CHAPTER XXV.
TRYING CONSEQUENCES.
MRS. TAYLOR and her son kindly interested themselves in choosing suitable lodgings for Matthew Hill and his little boy, when, all arrangements being made, the house given up, the furniture sold, his services permanently engaged by his new employers, Mr. Hill wished to settle in their neighbourhood.
A respectable widow with one little grand-daughter formed the household, and cheerfully undertook the charge of the boy in his father's absence. Then a school was fixed upon, and between school duties, visits to Mrs. Taylor, and games of play with the little pet grandchild, poor Josy found plenty to do and to enjoy. The sadness soon left his bright little face, good cheer and exercise soon strengthened his body, and Josy became as much admired and courted as any father's heart could wish.
But it was by very slow degrees that Matthew himself was recovering either in body or mind from the effects of the deep sorrows he had passed through. His happiest times were spent with Robert and his family at their peaceful fireside, where sympathy, and kindness, and cheerful conversation were sure to be had, and he and Josy as regularly shared it on a Sunday as the happy day came round.
Matthew felt the sweetness and healthfulness of the atmosphere, and his child profited by the teachings of the young members of the family as they read and talked with him over their books and pictures.
Mrs. Hayes had returned to her country home, but this time she seemed to have left a larger piece of her heart than usual behind her, and if spared, she promised to visit William and Susan again after a shorter interval.
She did not leave, however, before an event occurred which interested all the party very warmly, and she was prevailed on to wait for it.
There was a crowded church, and pathways strewed with flowers and hedged with garlanded school children, bands of workmen with white favours, dinners and teas and wedding-cakes, and other significant doings. It was the marriage of Mr. Archibald Dixon and Miss Eaton.
When the young couple came out from the church, Mr. Archy looked round for Robert Taylor. He stood by his father, at the head of the whole body of the men engaged in their extensive and flourishing works. A tremendous cheer burst forth as the young couple appeared, every hat was raised, and the white favours flourished in the air, while the foreman and his son stepped forward, the one bearing a beautiful little address, and the other an elegant Bible, in their hands.
MR. ARCHIBALD'S MARRIAGE.
"From your workmen, sir," said William Taylor, briefly.
The young pair were deeply touched, and could not speak their thanks. Mr. Dixon, senior, advanced to the rescue, though scarcely less overcome.
"We will all come and thank you in the tent," said he. "Pardon us now; you have overpowered us with this beautiful surprise. God bless you all, my men."
The bride recovered her voice by a great effort, sufficiently to say to Robert as she put out her hand, "We must be friends, Mr. Taylor, for my own sake as well as Archy's."
And then bride and bridegroom, Bible and address, drove away together to the hall, where all sorts of hospitalities and rejoicings were prepared for guests of all ranks and ages.
After this, people and things seemed to subside quietly into their places, and nearly two years passed peacefully away. Even two years will leave marks, and some left by these were noteworthy.
Mr. and Mrs. Dixon, senior, feeling that working days should be over for them, so far as the cares and exertions of business were concerned, left home with their daughter for a long foreign tour, and the services of Emily Taylor not being required for the young people, she was to spend a long holiday among her friends, doing only some needlework at her own convenience and pleasure.
It was joy to them all to have her at home, and when her young brother and sister clung fondly to her, little Josy would stand before them, and wish dear Milly had three arms instead of only two, that he might get a place like theirs.
"Come, Josy, put your arms round my neck and hold fast till these saucy rogues choose to give way," cried Milly, laughing and shaking the big ones off.
Josy did as he was bid, and held on pretty firmly, while all made a romp of it, and amidst shouts of laughter and fun, Milly was near being carried round the room as their queen.
"There, that's enough," said she, merrily; "mother will think we are all run wild. We'll have another game some other day."
"She's the very nicest playfellow in the world," shouted Josy; "and I love her more than anybody, except my father."
Robert Taylor and Matthew stood behind; they had just come in and heard the speech. Milly coloured very much, sprang up, and hurried away to smoothe her ruffled hair.
On no one more visibly than on Matthew Hill had those two years left their mark. He was now beginning to look like his former self, ere sin and sickness had robbed his cheek of its bloom and his form of its strength. The traces of both had vanished, the sadness was now departing also, and a peaceful heart and conscience, quiet living, kind friends, intelligent study, and regular industry, had combined to do wonders for the homeless man—for homeless he still was, according to his own notions of home. But he forgot even that in Robert's home.
On this special evening, every one remarked the immense improvement, and everybody enjoyed his society almost as much as his affectionate little son seemed to do.
This lasted for two or three weeks after Milly's return, and Matthew had certainly become quite a different person from the dejected, crushed being who came among them in, mourning and woe.
But he was restless and anxious too, and to his own surprise an opportunity hurried him on to risk a whole life's happiness on a little passing moment.
Robert, Matthew, and Emily were coming out of church, and as Milly usually walked home with her brother, the rest of her family were some distance off.
Mr. Archibald called Robert back to speak to him about the Sunday school. Robert disappeared, merely saying he should soon overtake them, so Matthew and Emily walked side by side.
It was vain to try and talk about indifferent things, and so with a beating heart, Matthew ventured to remind his companion of little Josy's expression of his love for her, which he had overheard, and asked permission to offer her an affection which could have no exception in all the world.
Emily was startled and distressed.
"Do not answer me now," said Matthew; "say only you will think of it."
"No, no, Mr. Hill," said Milly, much agitated; "I must answer you now. It is impossible; please think no more of it, of me. Oh, why did you ever do it? Indeed, I am so sorry, so grieved to—to—distress you."
"Oh, it is right. I know it is right. I was very foolish to think of it, but I could not help it. Say you excuse and forgive me; and oh, do not cast off my child, who loves you so dearly."
