have got a good staff of servants, we might entertain."
"I am quite willing, but at this time of year there are not many people in the neighbourhood. The Wykehams are abroad."
"I'm not very keen on the locals. I know some men in town I would like to ask for the shooting, and if you have any friends of your own, we might have them. Not over a dozen—in all. I hate a crowd."
So it was settled that they should have a small house-party. Anstice asked two of her young cousins from town. The Dermots; a Colonel Armour; a Mr. Carstairs, a barrister; a naval captain, by name John Hawk; two yachting friends, Tom Brett and Frank Agnew, with their wives—these made thirteen guests in the house. In addition, they asked Colonel and Mrs. McInnes, with their two daughters, and the Vicar, and a niece who was staying with him, for the first dinner-party.
"We have two men more than women," said Anstice, "but that can't be helped. I don't think we had better try more than twenty."
She was very busy arranging for her guests, as soon as the invitations had been sent out and accepted.
Justin left everything to her. He was hunting now two days a week, and was out a good deal when it was fine—Anstice found the car most useful to take her to Penrith, for necessary shopping. The little girls sometimes accompanied her. They were much excited at the idea of some guests arriving and the empty bedrooms being used.
"We've never had visitors here before, never!" said Josie. "What will they do? Will they dance?"
"They'll be out shooting and hunting most of the time," said Anstice. "They will amuse each other, I hope; and if not, I will see what I can do."
"You can always tell stories," said Josie.
Anstice laughed. If she had any qualms about her power as a hostess, she kept them to herself. And Justin was pleasantly conscious that she would not only be a capable and gracious hostess, but a most fascinating one.
CHAPTER IV
NEIGHBOURS
THE house-party was in full swing. The weather was propitious, and the shooting satisfactory.
Anstice's young cousins, Julia and Mabel Barrett, were very useful to her in many ways. They were as ready to arrange flowers, and make themselves pleasant to the elder folk, as they were to enjoy themselves with the young ones. Anstice had ventured in view of a house-party to add an experienced butler to her household, and he proved a great success, for he seemed ready to turn his hand to anything.
The dinner-party went off without a hitch. In the drawing-room afterwards, Mrs. Dermot said to Anstice: "Malcolm told me so much about your perfections that I came here determined to dislike you thoroughly. I wonder why I can't do it? I think it is because you have the perfect trait of a good hostess; you make every one feel that you really like them. Now, we have nothing in common. I only came here out of curiosity, to see you. Malcolm hinted that there was some mystery in your quiet and secretive marriage. I love the town and hate the country. You do the reverse, and yet as you talk to me, I say to myself, 'She's actually taken a liking to me!' I know you haven't, but the impression remains."
"But, my dear Mrs. Dermot, I do like you," said Anstice, laughing; "your frankness is so refreshing. I love anyone who lets me know a few of their thoughts."
"I wish you would let me know a few of yours."
"At present, then, I'm nervously anxious that our house-party shall be a success. I'm wondering if the young ones will get bored here in the evenings with no dancing. We have no ballroom, and Justin hates gramophones. And I am not up in all the jazz music of the day. Without music of some sort, there can be no dancing. What do you advise? There's the billiard-room for them to go to."
"It strikes me that the youth of to-day needs no amusing; what they want to do, that they do, without any reference to their host or hostess. I am thankful I have no children."
Anstice found that Mrs. Dermot was right; the young people got into the billiard-room together, and were perfectly happy there having a rag, and making a great deal of noise.
Colonel McInnes's daughters were the most lively ones of the party. They were most disgusted when their parents insisted upon departing at half-past ten.
One of them appealed to Anstice.
"Aren't we old-fashioned fogies, going off like this? Father never imagines that we would prefer to be left behind, and come home in the small hours of the morning!"
"You must come by yourselves one day," said Anstice, laughing, "then you can order your car at any hour you like."
"I hope you'll ask us again. Lottie and I have always liked you. We've stood up for you when the gossips said something was wrong between Mr. Holme and yourself. But you're all right, aren't you?"
"Indeed we are," was Anstice's smiling response.
She had had several of these little stings already. And Justin overheard one speech.
It was from Mrs. Frank Agnew. She was the least pleasant of the house-party, a pretty little woman who attracted the men by a certain charm of manner.
"Dear Justin!" she had said to Anstice soon after the gentlemen had joined them in the drawing-room; "my husband and he have yachted so much together. And when he got very sick of his house in these wilds, he would come and stay with us at South Sea. I have received many confidences from him. For several years I have been urging him to marry, but he wouldn't hear of it. When we heard he had really done it at last, and that his bride was no one whom we knew, I was frankly devoured with curiosity. But it was rough lines on you for him to yacht away from you a day or two after your wedding. My husband met him at Gib on the way out, and Justin told him that he was no longer a bachelor. Did you know his ways when you married him? You should have bargained for a honeymoon at least. His yacht will be a powerful rival to his wife. We always said it would. You will have to put your foot down and refuse to be left behind next time. But perhaps you are a bad sailor? I can hardly believe that Justin is a married man again. He really seemed to be a confirmed woman-hater!"
"But there is always an exception to every rule."
It was Justin who spoke, and he laid his hand on his wife's shoulder caressingly as he did so.
Anstice looked at him with her happy smile.
It was Mrs. Agnew who looked a little discomfited.
"Listeners never hear any good of themselves," she said. "I did not notice you were so close to us, or I should have moderated my voice. Still, I have said nothing that is not true. You did run away from your wife directly you married."
"I will not contradict you," said Justin with a sarcastic little bow; "no doubt all the circumstances under which I did it are known to you, so nothing more need be said. Anstice, I think the Rector wants to say good night to you."
Anstice moved away. For the next few days she was much engrossed with her party, but she did not neglect the children, and though their hour after tea with her had to be given up for the time, she never missed visiting them at bedtime. Colonel Dermot inveigled her out for one or two walks with him, and Justin would look at him with an amused look in his eyes, when he began to sound his wife's praises.
"You don't appreciate her, she's one in a thousand."
"I am not a jealous husband," said Justin. "I feel flattered that you should admire her so. It shows my good taste."
They were alone together over the smoking-room fire. The Colonel looked at his friend in silence for a moment.
"No, you are not jealous, you are too cold-blooded, old chap. Jealousy follows love."
"I don't know about that," said Justin. "My wife inspires me with such confidence that I know nothing on earth would make her act in any way to warrant jealousy on my part."
"You are right there."
Colonel Dermot spoke heartily, but conscience gave him a prick or two. He had desperately tried to come to closer quarters than Anstice would permit. He knew that as her husband's friend and Ruffie's godfather, she welcomed and liked him, nothing more. She had shown him unmistakably that she wanted no sympathy for herself and no admiration. She was content with ordinary friendship.
When the house-party broke up, Anstice felt as if a great burden had been lifted from her shoulders. She was standing on the terrace waving farewell to the last of her guests when Justin joined her.
"Well," he said, "it's over. I really think we can congratulate ourselves upon having got through it remarkably well. I'm thankful to be quiet again for a bit."
"So am I—devoutly thankful," said Anstice with warmth.
"I don't think I could thrive amongst numbers, and yet Mrs. Dermot told me that it is desolation when she is not in a crowd. What a comfort we are not all made alike!"
Life slipped back again to its normal routine.
Then one evening after dinner Anstice said to her husband:
"Do you know some Miss Maybricks by name?"
He smiled.
"Of course I know them both. As young girls they were great favourites, handsome and go-ahead. They were my seniors as far as age goes, and when I was in my teens, I used to adore the younger—Carrie."
"Mr. Bolland has been talking about them. He wants me to go and see one of them. How can I do it? She has not called upon me."
"She doubtless does not know of your existence. Harscale Hall is in the wilds, right amongst the Fells, about twelve miles from us. Why does he want you to know her?"
"He was telling me such a sad story about them. The younger had the property left her by her father's will. She was his favourite, and the elder was furious that she should be turned out of her home, and be treated so by her father. She set up house for herself about five miles away, five miles nearer us she is, for she is in Mr. Bolland's parish."
"She would be. She took an old farm-house and glorified it, making it into a very comfortable home for herself. They've never spoken to each other or met, I believe, since their father died. A case of North-country pride and resentment."
"What terrible people North-country people can be!" said Anstice with feeling. "Mr. Bolland told me that the younger, for want of something better to do in that lonely place, took to betting on horses. For some years she was in money difficulties, and then got into moneylenders' hands, and mortgaged her property heavily. Now the mortgagee is foreclosing, and she will have to turn out. She's in very bad health, and is in great distress, especially as she finds that the elder sister is the mortgagee, and will give her no mercy. She is literally going to turn her out as she was turned out years ago. Isn't it sad? And they're sisters!"
"How has Harriet got the money to buy in the property?" said Justin musingly. "I remember she came in for her mother's money, but it wasn't a fortune."
"Mr. Bolland says that she has been screwing and saving for years to do it. He wants me to go and see Miss Carrie, but how can I force my way in? And he thinks that if I get to know them I may make peace between them, but how can I? He expects impossibilities from me. He went to see the elder one, Miss Harriet, for she is really his parishioner, but he says she is like adamant as far as her sister is concerned."
"I don't see that you need trouble about them," Justin said; "quarrels like that can't be mended."
"Oh, but it's dreadfully sad, and it brings such hardness and bitterness into lives which might be happy and serene in their old age."
"If people can't live at peace, let them part," said Justin sternly; "because you've lived together as children is no reason for continuing to do so when your tempers are contrary and your hearts bitter."
As he spoke, the quarrel between himself and his sister flashed into Anstice's mind.
She looked at him inquiringly, and then impulse prompted her to say:
"Is that a bit of experience?"
"It is," he said shortly.
For a moment there was silence between them, then he looked at her searchingly.
"Your face tells tales," he said; "you've heard from my Aunt Lucy about our family row, I suppose?"
"Yes, I am afraid I did. Oh, Justin, you are not going to continue the ill-feeling between you and your sister all your life?"
He shrugged his shoulders.
"Another case of these terrible North-country people, eh? I was willing to be friends with her long ago, but, it is useless. If you can patch up the Miss Maybricks' quarrel, you may be able to patch up ours. But you'll be a very clever woman to do either. Now what do you want to do? I wouldn't mind calling on Miss Carrie with you if you like. We could take over the car to-morrow. But if she's ill, she'll hardly be likely to see visitors."
"Mr. Bolland says it is rheumatism, but he says she does see people. For it was an old friend who went to see her who told Mr. Bolland about her. It's very good of you. I think I should like to see her."
So the next day Justin had out the car. He had engaged a chauffeur on a month's trial, so did not drive himself.
It was a lovely day, and as they wound about the Fells, going up through a pass into a still wilder and more desolate country beyond, Anstice turned to her husband:
"Do you think that this wild, bold scenery hardens people's hearts instead of softening? I imagine we are susceptible to our atmosphere."
He laughed.
"Have you found yourself hardening since you have been amongst the Fells?"
"Ah, but we have the lake. I always think water softens scenery, and then look at our woods and pastureland. Here is nothing but crag upon crag. Lofty, steep, rocky heights with scanty grass. I think of the Brontës and their writings, especially Emily's. Powerful, but not pleasant. That is like the landscape about us, isn't it?"
"I did not think you were so fanciful. The last time I saw Miss Carrie was at a garden-party at the Duke of N—'s place. She was in radiant spirits, and very pleased with herself and her world. Here we are."
They had come to a little hamlet at the foot of a great mountain, then turned in at some big gates in a high wall, and for two miles drove through an avenue of beeches which still held some of their brown leaves as if defying winter to strip them bare. Then they stopped before a big square stone house. The grounds were untidy and neglected. When they got to the front door, it was opened by an untidy old woman, who looked like a caretaker.
"Is Miss Maybrick in?" she repeated after them dully. "Well, she is, and she isn't. I reckon she's not in to strangers."
"Take her my card," said Justin promptly; "and tell her I have brought my wife to see her. We will wait in the hall."
It was a bare, desolate-looking house. The stone flooring had threadbare rugs upon it. The oak tables and chairs were thick with dust. The old woman went upstairs, and after some considerable time returned saying that Miss Maybrick would see them.
Anstice tried not to see the dust and decay on all sides of them as they went upstairs and along a corridor to a sitting-room at the extreme end.
When the door opened, they found a blazing fire to greet them. The room originally had been handsomely furnished. Thick purple velvet curtains hung from the windows, but they had a film of dust over them, as had also the old Persian carpet underfoot.
Sitting in a chair by the fire was Miss Carrie Maybrick. She was not a very old lady, and had a mass of untidy copper-coloured hair which was coiled round on the top of her head. She had handsome rings on her fingers and a necklace of emeralds round her neck. She was dressed in a shabby brown velvet gown, and had bedroom slippers on. A novel was in her hand, which she put down as she turned to greet them. The room was most untidy. Cardboard boxes, books and papers, string, tins of biscuits, were strewn about, some on the floor, some piled on chairs or couches. There were handsome pictures on the walls, and old china; but it was neither a pretty room nor a comfortable one. A small brown Pomeranian was in a basket by her feet, and yapped persistently at the intruders, until he was well slapped by his mistress.