"No, never," said Milly, firmly.
"God bless you," said Matthew, and he left her as soon as they reached her father's door.
And so ended his dream, so crumbled his castle, which he had been lighting up with the love and blessedness of home. And the sadness again crept over his face, and he felt that he had been undeserving of the blessing he sought.
Poor Emily, in a state of troubled agitation, went to her room, knelt down at her bedside, and shed abundance of tears.
When it was found that Matthew came no more to the house, Robert took alarm, and found him sitting with his Bible alone in his lodging. Matthew was too transparent and honest to keep back the truth, and he told Robert what he had done, and the result.
"I know it was weak and presumptuous," said he; "I have no right to expect ever to be trusted again; and now I shall never ask it of another. You won't ask me to come at present, but by-and-by God will help me, and I shall be myself again—a better self, I hope, for the great humbling and bitter disappointment."
Robert was strongly moved. But for one thing, he had never known any man he would so gladly see united to his sister; and that one thing had doubtless influenced Milly also.
"Well, Susan," said Mr. Taylor, merrily, one evening, "Mr. Archibald has taken it into his head that I must have a holiday. We are a little slack just now for a while, and so, as it would be no holiday to me without you, what do you say to a trip to see Aunt Hayes? Suppose we surprise her?"
"With all my heart," said his wife; "and I propose that we double our welcome by taking Milly." The mother had watched her child, and she saw that something had touched the brightness and beauty of life to her; she thought it must be more than the rejection of even a good man's regard.
"Would you like to go, Milly?"
"Oh, yes, mother," she eagerly replied, "so very much; of all things it is just what I wished." And she thought how Mr. Hill could come and spend his evenings with Robert again, and it would be so pleasant for them both.
So leaving the younger ones to manage Robert and the house, Mr. and Mrs. Taylor and Milly set off on their journey.
Aunt Hayes's sharp eyes soon detected a change in her darling, and she could not rest until she got to the cause of it.
Susan told her what had occurred, and at the end of her visit agreed to leave Milly on condition that she would bring her home and stay a long time with them.
"Come here, darling," said Aunt Hayes, "and tell me something I want to know." And putting her arm round her niece, and resting her head on her shoulder, she went on, "We two love each other, and if something is wrong with one the other feels it too, even though she doesn't know what it is. Isn't it so?"
"Yes, dear aunt; but indeed there's nothing wrong with me?"
"Are you quite sure you have done right before God, dear Milly?"
"I think—I hope so," said Milly, in surprise.
"Tell me what you expect and wish for in a husband, Milly?"
"Nothing at all," said Milly, quickly. "I shall stay in service, aunty, and some day, years hence, you know, there will be a little notice in the paper, 'Died, after thirty or forty years of faithful service, Emily Taylor, the valued friend and servant of the family of A. Dixon, Esq.' Won't that be nice? One likes to see such things now and then."
"Very nice, if nothing better can be had," said Aunt Hayes, dryly.
"What can be better?" said Milly. "I honour such servants."
"So do I, always granting that wise, good reasons have made them decline higher responsibilities and more important duties."
A dead silence. Then Mrs. Hayes began again, "Milly, my darling, when an honourable man, a true Christian man, offers the treasure of an honest, loving heart, should not the woman who rejects it be able to give a reason for so doing?"
"Yes, of course, aunt."
"Suppose, added to the Christian character, there are sufficient means to justify the offer, very pleasant manners, a manly, handsome person, an intelligent mind; in short, just such a person as—Who, Milly?"
"As Mr. Hill," said Emily. "I grant it all, aunt."
"And you cannot love such an one, Milly?"
"I did not say that," murmured Emily, in her aunt's ear. "I could love him, but I dare not, and I will not," and she pressed the kind arm that held her in token of a strong resolve.
"We are getting at it," thought the old lady; "I suspected how it was."
"You dare not, you will not, my child; and why?"
"Because—oh, aunt, must I say it?" And Emily raised her head from her aunt's bosom, her eyes bright, her cheek flushed, her lips quivering with strong feeling—"because I must thoroughly and entirely respect my husband, and no one must have reason to do otherwise. I cannot feel this of Mr. Hill. There are those who have seen him disgraced by—by—oh, how dreadful to think of such a thing about 'him'—by drink! He told Robert all about it, and Robert told us, because when he first came and was ill, he desired that no one should think better of him than he deserved. And he said he had forsaken his wife and children, and had been very ill in some hospital through drunkenness. Aunt, if he were as good as an angel now, I could not marry a man who has so debased himself."
Aunt Hayes clasped the dear speaker closer, with a fonder love than ever. But she said nothing. What could she say?
When Mrs. Hayes had nothing to say to any human ear on a point of interest and importance, she always spoke to God. So there was another long silence, and poor Milly gathered strength and confidence in those kind arms.
"One question, Milly, and we will speak no more of this. Does your father, does Robert, know anything of the circumstances of Mr. Hill's past life from any one but himself?"
"No, I believe not, aunt, though he gave Robert the names of some people who knew him, in case Robert chose to inquire about him. Some lady named Oakland, and a Mr. Benjamin Field—a reformed drunkard too. What an associate!" And Milly felt a little shudder pass over her.
"Child, learn charity," said Mrs. Hayes. "The grace of God can change a drunkard into a prince with God, a 'joint heir with Christ.' Nothing else can, and what are we that dare to speak unforgivingly of those He has taken to His bosom and throne?"
CHAPTER XXVI.
AN ELOPEMENT.
"NOW, Milly, my dear," said Mrs. Hayes, when the train stopped at a certain junction, on the return, "I'm getting out here, and you will go on home alone. Take care of my luggage; I've got all I want in my little bag, which stays with me. Tell them I'm coming after you soon, and don't be uneasy. If I don't appear, my will is made, and all straight and right."