Miss Maybrick seemed genuinely pleased to see Justin.
"Can't get up, my feet are swollen with rheumatic gout! Why, you old sinner, you've never given me a call for a good fifteen years or so! And just as good-looking as ever! I thought your wife was dead: is this another?"
She turned to Anstice.
"I'm a dreadfully blunt creature, forgive me, but I feel sometimes as if my wits are deserting me in this out-of-the-way place."
"We have only been married six months," said Justin. "I was a widower for eight years. Why haven't we come across each other all these years?"
"Why? Because you won't take the trouble to come twelve miles to see an old pal. You're never at home. I hear you live on a yacht. Have you got tired of the sea? And are you settling down now that you have such a charming wife?"
"I won't make any promises," said Justin lightly. "Are you living in this great house all alone?"
She shook her head.
"Ah, I shall soon be turned out like a beggar in the street. Haven't you heard? Hatty has got hold of it in her sly way, and is foreclosing the mortgage. I suppose you haven't a few odd thousands you could lend me? No? It's driving me mad. I lie awake at night and plan and plan. My luck has deserted me. If I put on any horse now, I'm sure to lose. I've got rid of all the silver to Lambert in town. I could bear leaving the old place if anyone but Hatty was going to be the owner. Can't think how she has squeezed together so much money. Isn't she a heartless wretch to be turning her only sister out into the world, perhaps to die in the union! I'm penniless, my lawyer tells me. The small farms I have sold to pay my way have dropped into Hatty's hands."
"You should patch it up with her, and both live here together," said Justin.
"I'm willing, but she's the aggrieved party. Says I drove her out once, and now it is my turn!"
Miss Maybrick produced a rather dirty handkerchief and wiped her eyes, but she did not give way to tears.
"I wish I could give you some tea, but I have none myself till supper-time. I can't keep maids in this desolate house. I've only got one old woman and her nephew attending upon me. It isn't worth while to worry over an establishment if I'm to be turned out of it. Now I've made my moan. Tell me the news of the neighbourhood."
Justin chatted away very pleasantly to her. Anstice for the most part was a listener, but when they were taking their leave of her, Miss Maybrick begged Anstice to come and see her again.
"If you have a car, twelve miles is nothing, and you could take me out for a turn. I have no conveyance of any kind, and shall soon be a bedridden cripple. I'm sure you and I would get on together. I love your dimples, and your smile. Will you come?"
"Indeed I will," Anstice promised her.
"I feel," she said to her husband as they were driving home together, "as if it is to be my mission to drag people out of their loneliness in these Fells. I've had a try with a young life, and now this is an old life. What a wonderful thing the love of home and possessions is to some people! Miss Maybrick would be so much more comfortable in a small modern house amongst neighbours. But she clings to that gloomy old house as if it were a veritable paradise."
"Houses and estates are generally sources of family feuds," said Justin.
"Nothing," said Anstice firmly, "is more distressing than quarrels amongst brothers and sisters."
Justin said nothing, and for the time Anstice dropped the subject.
CHAPTER V
FIRESIDE TALKS
IT was not long before Anstice visited Miss Maybrick again, and before she came away, she had been entreated to go to the elder sister and pave the way for a reconciliation between them. At the same time Anstice felt that there was no love in Carrie's heart for her sister, no sorrow for her share of wrong in the past, it was only in hopes of being allowed to stay on in her old home that made her wish for peace.
Justin went up for a few days to town, and Anstice took that opportunity for seeing the elder sister. She was struck, as she entered Borrows Holt, as the farm was called, at the great contrast between the two houses. Here was prosperity and comfort facing you whichever way you looked. Well-kept barns and storehouses, beautiful pastureland, a very pretty garden surrounding the house, and, inside, charmingly furnished rooms.
Miss Harriet Maybrick was the elder of the two sisters, but she did not look it. She was a tall, graceful woman, and except for very fierce dark eyes and bushy eyebrows, and a certain hard compression of her lips, would have been a very handsome woman.
It was an awkward moment when Anstice introduced herself.
"You used to know my husband, and I have been seeing something of your sister at Harscale Hall. It is she who has implored me to come and see you. I hope you will not think me impertinent for doing so."
"I am very pleased to meet Justin Holme's wife," said Miss Maybrick graciously. "I ought, I know, to have called upon you, but I am a busy woman, and gave up society a long while ago. I have been farming my own land. I have heard about you from Mrs. Wykeham. She comes over to see me sometimes."
Her pleasantness made it difficult for Anstice to proceed. They talked about farming and about the lake and Fells, and she asked after Justin's children.
"Mrs. Wykeham has told me that they were running wild. I expect that you have had trouble with them."
"Wonderfully little," said Anstice. "They were mismanaged, and were allowed to get the upper hand of their governesses. I am very fond of them and they know it, but I never mean to spoil them."
Then she suddenly took the plunge.
"Miss Maybrick, at the risk of being thought officious, I come to plead your sister's cause. Have you seen her lately? She is ill and feeble, and very, very miserable. She wants the past forgiven and forgotten. Can you in any way meet her?"
Miss Maybrick's lips were compressed, and her eyes like steel as she replied:
"My sister has run through her fortune and has only herself to thank for the present trouble. She never ceased working on my father's feelings till she got him to make his will in her favour. She boasted of this to me. When she had driven me out of my home, she neglected the property, and let it all tumble into decay and ruin. She became a gambler, and gambled away all that she possessed. For years I have worked and saved and denied myself, so that I should be able to buy back my old home. And now when I have done it, when she knows she can afford to live there no longer, she works upon the pity of strangers and sends them round to me to intercede on her behalf. What does she expect, I should like to know? We are told that, as we sow, so shall we reap. Her harvest has come."
"Yes," said Anstice sadly; "I know that all you say is true, she has been her own worst enemy. It is right and fair that you should take possession of your old home now. But is it necessary to turn her out? Could you not let her have a couple of rooms in one wing?"
A short, bitter laugh escaped Miss Maybrick's lips.
"Did she apportion any rooms for my use after our father's death? He was hardly cold in his grave before she strode into my room and told me that there could be no two mistresses of Harscale Hall. I was out of the house with all my belongings within a fortnight."
"But you had money. She has none. For the sake of your name, and your own high principles of honour and pride, you cannot turn her out of her home as a beggar."