"No, indeed, aunt," exclaimed Milly, attempting to jump from the carriage, "it's all crooked and wrong to leave you here. If you stay, so will I."
"Silly child, sit still," cried Mrs. Hayes; "do you think I don't know what I'm doing? It is to be as I say; good-by for a little bit."
"Sit still, please, miss; train's off!" cried the guard, seeing Emily about to step down, notwithstanding her aunt's words.
The whistle sounded, the train started, while Emily sat looking in alarm and astonishment from the carriage window, and the self-reliant old lady stood nodding and smiling on the platform.
"What wilful imprudence!" exclaimed William Taylor, when, amidst the consternation of the family, his daughter told her extraordinary story of dear Aunt Hayes's elopement.
"To think of her rambling about the country alone, and at her age!" said Robert, anxiously. "What can we do?"
"Nothing but wait patiently," said Susan. "Strange as it is, I am bound to say that I never knew Aunt Hayes do a thing that could grieve or trouble anybody without some reason that was to do good, and make all right in the end; we must trust God to take care of her, and wait until she comes or writes to us."
And there seemed nothing else to be done, for no one had the slightest idea of where she could be going, or what she meant to do.
Perhaps the landlord of the "The Crown," at —, felt a little curious and interested when a hearty, brisk old woman, well-dressed, with a great bag on her arm and an umbrella in her hand, stepped in, and asked if she could be accommodated for a night or two.
The landlady came forward, showed a little sitting-room and a bedroom over it, ready in half an hour.
"It will do very well. Now some tea to refresh and rest me, and then your company, if you please, for a little while."
All being complied with, the landlord and his wife were relieved from their stretch of curiosity by the blunt, straightforward old lady, whose plan was laid with the wisdom of the serpent, to get at two sides of her subject, knowing that men and women take somewhat opposite views of the same thing sometimes.
"Do you happen to know a man named Matthew Hill?" said the old lady.
"Matthew Hill? To be sure we do, ma'am."
"Has he any score here against his name?"
"Oh no, ma'am, nor ever had; he always paid for what he got," said the landlord.
"One can't say that much for his wife, though, you know," said the landlady. "There's something down against her to this day."
"Why didn't you send the bill to her husband?" asked the visitor.
"Well, you see, ma'am, it was a sad business, all that about Mr. and Mrs. Hill; a nicer, better-hearted young fellow never walked than he was, but somehow his wife—"
"He didn't ought to have run away from them, though," put in the landlady, strongly.
"Well, no, in course not, but let me tell the lady. Poor fellow, many's the time he's come in here and sat down with a great sigh fit to burst his heart, and though he said nothing, I knew what it was; for his missis, though she were a smart girl enough, had a horrid temper of her own, and used to say ugly things and try to sneer him down like; and who'll stand that, I'd like to know, when there's a comfortable seat in the bar-parlour, without any crabbed tempers to bother a man's mind when he's tired? So poor Hill came and sat here now and then, and he did take a glass or so, and once or twice it was too much for him."
"What sent him to the hospital?" asked the visitor.
"Just nothing but her tempers. He got a drop too much, as the saying is, one wet night. I remember it very well; he came in with a miserable face, and said the missis was all upset with a brick that came down the chimney, and there wasn't a place to stand or sit in, nor no way to please or help her. And two or three fellows were here talking and drinking and singing, and Matthew, he stayed late, and she let him lie soaked in wet clothes on the floor all night, and then she wouldn't tend him nor nothing. But there's a good lady near by who can tell you more about that than we can."
"It was rheumatic fever," said the landlady, "and Mrs. Oakland, she meddled, they did say, and sent him to the infirmary, and he never came home any more, though he did send money to keep them all comfortable. Then, poor thing, she went wrong, and got drink, and at last killed herself with it."
"Ay, and killed two of her children with neglect first, though," interrupted the landlord. "And, wife, don't forget how he came back and nursed her through a long illness, and wouldn't let her go to the asylum, poor fellow. I was right sorry for him, so I was, and I never had the heart to send him any bill of what his wife had run up here. She was a vixen if ever there was such a thing, begging the lady's pardon," concluded the landlord.
Here was general report, but something more of the inner life was needful.
And at breakfast-time the next morning, Mr. and Mrs. Field were surprised by a visit from the same old lady, escorted by the landlady of "The Crown" to their door.
Similar questions were put, but Benjamin and Ellen were not so communicative as the innkeeper had been.
"I am not authorised, madam," said Benjamin, respectfully, "to speak of my friend's private and family affairs to strangers."
"To whose disadvantage would they tell?" asked the visitor.
"Not to Matthew's, according to my thinking," said Mr. Field; "and I believe my wife agrees with me."
Ellen cordially assented.
The old lady placed her hand on the head of their eldest girl.
"Listen," said she; "if you had a daughter whom Matthew desired for his wife, would you, Christian parents as I have heard you are, give her to him without fear for her happiness?"
"Yes, we would," said both. "God has dealt with him heart and soul, and we could trust His work; but nothing else—no pledges, no resolutions, no promises—will bind so as to put away all fear of a relapse. God only can cure that leprosy."
Then good Mrs. Hayes and Mr. Field understood one another, and mutual confidences followed, and the whole sad story from beginning to end was told with feeling by husband and wife.
Still, something of the earlier habits and characters might be learned; and behold Mrs. Hayes and Mrs. Oakland in close confidential talk.
Here the real temper of the wife was but too well-known, and the first fall of the husband was traced out. Mrs. Oakland, too, had visited the family throughout their troubles, and witnessed his true penitence and anguish during Jane's last illness.
"Yes," concluded she, "I would trust Matthew now; his was genuine conversion by the Spirit of God, I do believe. Mrs. Hayes, if I might see the young woman to whom he has become attached, perhaps I could meet all her objections, and show her that one so hardly and so deeply tried is worthy of her love now."
"Did you ever see him intoxicated?" asked Mrs. Hayes.
"No, never. But the first time it ever happened was when went to buy a horse for some friend at a fair. He was young, thoughtless, and perhaps a little self-sufficient, and over the bargain the dealers made him drink. He came home ill, and being in my district, and known to my family from a boy, I felt great interest in him, and he always listened to my advice. He afterwards went on steadily and well, and was highly valued as a most skilful workman, and I own I was grieved and vexed that he fixed his affections on my servant. I feared she would not make him happy, but I did my best to help her, and warn her of her dangers. The state of things became worse than I had feared, and—you know all that followed."
"Lady," said Mrs. Hayes, "if it should ever be wished, do you still feel sufficient interest in Matthew Hill to take a journey in his behalf, and say to a young woman whose affection would be a greater blessing to him than I have power to tell, what you have said to me?"
"Indeed I would do it if you ask me, or even unasked. Few things could give me greater pleasure than to see him once more blessed with a happy home. He is quite a young man still, not more than thirty, and the prospect is dreary for him and his boy without home interests and affections."
"So it is, dear lady; but then, he allowed the faults of another to become causes of his own; and though man takes up with such excuses, our Lord does not. It's the old story from the beginning, and right principle and manly feeling are against it. Yes, Matthew should suffer, only if we can shorten his trial, we will."
At the end of the third day from her disappearance Mrs. Hayes, hale and hearty, walked into her nephew's house to tea.
But not for the younger inquisitors was the history of her adventures, and they had to be content with their curiosity.
But to Mr. and Mrs. Taylor, and Robert and Emily, she told by the fireside that evening how she had been interested in the character and history of a person she had heard of, and had been to visit his friends. Then she began with the horse-dealers at the fair, and traced Matthew Hill through all his troubles and sufferings down to the present time, naming no names, but soon understood by her hearers.
Then Milly stole out of the room, and was seen no more until Mrs. Hayes went to bed, when, her fair face laid upon the old lady's shoulder, she whispered her thanks for all she had done, and entreated very earnestly that the subject might now rest, and be no more mentioned in the family.
"You are not satisfied yet, darling?"
"No, not yet," said Emily.
So the subject was not named again, and Emily became bright and cheerful as usual, and Matthew Hill having fully satisfied himself that he should never again enjoy a home of his own, and might as well bask in the sunshine of his friend's happiness while he could, gradually resumed his visits, seeing no reason to debar himself the society of the only woman who could make home for him anywhere while she was entirely free from preferences for any other. When that time came, he thought would be soon enough to retreat into solitude.
He had too true a sense of his own dignity to become a hanger-on, or a persecutor of the gentle girl, and his attention to her was merely that of a respectful friend. Josy, however, made no scruple of constant demonstration of the most loving devotion, and Emily became his instructress in many useful pleasant ways during her residence at home.
Mrs. Hayes looked on quietly. Her darling Milly was quite herself again in health and spirits, and if really and truly she had cast her lot for that gratifying obituary at the hand of some member of Mr. Dixon's family, why, who should hinder her? Doubtless all would be well; and Milly must be useful and beloved wherever and with whomsoever she walked the pilgrimage of life.
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CHAPTER XXVII.
DOMESTIC REVELATIONS.
TO none of her attached friends was Mrs. Hayes's visit more welcome than to Rhoda Lewis, and the sight of the kind old face at the cottage door caused the maiden to bound forward with a cry of delight, and then to burst into tears.
"Well, my lassie," said Aunt Hayes, taking her affectionately in her arms, "what makes you give me such an April welcome?"
"I don't know, I'm so glad to see you," said Rhoda, looking up like a child that has needed and found a sympathising friend; "I was afraid you were never coming again."
"That horrid old thing, I do declare," murmured young Mrs. Lewis to herself behind a large screen which stood between the door and the fireplace; "but I'll spoil their pleasure."
"Rhoda! Rhoda! You arn't going to leave this grate in such a mess, I hope. Edward will be in soon, and I've no time to see to it."
"Yes, I'll do it directly, Lydia," said Rhoda; "and you will go up and see mother meanwhile, Mrs. Hayes."
"I'll sit here awhile first, if you please," said Mrs. Hayes. "How are you, Mrs. Lewis, and your baby? May I offer it an old woman's blessing?"
"Baby's upstairs on grandmother's bed asleep," peevishly answered Lydia, offering the tips of her fingers to the old lady's hand. "I can't have her wakened with talking."
"We'll try not to do that," said Mrs. Hayes, pleasantly. "I will rest a little and give her time to open her bright eyes upon me. I love babies, Mrs. Lewis. I dare say you find she teaches you many sweet lessons that only mother's love can learn."
"I'm fond enough of her when she's quiet," said the young mother, lazily; "and when she squalls, I give her to Rhoda."
Rhoda was busily "doing up" the hearth and washing the stone, and then whispered to Lydia that some little addition should be made to the dinner.
"Nonsense; you didn't ask her to stay, I hope, and without consulting me," whispered Lydia back again, inconsiderately loud. "Pray do you forget whose house this is?"
"Never mind," said Rhoda, gently; "I only thought—"
"You only thought of yourself, I dare say. Just get those potatoes peeled, if you please; and I shall go up and dress ready for my friends, who are going to call some time to-day."
And young Mrs. Lewis sailed upstairs without deigning further notice of Mrs. Hayes.
"Come here and let me look at you, child," said Mrs. Hayes, as Rhoda was going into the back kitchen.