"I think this conversation is waste of time. I never change my mind. If the King himself on his bended knees came and pleaded for her, my answer would be the same. She has made her own bed, let her lie in it."
Anstice rose. It had been a visit made much against her will and liking. And yet, as she shook hands with Miss Maybrick, she could not help saying in her tender way:
"We have all been treated so much better than we deserve. And mercy is such a much grander force than power, that even now I dare to hope that you will find a way out. A way of preserving your dignity of justice, together with a great compassionate love towards the one who has wronged you. May I thank you for listening to me and not being offended at my interference in such a delicate and private family matter?"
Miss Maybrick was speechless.
Anstice returned home feeling downcast at her failure to move or touch the stern North-country gentlewoman.
When her husband came back from town she told him of her visit.
"Would you object very much if I asked poor Miss Carrie to come and stay with us till she could make her own plans? She cannot be turned out of doors. It is cruel and inhuman of her sister to think of doing it."
"No," said Justin sharply, "I am not going to have her here. You have quite enough to do with running the house and looking after the children, without having an invalid on your hands. Miss Harriet will find lodgings for her somewhere; there are several big farms in that neighbourhood where they would take her in. Don't think you have to be benefactor to the whole world!"
It was a day or two after this that, coming home from hunting, Justin paused on his way upstairs outside the drawing-room door.
Anstice was at the piano singing, in her mellow contralto, little songs to the children, and they were joining in the chorus.
He opened the door and stood there listening.
"I want to stay little," said John Clifford Knight;
"The grown-ups are dull, and so old.
They never can run, they're too proper to fight;
They only look at us, and scold."
Chorus:
"But I'll sing when I'm little, and I'll sing when I'm big,
And my song will be Ha! Ha!! Ha!!!"
"They like sitting still, they can't climb a high wall,
They never play games and pretend,
The fairies and bogies they can't see at all,
Their money on sweets they'll not spend."
Chorus:
"But I'll sing," etc.
"I want to be bigger," said Peter McDuff,
"For grown-ups can do as they will;
They eat what they like and have more than enough
Without being seedy and ill."
Chorus:
"But I'll sing," etc.
"They always have money; they don't have to go
Off to bed every night before eight.
Whatever they want, there is never a 'No,'
And nobody scolds when they're late."
Chorus:
"But I'll sing," etc.
The children were rather astonished when a rich bass voice joined in the chorus of the last verse.
Anstice looked over her shoulder and smiled.
And then, just as he was, he dropped into a chair.
"Sing another," he said.
So they sang another one, and then another, and then he moved over to the fire, and Ruffie insisted upon being lifted on his knees.
"You sing very nice, Dad," he said, putting his tiny hand up and holding his father's chin in a way that he had when he wanted to be emphatic. "I think you'll have to come and sing with us always."
"Oh, Dad will soon be going away again," sang out Georgie; "he's been home quite a long time now."
"I'm not going just yet," said Justin.
Then he added, with a slight twinkle in his eyes as he looked over at Anstice: "But when I do, I'm thinking of taking someone with me."
"Not Steppie!" cried out both the little girls. "You shan't have Steppie."
"No, you won't have her, we couldn't do without her," echoed Ruffie.
"But if I told her to come, she would have to do so," said Justin. "And I expect she would like to come."
Anstice looked across at him. Their eyes met. Justin's gravely imperturbable, Anstice's puzzled and slightly perplexed.
"Will you come with me, Anstice?"
His tone was not mocking, and yet beneath his steady gaze, Anstice felt that he was amusing himself at her expense.
"I always keep my promises," she said gently but firmly. "Which is my rightful place by our agreement? And who wants me most? The little ones or you?"
"We do, Steppie, we do," cried the little girls.
"Well, if you won't come out just yet, I must wait for you," said Justin, smiling enigmatically.
And then he got up, and put Ruffie into his wheeled chair with very tender hands.
"I haven't changed," he said; "I must go and have a bath. No hunting to-morrow. If fine, Ruffie, I'll take you on your pony up the Fells to-morrow morning. We'll let the lessons go hang."
Some time later, when the children were in bed, Anstice came to her husband.
"You'll have to go and comfort poor Ruffie. He has got the idea that I am going to run off with you. You shouldn't joke with them so. They don't understand it."
"You run off with me? No, it will be the other way about, but I will go to him."
Ruffie's pillow was damp with tears.
"Dad, tell me on your gentleman's honour you won't take Steppie off! It's bad enough you going, but she belongs to us much more than to you! And when she's away, there's nobody to keep us merry and—comf'able. We couldn't live without her now, we really couldn't. You don't want her as we do."
"I don't know about that, my boy," said Justin, putting his hand on the golden curls. "Your Dad is undergoing a kind of upheaval, turning out of his heart some old rotten roots, and getting into a very topsy-turvy state of mind. I don't know that your song is quite true to life. How does it go?"
"Whatever they want, there is never a 'No.'"
"I've had a good many 'no's' in my life, and am likely to get some more, I foresee."
"We say no, no, no, to Steppie leaving us," said Ruffie with a little sob, "and I'm so 'fraid you'll do it of a sudden, like you go from us gen'ally. We shall wake up one day and find Steppie gone. I'm so 'fraid of it, I can't sleep."
"You're a little duffer," said his father, stooping to kiss him. "Steppie, as you call her, doesn't want to come with me. She would hate it, she would hate leaving you. Wild horses wouldn't drag her."
"But if you want her—"
"If I want her, I shall have to do without her. And if we all want her, the best plan will be for me to stay at home, then we can all have each other. Will that please you?"
"Oh yes, that's a very good plan, the best you could make."
Ruffie gave a sigh of relief, and turned over on his pillow. Five minutes after, he was fast asleep.
After dinner that evening, Justin came into the drawing-room. As a rule he was in his smoking-room for most of the evening.
If Anstice was surprised, she did not show it.
He took the big easy chair by the fire.
"Now," he said, "I want some music. May I have it? I don't see why the children should be your only audience. You sing to them, I should like you to sing to me."
Perhaps his tone was more peremptory than he knew. Anstice looked at him with heightened colour in her cheeks.
"I don't think that was mentioned in our bond," she said in her quietest tone.
He looked quite startled, then smiled at her. Justin's smiles were rare.
Anstice felt ashamed of herself.
"Then I will plead like Ruffie. Please! Please! Please!"
Without a word Anstice seated herself at the piano. She sang first a lullaby, and as she sang Justin leant his head back against the cushion in his chair and closed his eyes.
Then she sang an old English ballad, and she finished with "Robin Adair."
"That's because we're close to Scotland here," she said, laughing, as she left the piano. "I don't sing in public, so you must consider yourself favoured. It is the old simple ballads I sing to the children. The modern young people would be disgusted, but they are not critical yet."
"Thank you. I am not modern, and I like ballads better than the French and Italian operatic music which one hears so much nowadays. Now will you sit down? I want to talk to you. The winter is going. Don't you think that a horse would take you over the Fells better than your two legs? I don't like your wandering about alone. You do ride?"
"Yes, I do," said Anstice. "I won't pretend that I shouldn't like a steed, for I should love to have one, but you mustn't make me give up my walking. It is good for one's health; and to wander out on the short turf up amongst the Fells and mountains is a continual delight to me. You must remember I have the car now. If you could afford it, two rough mountain ponies for the little girls would give them tremendous pleasure. They ride the old pony when they get the chance, but his back is too broad for them, and now Ruffie uses him, they have to be content with walking."
"I'll see what I can do in that way, but if they ride, they'll be getting into mischief."
"I don't think so. It will keep them out of mischief. I wish you were a little fonder of your small daughters."
He contracted his brows.
"They're too like their mother," he said shortly.
"That isn't their fault, poor mites! They're conscious of your indifference to them, which is bad for you, and bad for them. I don't want to ask you about the past, but doesn't time make us more tender with the erring? If you could have gentler thoughts—"
He interrupted her.
"Do you think I can ever forget," he said in a tone of concentrated bitterness, "that it is owing to her failure as wife and mother that my only son is as he is. He might have been a strong, sturdy youngster, in full health and strength of body, instead of which he is a suffering, mutilated cripple. Whilst I have him before my eyes, do you think I can ever have gentle thoughts of his mother?"
Anstice had never realized how much he felt his boy's deformity. She said very gently:
"Poor darling Ruffie, it seems a sorry thing that his beautiful little presence should be the means of keeping up hatred and bitterness in your heart. Whatever his body may be, God in His mercy has given him great gifts of soul. Not only his charming, loving little personality which makes us all adore him, but in mental capacity and artistic genius. I believe he will do wonders with his pencil and paints if he lives to grow up. You have great reason to be proud of your boy. And his sweetness and cheery patience set us all an example of endurance and fortitude."
Justin did not speak. He was gazing into the fire before him. Then he looked across at his wife.
She was in a russet brown cloth tea-gown, with a little soft lace about her throat, and she was a picture of dainty sweetness and grace.
"Perhaps," he said slowly as his gaze rested on her, "you will in time get me to believe again in woman's sincerity. I have had a bitter disillusion."
"Yes, I can believe you have, but you are sufficiently a man of the world to know that there is every variety of woman, as well as every variety of man. If you happened to make a bad choice, that is your misfortune. Perhaps you were as little suited to her as she was to you. Forgive me for touching upon the subject, but sometimes it is better to talk a matter out, than let it fester inside into an unwholesome sore."
"I dare say I was an exacting and intolerant husband," said Justin gloomily. "She hated this place, and I made her live here. Her friends were not mine, and I would not have some of them inside the house. We were like two snarling dogs on the same chain! Thank God, we only had four years of it, but it was hell for both of us for that time, and then, as you know, she took the law into her own hands and made a bolt."
"Well," said Anstice slowly, "she left you three sweet children. For their sakes, forgive their mother and realize that you may have been hard and unyielding. We are so faulty ourselves, that we ought to bear with others' failings, but that seems an impossibility, does it not?"
Little more was said between them, but Justin was softened by the talk, and Anstice noted that from that time he was less curt with his little girls.
CHAPTER VI
AN ERRAND OF MERCY
SPRING was on its way. Justin seemed happy and content in his home. There was no talk of going off with his yacht. Occasionally he suggested a trip round the coast of Scotland with all of them on board, but Anstice was very doubtful of Ruffie's being able to stand it, and Justin would not hear of taking the girls without him. He would often take his little son up into the Fells in his basket chair on the pony. And to Ruffie, these expeditions were entrancing.
One lovely sunny morning, they had mounted a considerable height, and stopped on the crest of a Fell to look over the lake and surrounding scenery.
Ruffie's blue eyes blazed with fervour and delight. Then he drew a long breath:
"If I get to heaven before you, Dad, I'll look down at you like this. Do you see our house? Just a teeny bit of the chimneys behind the trees there? I shall always be watching it and seeing you come in and out. I shall have stronger eyes there, you know."
"We don't want to imagine you in heaven," said his father, with a short laugh.
"Oh, but I love to! Fancy! Before Steppie came, I knewed nothing about it, I didn't even know that God loved me, and that Jesus came into the world to show us that He did. Do you love God very much, Dad?"
"I don't think I do, my boy. I don't know much about such things."
"I 'spec's you'd better ask Steppie to talk to you, same as she does to us. You see, God is my other Father, so of course He loves me. And the funny thing is, He's your Father too. Steppie will explain it to you out of the Bible."
Then, as the sun streamed out of some passing clouds which cast blue shadows on the distant hills, Ruffie stretched out his tiny hand:
"Oh, isn't the sky and world glorious! And God made it all for us to live in! Wasn't it kind of Him?"
Justin could make no reply. These kind of conversations with Ruffie very often took place. Sometimes Justin was amused, sometimes embarrassed, sometimes interested. A little child's strong faith and perfect trust in his unseen Father must always touch and soften those who witness it.
One day Justin took Anstice to task about her teaching.
"Don't overdo the youngsters with religion," he said; "I have a horror of pattern prigs and precocious saints! Ruffie sometimes seems away from earth altogether. I want him to grow up a natural boy."
"It is not unnatural to love and serve our Creator," said Anstice warmly. "It is the children's heritage. They compose the Kingdom of Heaven in a large majority, and are safe inside it, when so many of their elders are still outside and far away. And as for your children being prigs, it isn't in them. They would tell you they have a perfect horror of it themselves. If they're anything in the world, they're perfectly sincere and natural."
He said no more. He accompanied Anstice to church, and acknowledged that he enjoyed the Rector's sermons, but he refused steadfastly to be drawn into any religious arguments.
Anstice prayed for him; she felt that at present she could do no more, but she had a strong belief that prayer would accomplish what she could not.
One morning, she was busy in the conservatory. She was fond of her flowers and attended to most of the plants there herself. Suddenly Neale, the butler, came to her.
"There's a lady arrived in a car, asking to see you, ma'am. She won't come in till she knows if it is convenient to see you, as it is in the morning."