Rhoda turned and stood before her, the colour mounting to her face, and a smile playing round her mouth. But while she stood, the colour faded and the smile vanished, and perhaps a tear might spring up instead.
"There, now, go and get your potatoes, and I'll help you to peel them."
"This won't do," thought Aunt Hayes, "she's gone to a skeleton, poor child."
But though Rhoda would not permit her to touch the potatoes, she very gladly brought them in a bowl, and sat down on a wooden stool at Mrs. Hayes's feet to prepare them.
Presently the baby was heard screaming loudly, then young Mrs. Lewis called from the stairs, "Rhoda, Rhoda! Don't you hear? The child will kill herself with fright. You know your mother can't do any good with her."
Rhoda put down her bowl and flew upstairs even before the speech was ended, and returned in a few minutes with a pretty little babe, which she put into Mrs. Hayes's arms, and then resumed the potatoes.
"Mother will be so glad to see you, Mrs. Hayes," said she, "and we'll all go up together."
"Indeed we shan't," said a peevish voice coming down the stairs. "I'm not going to have my child stifled in a sickroom to please anybody."
Rhoda coloured, but replied calmly:
"Then I'll give her a little walk while Mrs. Hayes sits with mother. There, Lydia, are the potatoes."
Quickly washing her hands, which were much less delicate than they had been two years before, she tied on the baby's hood and prepared to walk out in the park. "Now you'll sit with mother, dear Mrs. Hayes, and I shall see you again when you come down."
In the distance, Mrs. Lewis, junior, perceived that her husband had met his sister and child, and was walking slowly by their side.
Up rose evil suspicions that she was being talked about, and that poor Rhoda was "making mischief," for Edward had several times shown something of his temper, which she did not intend to "put up" with.
This opinion was almost immediately confirmed by Edward himself on entering the house.
"Lydia," said he, "what's the matter with Rhoda? She looks thin and sickly; and I thought when I met her just now that she had been crying."
"Really I cannot be called to account for your sister's tempers, Edward," said his wife, indignantly; "if she has been complaining of me, I'll—"
"I'm afraid your conscience complains for her," interrupted Edward; "Rhoda never complains, but I can see that you are working the poor girl too hard; and I didn't have my sister here to be your servant, please to remember that, Lydia."
"She does nothing but what she chooses," replied Lydia, angrily; "and if she's to be waited on and live in idleness, you must get somebody else to be her servant, for I shan't."
"Lydia, for shame," said Edward, loudly.
"I won't 'for shame;' you 'for shame,' for speaking so to me," said the wife of nearly two years.
And as just then Rhoda came in with the baby, she rudely snatched the child from her arms, went to another room with it, and burst into a passionate fit of tears, by way of venting her deep sense of injury.
Tears are curious things, and terrible deceivers often, to everybody but those who shed them. Poor Edward was very fond and proud of his little daughter, and not yet indifferent to the beauty of his showy-looking wife, so he kindly followed.
"There, Lydia, I didn't mean to make you unhappy, so kiss and be friends," said he.
There was something good in the husband who would do thus, and worth the trouble and love that might improve upon it. But Lydia, in her selfishness and conceit, did not take the right way, and Edward transferred his caresses to the baby, feeling that Lydia could be very disagreeable when she liked.
Mrs. Hayes found the invalid much worse than she expected, and Mrs. Lewis seemed fully aware that her days were numbered.
"Do not hint this to Rhoda, though, on any account," said she; "the dear child would fret herself ill. Indeed, I often fear that nursing me is too much for her."
"It is not attention to you that will harm her," said Mrs. Hayes; "if I were you, I would have more of it, and so keep her from being at other people's beck and bidding."
"I did not think of that," said the mother; "she never says a word of what goes on down there; and I can see, though I don't believe Edward knows it, that she keeps all his things mended up, just as she used to do before he married. She certainly has done her best to make up for her poor brother's unfortunate choice, and I think Lydia tries her very much with her foolish ways, but she never speaks of her except there happens to be something that she thinks will please me."
"Good girl," thought Mrs. Hayes; "she's under the Refiner's hands; He'll see to it that the furnace isn't overheated."
The old lady declined to prolong her visit this time, but on inquiring for Lydia, and finding that she still sat alone with her baby, she walked quietly into the room, and shutting the door, sat down opposite to her.
"My dear," said she, gently, "I can't go without a word with you, and for your dear baby's sake you must bear with me and forgive me. Will you try to remember that when you are nursing your child, you are imparting to her something of the feeling and temper you are in at the time? If you are heated with anger and passion and ugly thoughts about others, you are not only disturbing her health now, but laying the foundation of the same faults, to trouble and distress yourself by-and-by. You would like, when old and infirm and weary, that she should be your prop, and help, and blessing; take care, then, that now you nourish her from the calm and peaceful bosom of a loving mother, who strives to keep herself in the fear of God, practising those virtues which she would wish to see unfolding from this precious bud in due time. You are laden with solemn responsibilities; you will have to account for them. God help you to do it with joy, and not with shame and grief.
"Good-by, my dear, and remember that nursing time is, or should be, a holy time—a mother's best opportunity for prayer—a link with heaven—a time that determines mighty interests concerning the immortal treasure she is everything to, for the beginnings of life in body, soul, and spirit. Oh! Be wise, my dear, be wise and safe and happy."
And away went Aunt Hayes, leaving the astonished Lydia in doubt whether to be angry or gratified at this mark of tender interest from one she had endeavoured in her pitiful, way to mortify and insult.
"Now, dear," said Mrs. Hayes to Rhoda, at parting, "I wanted to take you back with me to spend an hour or two with Milly and all of us, but I see it isn't just the right time. Come when you can, but don't be long away from your mother, she needs all your care, and must not be fretted with the crying of the child."