"Did she not give her name?" Anstice inquired.
Then, without waiting for a reply, she went out quickly to the hall door, wondering who it possibly could be.
To her surprise she found it was the elder Miss Maybrick. In a few minutes, she was seated in Anstice's morning-room, and pouring out her story.
"I have come to ask you to come back with me at once. My sister Carrie is very, very ill, and she keeps asking for you. You know that we are both at the Hall? I did not mean to take your advice. I gave her a date last week on which I meant to take possession and I warned her that I was going to have painters, carpenters and paperers all over the house. And then to spite me, she went out of doors on that awful day of rain we had about a week ago. She walked through the woods, and I believe sat out, and when she came in she would not change her wet boots. Of course, as she expected, the next day she could not rise from her bed. The doctor came, said she had rheumatic fever, and then rode over to give me the news. I knew she would circumvent me, if she could. We've had to get two nurses in, but she keeps crying for you, until I could stand it no longer, so I've come over to fetch you. The doctor told me this morning that she would not pull through. Her heart is affected. Can you come at once? You've been seeing a good deal of her, I suppose? Anyhow, only your presence will satisfy her."
"Poor dear! I must come, I suppose, but I must just leave a note for my husband. I was going for my first ride with him this afternoon. How can I get back?"
"I'll send my car back with you, of course."
Anstice went to her writing-desk and scribbled a note.
"DEAR JUSTIN,—
"I am so sorry. I hope you will not mind, but Miss Maybrick has
called to take me to her sister, who she fears is dying. She wants
to see me. I hope I shall be back by tea-time. She will send me back
in her car.
"In haste.
"ANSTICE."
Then she went upstairs to put on her outdoor things, and in ten minutes' time was being whirled along towards Harscale Hall.
Miss Maybrick seemed inclined to talk. Her dark, keen eyes looked miserable.
"I can't believe she's dying. She has aged so wonderfully since I saw her last. I think of her as a laughing, merry child, when I used to mother her. I little thought then how we should spend our last years. You did well to talk to me as you did; it made me write her a kinder letter than I had intended to do. I told her of a farm about four miles off, where I would make arrangements for her comfort and pay for her board if she liked to go. I knew we could never live together in the same house. We are both too masterful. But you see she was determined not to go."
"I can't believe she would determinedly try to make herself ill," said Anstice. "Perhaps she was feeling rather desperate and wandered out in the wet to think things out. She told me she was very fond of walking in the woods."
"I know Carrie better than you do. When I arrived at the Hall, she looked at me over the bedclothes. 'You can't turn me out now,' she said, 'Dr. Walters won't allow you to.' And then she turned her face to the wall, and wouldn't speak to me again until to-day. All last night she cried for you. 'Fetch Mrs. Holme, I want her. I'm going to die, fetch her!' And when I went into her this morning, it was the same old cry; so I spoke to her."
"'Cheer up,' I said; 'I'll fetch her. I'll go at once.' And off I came. She looked at me suspiciously, but had the grace to say 'Thank you,' and then the pain seized her, and that's the last I've seen of her. I suppose you think I feel remorseful about it? I don't! I only feel that in the long run people's greed and covetousness find them out. They have to suffer. But I almost feel sorry for her now that she's such a wreck. I'll do my best to ease her last hours on earth."
"I'm sure you will. I'm so very sorry for you both."
Then Miss Maybrick lapsed into silence, and Anstice did not feel inclined to break it.
She went straight up to Miss Carrie's bedroom when she reached the Hall, and found her with fever-flushed cheeks and parched, dry lips, wrapped in cotton-wool, and giving plaintive cries like some child in pain. As Anstice bent over her, she opened her eyes and a look of recognition flashed into them.
"I'm going to die," she gasped; "and you're a good woman. I know you are. Help me."
"May I be alone with her?" Anstice asked Miss Maybrick. "And don't you think Mr. Bolland might be sent for?"
"I'll send, if you think it's any good. She doesn't know him, and the Vicar here has gone away for his health and there are only locum tenens who come over for the Sunday services."
The day nurse rather unwillingly left the room, and then Anstice knelt by the bed.
"Miss Carrie, our Lord is here close to you. Won't you speak to Him yourself?"
"I don't know how," she whimpered. "I'm in too much pain."
"Can you say after me, 'Lord, have mercy on me and receive my soul'?"
She murmured the words. Her breathing was distressing her.
Anstice bent over her.
"'Him that cometh unto Me, I will in no wise cast out.' Those are our Lord's words. He will receive you."
She stretched out her hot shaking hand and clutched hold of Anstice.
"All the sins of my sixty years," she murmured. "Lord, have mercy on me. Don't leave me."
But the nurse was back, pushing Anstice aside.
"My patient must have no agitation. Her heart is very weak."
Miss Carrie gave an angry cry.
"She is not to leave me. I won't have it."
Her face was purple. She panted in her excitement.
Anstice reseated herself by the bed in spite of the nurse.
"I'm not going to talk, but I'm here, dear Miss Carrie, and I'm praying for you."
Miss Carrie heaved a sigh of relief.
"I hate these strange women," she murmured. "I want only you."
* * * * *
Anstice arrived home about four o'clock in the afternoon.
Justin met her in the hall with an angry light in his eyes. He said nothing before the servants, but followed her into her morning-room. She sank into a chair with pale cheeks and an exhausted air, but her husband was too wrapped up in his grievance to notice her looks.
"Didn't we arrange to have a ride together this afternoon? Do you think nothing of breaking your engagements with me? Are you aware that Fenton sent a horse over from Penrith for you to try?"
"Oh, I am so sorry, that was to be a surprise for me then, for you never said anything about it. I thought I was going on the old pony. You got my note?"
"The note does not alter the fact of your breaking your engagement with me."
"Oh, Justin, I apologize; but Miss Carrie is dying: they do not think she will last through the night. She sent for me; I had to go. Surely you would not have me refuse her?"
He stood by the window, like a thwarted, angry boy.
Tired as she was, Anstice rose from her seat. Putting her hand on his shoulder, a thing she had never done before, she said in her tenderest tone:
"Forgive me. Don't be angry. But I couldn't have refused a dying woman's call."
"You are not a parson, and you are not called to do a parson's work. Your place is at home with me and my children."
She dropped her hand, and then he wheeled round swiftly upon her.
"My claims come first," he said sharply.