Poor Rhoda wondered after she was gone whether these words were intended to convey any particular meaning about her mother's health, and she softly went back to the room where she lay on her sofa, apparently asleep. Her thin fingers were between the leaves of a hymn-book, and the Bible was on the little table beside her. A beautiful calmness was on her face, and she looked, to Rhoda's alarmed idea, much more of heaven than of earth.
"Do you feel any worse, mother dear?" she asked, as Mrs. Lewis opened her eyes and smiled on her.
"No, darling, I suffer much less now, only I think, perhaps, I am rather weaker. I must not try to leave the bed to-morrow."
Rhoda's heart sank, and from that moment nothing but some peremptory call upon her sense of duty separated her from her mother's side.
A very few days now made a rapid change in the state of the invalid. As long as her strength would bear it, she spoke tenderly and faithfully to her son. That Rhoda would follow her to the home above she was quite assured; but her son, with his free-and-easy treatment of God's message to man, his worldliness and self-conceit, she knew was at present very far from the kingdom of God, and she had fears that his marriage had not tended to improve his views and principles.
"Now, Rhoda, dearest," said she one night after settling her pillows and taking some nourishment which her daughter had brought, "lie down and rest peacefully. I shall want nothing more till morning, and then you must go with my love to Mrs. Hayes and bring her to see me. God bless you, my precious child, you have been the comfort of my life since your father left us."
Rhoda knelt down and kissed the dear lips.
"Nothing more till morning."
Yes, it was quite true, only it will be a "morning without clouds," the beginning of eternal day.
Mrs. Lewis had passed away in quiet sleep, and Rhoda awoke to the deepest, saddest sorrow she had ever known. She managed to send a message to Mrs. Hayes, and it was in those kind arms that tears at last relieved the agony of her poor crushed heart.
"Poor little dove," said Aunt Hayes, as she sat with the family at the lodge on her return, "she will feel this loss very bitterly. Her mother thought Lady Crewe would take her back again; but Mr. Lewis says his house is her proper home."
"It was only her mother being there that made it home, though I'm afraid," said Mrs. Taylor. "As long as Mr. Lewis is comfortable when he chooses to be at home, he does not seem to think how his comfort is procured. I have been grieved to see all the work of the house put upon poor Rhoda; and though she is very fond of the baby, and calls it 'Little Peace-maker,' she often looks so weary and dispirited that I've wondered they didn't observe it, and can allow her to be disturbed by night as well as by day with managing it."
"You never need wonder at anything that selfish people do," said Mrs. Hayes, "they are deaf and blind to everything they ought to hear and see. It's quite true, and no use mincing matters, I feel it now myself. I've set my heart on making my old farm-house an ark for this fluttering dove for a little bit, and I shall neither see nor hear reason why I shouldn't have my way. So Mrs. Edward Lewis must manage her own baby and do her own work."
"She can't do either, aunt," said Susan, who was present, and seemed to have known more of Mrs. Lewis than any of the others had.
"Can't! Don't tell me," said Mrs. Hayes. "Women have nothing to do with such a word, when duty, sense, and principle dictate for them."
"Won't, then, aunt," said Susan, laughing.
"I'm afraid that is nearer the truth, my dear," said Mrs. Hayes; "I hope you will never put either of those words against anything that falls to your lot in the providence of God, or by your own act and choice. If you seek the Lord's direction, be sure nothing will turn up but what He sees right, and will help you to do and bear; and if you make a mistake through not waiting for His guidance, don't blame 'Providence' and feel as if you were injured, but make the best of it, and thank God that you may ask His gracious help to bear and do, even though you forgot Him before in the matter. There's no friend like Him, Susan, 'He doth not upbraid.' Blessed God, who can bear so pitifully with such wilful sinners as we are!"
"It always seems to me," said Susan, "that the worst troubles to bear are those of our own making. Self-reproach is about the greatest aggravator of sorrow, and I always feel that in such a case we should be very patient and kind to those whom, notwithstanding, we are obliged to blame."
"Yes, black is black, and it's no good to say it's only rather grey, or not quite white," said Aunt Hayes, meditatively. "Better look the truth in the face, and deal with what is. I've seen them that are always looking back, and thinking and sighing over what might have been, and what they judge ought to have been, so keeping the poor heart always in a fret and worry, instead of saying in a Christian, reasonable way,—
"'It's a fact that I've got myself into this peck of troubles, and now I'll do my best to turn them out one by one, and if any of them can't be made to go, why, I'll just make it useful, and stand my friend after all. Maybe I must have a reminder of my folly to keep me out of more mischief.'
"Poor Mr. and Mrs. Lewis may yet be happy if only they'd go the right way about it. Don't let us give up. When Rhoda goes, they must feel their own feet, and perhaps they'll agree better to walk together."
"I saw a cockroach on its back the other day," said Mr. Taylor; "how it did kick, but no other cockroaches came to its help, and at last it made one desperate bound and got on its legs again; then off it went like a shot."
"Ay," said Aunt Hayes, "don't any of you children ever get thrown on your backs through depending on other people. You'll kick long enough when you're down, and nothing but your own energy will set you on legs worth trusting."
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CHAPTER XXVIII.
IN CONCLUSION.
"THEY did eat, they drank, they bought, they sold, they builded, they planted, they married and were given in marriage;" so said the Lord Jesus, and He disapproved of none of those things. But He would have His people do and possess and enjoy as travellers passing through a foreign land, thankfully availing themselves of its accommodations, its comforts, and even its luxuries, but never dreaming of settling there for ever. It is not home, and the traveller has a home and a "native land" elsewhere.