"Your children's claims do," said Anstice very quietly, "but I do not acknowledge that yours do. You mustn't be a tyrant, Justin. Women are not chattels. And I must have my own independent judgment about things. I could not live anywhere stifling my ears to the cries for help from anyone, rich or poor. Imagine yourself struck down suddenly upon a sick-bed, knowing that you will never get up again alive, that you're on the brink of eternity, going into an unknown life with no hope in your heart. Wouldn't you like somebody to help you? To try to throw a ray of light across your darkness?"
Justin stood looking at her with sombre eyes. Then he turned round again and looked out of the window.
"I'm a fool to want you," he muttered.
Anstice smiled, though she did not feel like smiling.
"We mustn't quarrel," she said. "I don't think I have had an angry word from you before. I am truly sorry I disappointed you. Don't tell me I was wrong to do so."
"I wonder if you ever own yourself in the wrong?" Justin's temper was under control again. He spoke in his natural voice, and when she did not answer him, he drew her towards him. "I warn you, Anstice, I shall make claims on you. I am not at all satisfied with our present position, are you?"
He had imprisoned her hands in his, and was looking searchingly into her face. Then suddenly he released her.
"You are tired, poor child, and I'm a selfish brute. I always have lived for self alone. You will have to teach me to be different. We'll have tea in here. Women always feel better after a cup of tea, don't they?"
He left the room, and Anstice, feeling the strain of what she had been through both at Harscale Hall and in her own home, sank back into her chair, and putting her hands up to her face, surprised herself by giving way to some quiet tears. Then, as Neale brought in tea, she made her escape up to her room. When she came down again she was her bright natural self; but Justin, as he took a cup of tea from her, saw the traces of tears in her eyes, and felt ashamed of himself.
He talked of different things for the next twenty minutes, as if nothing had happened between them, and then, as the little girls' voices were heard coming down the stairs, he said quickly:
"Don't go to the children to-night. You're tired. They must do without you."
Anstice shook her head.
"I will never fail them, unless I am ill," she said.
She left him after tea, and he heard music going on in the drawing-room and the children's happy voices. But he sat on over the fire with moody, discontented eyes.
"I shall get jealous of my own children," he muttered. "Who was it told me I was too cold-blooded for jealousy? Why, it was Malcolm Dermot. He was wrong."
He sat there cogitating; an unhappy man, who was just beginning to see chinks of light through the clouds of mistrust and bitterness that were spoiling his life.
When the children's hour was over, Anstice came back to her room and was surprised to see her husband still there.
"Do you want me gone?" he asked her, making a movement in his chair.
"Oh, no," she said gently; "I like to see you there."
He looked up at her.
"Come and put your hand on my shoulder as you did a short while ago and tell me that you forgive me for my selfishness and bad temper. I won't be a tyrant. You must prevent my being so."
She came up to him.
"There is nothing to forgive," she said. "I ought to feel glad that you wanted me with you this afternoon."
She did put her hand on his shoulder again, and Justin was thrilled by her touch. He felt inclined to take her in his arms and kiss her, but he controlled himself.
He was sweetness itself for the rest of the evening. The next morning at breakfast he said to her:
"Well, what are your plans for to-day? Shall I 'phone to Fenton to have the horse brought round again this afternoon?"
Anstice hesitated, then she said in her pleasant, even voice:
"I had better tell you straight out, though I fear it will annoy you, that I promised Miss Maybrick, if I did not hear from her this morning, that I would go over to Miss Carrie again this afternoon. She dreads being left with her, I think, and is afraid she may die whilst she is in the room. It is all very sad. Miss Carrie would hardly let me leave her yesterday. She literally clung on to my hand and would not let it go."
Justin put a great restraint upon his feelings. He responded in as quiet a tone as hers:
"Very well, we must leave our riding for the present."
But they had hardly left the breakfast table before a telegram was brought to Anstice. When she opened it, she drew a long sigh, and handed it to her husband. It was very brief:
"Carrie passed away eight o'clock this morning in her sleep:
writing.—H. M."
"I hardly thought she would die so soon, but the doctor said her heart was very feeble, and evidently it has been very weak for a long time. Well, it is a merciful release for her."
"Now what are you going to do?" asked Justin. "Are you still going over?"
"Oh, no, I shall wait till I hear. What a sad homecoming for Miss Maybrick!"
"A peaceful solution of their difficulties."
"I suppose so, and yet I can hardly imagine that Miss Maybrick will have a happy time by herself in that old house. She so very nearly turned her sister out to die."
Anstice looked so sad that Justin said a little impatiently:
"At any rate you are not responsible for either of them. How you were called in at all, I cannot imagine. They were both strangers to you a few weeks ago."
"But they are old friends of yours, Justin. Don't you feel at all interested in them? I think, when people get old and self-centred as those sisters have, it is so tragic when they have to face death and realize what it means. I am comforted about Miss Carrie. She so genuinely repented and cried for mercy. And though it was a death-bed repentance, I believe in the saying:"
"'Betwixt the saddle and the ground
He mercy sought and mercy found.'"
"But her sister, who is now realizing the sad fact of her death, must be conscious what a sad, wasted life Miss Carrie's has been, and what a hard, loveless one her own is. For years, she has bent all her energies and will to turning her sister out of her inheritance. Now she has the desire of her heart; but when her call comes, and this will remind her that it will come, how will she be able to meet it?"
"We really need not make ourselves miserable over other people's lives. Now, as you are not going over to them, will you see the horse this afternoon and try him?"
Anstice shook off her grave thoughts. She felt that at present Justin could not sympathize or understand with her in her deep interest and concern in other people's troubles, so she brought light into his eyes again when she agreed to do as he wished.
The horse was brought over in the afternoon. He had a black satin coat, and soft intelligent eyes; his motion was all that was desired. Anstice slipped into an old habit of hers, and was mounted from the front terrace, the children all looking on. Justin and she rode along by the lake, and then went up and had a canter on the soft grassy paths that wound in and out of the Fells. The exercise brought colour to her cheeks and light to her eyes.
"You like him?" her husband asked.
"Yes, what is his name? I love his swift, easy stride."
"Hereward they call him. Then he shall be yours."
"It's really very good of you. I don't know how to thank you."
"No thanks are needed. You have a good seat, and are evidently at home in the saddle. I am sorry you have not ridden before. It is the best way of getting about our Fells."
"It will be a great delight to me. And if you will get the little girls two safe ponies, they and I will have many a pleasant ride together when you are away."
"I'll see about it."
For the rest of that day Justin was his pleasant self. He was proud of his wife's skill in horsemanship, and looked forward to a good many rides with her. She was always good company, and her delight in the lake scenery and in the lonely beauty of the Fells drew an answering chord in his heart.