So the Christian journeys on towards his heavenly home. If he can find a fellow-traveller bound for the same, well; and if on the way he can pitch his tent in sweet resting-places, and make a little picture or type of the heavenly hope, very well. He may do it, and delight in it too, while the light of the Divine substance illumines the earthly shadow, and keeps the holy model in constant view.
Something like this were the thoughts of Robert Taylor as he sauntered along Lord Crewe's park towards the pretty little church which peeped up from among the trees, and around which "the rude forefathers of the hamlet" slept in peace.
It was the Sunday evening after Mrs. Lewis's "remains" (yes, it is a suitable word for the empty worn-out cage, when the bird of paradise has flown) had been laid among them, and it was suggested by some very determined feeling, of which he had for many months been getting more and more conscious, that the bereaved daughter must feel very forlorn and alone in the world that evening, for her brother never went to any place of worship, and his wife seldom, except she had some new fashion to show to the village "ladies."
So after the service was over, he joined the mourning figure that drooped along the walk, after turning one yearning glance towards her mother's grave; and as she shivered and struggled against the choking grief, she felt grateful for the kind support, as Robert silently and gently drew her arm within his own. It was such a strong thing, a good brave man's arm to lean on; and the strong man thought it would be happy to bear that little burden always. And it came to pass that he presently made her comprehend the fact, so that Rhoda was no longer forlorn or alone in the great wide world, but had found the traveller whose journey she was to share; and knowing his principles and his character as son, brother, friend, she had no more hesitation about trusting her happiness in his hands, and no more doubt of the reality of every word he spoke, than if a voice from the sky above them had said, "They two shall be one flesh."
"Oh, mother, dear mother!" thought she. "Do you know how God is caring for your Rhoda? Is not this what you would bless Him for? Is He not answering your prayers?"
And Robert felt that the vacant place in his heart was filled now; the "help meet" was found, and his tent should be as much like heaven below as love and sympathy and the blessed presence of the Lord God of the families of the earth who trust in Him could make it. Thus building no airy castle to fade away in descriptive vision, but a tower on a rock, whose top should reach to heaven—a task that no Babel-builders ever yet accomplished, but which the Spirit of God is doing by His people in spiritual reality every day—they walked and talked until they found themselves at Mr. Taylor's door.
"It is due to my father and mother and dear Aunt Hayes that we tell them at once, dear Rhoda," said Robert. "They all love us both, and we must have their blessing."
There was no hesitation in the welcome. Even Mrs. Taylor felt that she could give up her son to such a wife, and his father saw himself and his own dear Susan over again. There was not one in the family who had not secretly wished that this very circumstance might happen, and as old Mrs. Hayes took the maiden to her loving heart, she confessed to "a piece of romantic folly," she said, "of which such an old goose should have been ashamed, but she did think, the first time the sweet face of the girl, with her sisterly love, and her Christian grace, and her modest dress and manner, came before her, that just such should be worthy to be Robert's wife."
"She has been tried and found true, dear Robert," she said. "Never did dutiful, attentive daughter, and self-denying, self-conquering sister, make aught but blessedness in her husband's heart and home. But she must go with me to get back the roses. I'm not to be moved on that point, and when you are ready, you may come and fetch her."
So Mr. and Mrs. Lewis, who had calculated comfortably on the continuance of Rhoda's services, because, forsooth, "her brother was her lawful protector," had the argument clean swept from their grasp, seeing that a new claimant for the protectorate had presumed to come forward, and they had no right to dispute her decision; they must therefore fight the battle of life for themselves. Mr. Lewis insisted upon it that he had never intended to marry a fine lady instead of a working woman, and would not submit to the expense of even a small servant at present; while poor Lydia, having the disposition of the man who dreaded being "compelled to do a deed his soul abhorred," namely, "to work," was so "put out," that she sulked and scolded and bemoaned herself. They had been deceived in each other, and sometimes it was hard to say which had the worse lot of the two.
After regaining her roses at the farm, Rhoda begged for a little time to visit her brother, and try what she could do towards mending the state of things; and a very uncomfortable time it was, but Rhoda scarcely felt it in the beautiful sunshine of her own prospects, and patiently bore with all she found.
Edward's associates were not low, drunken persons, who bring outward disgrace and temporal loss on themselves or their associates, they were men who read and talked over all the loose, infidel, immoral books and opinions that Satan has got up to cheat sinners of heaven, and insult the truth of the Most High God. They wanted no law but their own will, admitted of no rights but their own gains, and worshipped nothing higher than their own wisdom.
Ah, let woman beware of the influence of such views, and of those who hold them; for while destroying souls, they are also undermining the social position which Christianity has given her, and are preparing the way for the downfall of all that makes her lovely and beloved, and for the ruin of home blessings and family peace.
It was nearly a year from the time of Rhoda's first visit to the farm when she entered the pleasant home which the affection and good taste of Mr. Archibald Dixon had delighted to assist in adorning for his friend Robert. There was everything that suited their position in life, without assumption or pride; the substantial, and the ornamental that none need affect to despise, and tokens of refinement that cultivated minds could enjoy.
Well-educated young working men ought to eschew everything vulgar and coarse, and the nearer they live to God, the creator of all beauty, and the source of all purity and light, the more jealously they will guard against everything in language, manners, and habits which pollutes and degrades. The true gentleman and gentlewoman may dine at a little deal table, and sit by the cosy hearth where the kettle boils, and the loaf is baked, and the cat purrs inside the shining fender, and you may see that there is no affectation of means or style above them; but the table will be covered with a clean white cloth, the dinner or tea service will be pretty and sound, the spare hour will be enlivened by useful books and pleasant talk, and peace and love might fly many a splendid hall to brood sweetly over the Christian home of the working man.