That evening, he joined the children in the drawing-room, and all of them sang together. Just before they were called away to bed, Josie and Georgie ran out to attend to Joshua, whom they had left in the garden. Ruffie was on his father's knee, and Anstice was putting her music by. Having done that, she was kneeling before the fire stirring it to a blaze, when Ruffie suddenly said:
"Steppie, Brenda says you have a big heart and love everybody—do you?"
"Oh, no, darling, I haven't as big a heart as that, I am afraid."
"Well, do you love Dad?"
Justin gave a slight start, then he looked across at Anstice with a little of his boy's impish mischief in his eyes.
"We must have an answer, mustn't we, Ruffie; but the question isn't at my instigation, I beg to state. It's a discussion we were having yesterday as to who loves who. To Ruffie there is no middle path. You either love or hate."
Anstice laughed to hide her embarrassment.
"But I have a middle path, Ruffie; I always have had one."
"But you do love Dad, don't you?" persisted the child. "He said yesterday he had nobody who loved him but me, and I told him there was you, and he said: 'You mustn't tell tales, sonnie, or our confidential talks will be over.'"
Justin was evidently uneasy as to what might be coming from Ruffie's frank revelations.
And then Anstice, still stirring the fire to hide her hot cheeks, said in her easy, pleasant way:
"We all love each other, Ruffie, I hope. And if anyone is weak or ill or helpless, we must show our love, even to animals. I saw a little boy yesterday clutching hold of a kitten in spite of its cries. It wanted to go to its mother, and he wanted to keep it with him, so as he was the strongest, he used force, instead of showing love for the poor little mite."
Ruffie hung his head.
"I wanted to make it love me best," he said. "If it had loved me proper, it would have wanted to stay with me."
Josie and Georgie appeared, and the conversation ended.
But when Anstice went to give her good night kiss to Ruffie, he said to her, with an old-fashioned shake of his curly head:
"I think Dad would like you to love him like you do me. He said he felt lonely sometimes. And I told him I used to, but you knowed how to kiss loneliness away. He said he wished you'd try it on him!"
"Oh, Ruffie, my precious," said Anstice, laying her cheek against his, with her rippling laugh, "don't you worry over Dad. He and I understand each other. And he won't be lonely when he gets to his yacht again. He will be leaving us soon."
"I'm going to ask God about that," said Ruffie mysteriously. "I think God could get rid of that yacht for us. None of us like it taking Dad away so often, and God can do anything in the way of storms, can't He?"
"Go to sleep, and never pray that anything may be destroyed, darling."
"Not even the wicked Devil?" asked Ruffie, but he was sleepy and tired and did not wait for an answer to that question.
And Anstice said to herself as she left him:
"If he feels lonely, don't I feel so too? I wonder if we shall ever be anything but lonely in this strange life of ours!"
CHAPTER VII
OFF ONCE MORE
MISS CARRIE'S funeral took place three days later, and Justin and Anstice both attended it. The little churchyard away in the lovely Fells struck Anstice as peculiarly beautiful. There was a great stillness about it, a peace. Miss Maybrick did not attend. They were told that she was not well enough to leave her room, but a week later she sent for Anstice.
"You seemed to be so interested in my sister," she said, "that I thought you might like to hear that we made up our quarrel about an hour after you had left us that day. She asked for my forgiveness, and I asked for hers. The last thing she said to me that night was—"
"'Good night, Hatty—I feel easier now—and thanks to Mrs. Holme, I'm hoping to have made my peace with God.' I tell you this, for I think you ought to know it."
"Thank you, I am so glad to hear it," said Anstice.
"Quarrels are a mistake," said Miss Maybrick slowly, "and even a reconciliation doesn't do away with the stings of them. They remain to haunt one. I'm going to be alone for the rest of my life. She was my last relative left."
Anstice was touched by the pathos in her tone. The stern, indomitable pride of the woman was crushed. She had a long talk with her, and promised to ride over and see her from time to time.
The spring came on slowly but surely. The little girls got their ponies. Their joy was intense, but their father absolutely forbade them to ride about the Fells alone.
"For a year at least, you must have some one always with you," he told them. "There are too many dangerous places for you to wander about at your will."
They were very rebellious over this edict at first, but they were allowed to ride round the lake, and along the lanes, and with this, they learned to be content.
One day, when Justin was hunting, Anstice took the three children over to see the Nixons. They had tea there, and Ruffie was highly delighted with old Tommy's queer carved walking-stick. The old man took a great fancy to him; and before he went, presented him with a carved pipe.
"'Tis for you to smoke when you get to be a man," he said.
Ruffie gazed at it adoringly; then put it into his pocket. "I'll certainly smoke it every day," he said. "You know I shall be able to do most things men do when I grow up—except just the leg part of me."
His happy pluck evoked an exclamation from Tommy as he turned to Anstice.
"Blest if I ever heerd the loike! He's grand, mem, grand! An' he'll be a sweeter nut then his feyther!"
But Anstice, as she looked at the fragile little figure, wondered sadly if he would ever live to come to his heritage of manhood.
She was very happy these spring days. Justin and she rode a good deal together, and in their rides, became closer drawn together. Once or twice, she and the children went out upon the lake in his motor-boat; as the weather improved, they were much out of doors. The budding gorse, the sweet clusters of primroses in the lanes, the blossoming hawthorns, and the young bracken uncurling beneath their feet, all added to the attractions of the lake and the surrounding Fells.
And then one morning at breakfast Justin said suddenly: "My skipper writes that the yacht is ready for a sail. She's been having a fresh coat of paint; but now I need wait no longer."
Anstice looked across the table at him with a queer little smile.
"So you'll be off again! Where are you going this time?"
"I thought I would go to Norway for some fishing. I have not settled anything further. I will wait and see what sort of fishing is going. I may run over to Iceland afterwards."
"Oh, well, you will not be so far away from us this time."
"I haven't decided what I shall do. I could go on to America later."
"And how soon will you go?"
"The day after to-morrow, I think."
Anstice felt startled.
"So soon? But of course, a man's packing is not like a woman's! You must let me help you with it. I am a very good packer."
"Thanks."
Then he fixed her with intense, imperative gaze.
"Will you be sorry for my departure?"
"Why should I be?"
She spoke lightly to hide the disappointment at her heart; and yet afterwards wished that she had answered otherwise.
"This is too quiet a life for a rover like you," she went on. "Ruffie is the one who suffers most for your absence. I hope that he may grow strong enough to accompany you in a few years' time."
Justin's brow clouded. He crumbled a bit of toast in his fingers nervously.