Robert Taylor now realised the ideal of his heart's dearest wishes, and the affectionate and gentle Rhoda was the fair centre whence all other ideas diverged. Mrs. Hayes so heartily delighted in their happiness that she decided to quit her farm-house and take a cottage in the midst of those she loved best on earth. To select and prepare it for her reception was the pleasant task of her rejoicing nephews and nieces, old and young, and a glad day it was when the dear old lady assembled them all around her, and praise and prayer consecrated the dwelling of the righteous.
Milly had long since returned to her duties at Mr. Dixon's, and none more truly than her young mistresses and their parents sympathised with her in the pleasure of having her aged relative among them.
Matthew Hill was a welcome guest in each of the happy homes, and there were times when he yearned with all his heart's longings for a similar scene to call his own. But the possibility of such a thing had passed from his mind with the hope of winning the love of Emily Taylor, and he devoted himself to his daily work, his bright little boy, and his kind landlady, to whom he became almost as dear as the son she had lost long ago.
One day a visitor arrived at Mr. Dixon's, and singularly enough two other visitors arrived soon after at Mrs. Hayes's. The guest at the hall was Mrs. Oakland, the guests at the cottage were none other than Mr. and Mrs. Field. It was a very pleasant holiday for everybody, and if some good were not coming of it, everybody was making a great mistake.
The Misses Dixon found opportunities to leave their maid to long confidential talks with their respected guest, and Mrs. Field had her for a whole afternoon all to herself.
What they all talked about was no matter to put in print, but as Aunt Hayes sat down in her bedroom while Milly put on her bonnet to return to the hall, she gently drew the yielding face to her arms, and, kissing her fondly, said:
"Do you think, my darling, that you dare trust him now? Or must he go a solitary man to his journey's end?"
"Has he got you all to do this?" asked Emily, timidly.
"No, dearest, he knows nothing about it, but we are all sorry for him, and these friends of his wished to tell you his story themselves."
"But most likely he has given up wishing anything about it," said Emily.
"Fie, Milly, you know better than that; but he has behaved nobly, and I think, and your dear father and mother, and Robert and Rhoda, all think, that he might be allowed once more to plead his cause with you. I think it, my precious child because I believe if your own heart might speak, it would plead for him too, otherwise I would never have named the subject again."
Milly kissed her aunt, but said nothing, and went to bid good-night to the party below. Mr. Hill was there, and his little boy, and when she stooped over the child with her usual caress, but not her usual smile, his affection took alarm, and clasping his arms round her neck, he whispered, rather loudly, "What's the matter? Are you angry with me? Father's sure to ask."
"No, no," said Emily; "good-night."
Robert was about to accompany her, but Matthew, seized with a sudden impulse, stepped forward, "May I?" said he. "Robert has to go the other way afterwards."
"I'll go too; oh, please let me," cried Josy, rushing to the door, but Robert caught him in his arms.
"You'll stay with us till father comes back, if you please, my man."
And, in the meantime, Milly had passed out, followed by Mr. Hill, who, agitated and astonished at himself, felt only that she had not forbidden him.
Doubtless it was a long and difficult walk that evening, for Matthew was a great while away, and when he at last came back, there was such a radiant joy in his face that Mrs. Hayes and Rhoda nearly broke down with a rush of delighted sympathy.
"Robert, dear Robert," faltered his friend, as they parted company after a long talk that night, "help me to thank God. Oh, shall I indeed have a home of my own once more?"
Yes, nearly four years of a calm, consistent life had passed over Matthew since he came among them; and though he had never attempted to excuse or justify his sinful conduct at the expense of another, his friends had no scruple about telling the truth from their point of view, and Emily consented to trust him, while together they would both trust Him who has said, "My grace is sufficient for thee."
The happiness of little Josy was perfect. To him the first syllable of that uncomfortable word, which often carries such a painful impression to affectionate hearts, meant nothing but joy and love. His own mother she could not be, yet the child gained in every way by the transfer of his dutiful affection to one who would take his mother's vacant place.
And though Emily had heard how trying often is a stepmother's life, and she might not always be sure that even the advocate in her own heart of true affection for both father and child would save her from every possible risk or mistake, she knew that by following closely the precepts of her Lord, by "watching unto prayer," by yielding to the instincts of Christian love, and subduing those of unworthy self, she might be all and do all with the motherless one that even the God whose name is Love would desire.
Oh, what a mercy or misery may a step-mother be! It seems hard to find so little sympathy accorded to such a position, but, unhappily, it is because so many step-mothers have dishonoured it. Yet there is scarcely any condition in life so needing sympathy, kind counsel, forbearance, and above all, high Christian principle.
Let one so chosen to fill a grievous blank to a widowed heart, and a fearful need to a young family, count well the cost before she ventures. But, once satisfied that God, and friends, and affection, and good judgment are on her side, let her not be afraid, but daily, ay, hourly depending on Him who does ever stand by them that ask His mighty help, enter upon her touching charge, and so walk before her adopted ones that they may never need to know that it is not their lost one back again, endued with even stronger devotedness and wiser love.
William and Susan willingly bestowed their daughter, and another happy home was added to the family ties, wherein their younger children might see the example of their parents reproduced.
If anybody had thought proper to put Emily Taylor's name in a conspicuous column of a newspaper, it would have been for the last time, though not in the obituary, and certainly no member of the Dixon family is likely to have the pleasure of recording her services as she once predicted.
And dear Aunt Hayes, in her beautiful and revered old age, was quite satisfied to live amongst them all; but when the last wedding party of which we venture to certify in these humble chronicles had surrounded her table, she retired for a little into the deepest depth of her widowed heart, where one dear memory was fondly enshrined, and murmured softly, "It's all come out right; and now, dear Jonathan, it doesn't matter how soon I come to sing praises with thee in the Paradise of God!"