CHAPTER XIV
SOMETHING WRONG
MR. WELLS was not entirely himself next morning, when he appeared for his inevitable call, hardly "offended" in the strict sense of the word, but overwhelmingly grave and punctiliously polite. Instead of wheeling Euphrasia, as usual, into the next room, he allowed her to walk there, with help from his arm. And then remarked—
"You are getting on well. We did not fix your day for going home. You wish to be off as early as possible."
Mrs. Johnston, overhearing this, took herself off with great celerity, to escape the need of pressing for a longer stay.
Euphrasia's glance was apologetic, almost to the extent of begging pardon. "I ought to go."
"To-morrow is too soon. Monday, if you like. I should have preferred another week's delay, as a measure of precaution, but it is not essential. To keep you here against your will is hardly fair."
"Oh, but it is not—" Euphrasia stopped.
And he went on, as if he had not heard.
"On Monday I have to travel in your direction, and, if you do not object, I can escort you part of the way. The change of trains you could hardly manage alone. I will see you through that, and into your own train, after which you will only have to sit still until you get to West Norton. Somebody must meet you there. It will not do for you to depend upon yourself. A slight strain now would throw you back for weeks."
"How good you are!" she said gratefully.
He put a slip of paper into her hand with unmoved countenance. "The trains are written down, so you can tell your father when to meet you."
"But it will be a trouble—"
"Not in the least." He spoke distantly still. "I have to go on business. This letter was lying on the hall table."
"Oh, thank you. From my mother!"
Mr. Wells made an unusually rapid exit, and Euphrasia lay musing with the unopened envelope in her hand. "I must have said something to vex him yesterday, but what could it have been? He has not been like this before. How could I guess that he meant it all as a friend? Nobody told me; and it would have been such a cool thing to take for granted! I don't think he ought to be annoyed—if he is annoyed! I am not sure; it is almost more like being pained or disappointed."
For ten minutes the letter in her hand was forgotten, then she turned to it with a start of recollection—"Oh, how stupid! What is the use of bothering myself? If he does misunderstand, I can't do anything to alter it. Fancy forgetting to open my letter!"
Within was a blotted scrawl from Mrs. Mackenzie.
"Your father seems to think," she wrote, "that there is no need to tell
you what has happened until you come home. But I really do not see the
use of putting off, and he says I am to do just as I like. You will be
coming back soon now, I suppose, and then of course you would have to
know."
Was this the dreaded failure and loss of all, which Euphrasia had so dwelt upon during the first weeks of her imprisonment?
She had not thought much of the matter lately, her mind having been full of other subjects; and the forgetfulness occurred to her as curious, even while she eagerly glanced on to see what was wrong.
"Only think—is it not terrible?—the Landors have lost nearly everything
that they have! Positively almost everything! All Mrs. Landor's money
is gone, and the estate must be sold, and nothing will be left. I never
understand business affairs properly, but the Company has failed in
which her money was first made—at least, in which her father's money
was made, which comes to the same thing. And now it is all gone in
one smash. She has had difficulties the last few years—so we are told
now—though nobody knew, except of course her husband. But things might
have come right in time, if it had not been for this failure, which
takes everybody by surprise, the Landors themselves as much as anybody.
They will have nothing left, beyond Mr. Landor's stipend of £85 a year.
Fancy having to live on that, after what Mrs. Landor has always been
accustomed to!
"Nothing could be more sad. I have cried half the time since first I
heard what had happened. Mrs. Landor is very cheerful, but she doesn't
in the least know what it all means. How should she? She has never
wanted anything that she could not get. I cannot imagine what they are
to do. It is not like young people beginning life, but at their age, it
is melancholy!
"Your father is a great deal better since this has happened. It seems
odd, but having to think so much about the Landors has quite roused him
up and made a different man of him. Dr. North said yesterday to me that
really there is not much amiss with him, if only he could believe it!
A change somewhere might do him good because it would mean something
fresh to think about, but this trouble of the Landors seems to have had
the same effect: if only it will last."
In answer to the above, Euphrasia, wrote, after long cogitation:—
"DEAR MOTHER—I can hardly believe what you have told me about Mr. and
Mrs. Landor; it is so very dreadful! I am not writing to them now,
because I hope to see them so soon. This is just a line to say that I
am arranging to come home on Monday.
"I did not tell you before that I had a fall down several steps, the
very day that I came here, and hurt my knee. It was not worth while to
make you all anxious, and nothing could be done except to keep the knee
perfectly still. The doctor says it will be all right in time, if I am
careful for a while, and it is a great deal better already, only I am
not allowed to use it much yet. He is—the doctor, I mean—a cousin of
the Johnstons, so his visits will be no expense to us, as he has only
come as a friend. I did not know this till a day or two ago, and I have
been rather afraid about the bill.
"Part of the time here was rather dull because I have been able to go
nowhere. I shall be so glad to see you all again. Mrs. Johnston is
kind, but I have found Letitia much less of a friend than I expected.
I would not have stayed so long only I could not travel till Mr. Wells
gave me leave.
"I am enclosing a paper of trains for Monday. Mr. Wells has to go that
way, as it happens, and he will see me into my train at the Junction.
He has been very good and kind to me. I do hope you will know him some
day.
"Would my father or somebody meet me at our station because I shall
want a little help in getting out of the train? Please give love to
everybody, and believe me ever,—Your affectionate child,
"EUPHRASIA."
"I knew it! I was sure something was wrong!" exclaimed Mrs. Mackenzie, on receipt of this letter. "She has not been like herself all through. Poor dear child!—just hiding from us how bad she was! I hope it does not mean a lame knee for life. That sort of injury is so troublesome."
"I trust not, indeed, my dear!"
"Of course, the doctor would say the best he could to her, but I know what knees are! Well, I felt perfectly sure all along that things were not right; and you see it has been just as I expected!"
Colin Mackenzie might have assured his wife that she usually did feel sure of things not being "right," and that he did not find her by any means an invariably true prophetess. But he wisely forbore from so useless an effort.
"It may be that things have been more 'right' than they seem," he suggested, mindful of his visit to the Rectory. "I do not think we can always judge. Euphrasia has shown a brave spirit, dear child!—saying nothing about it all these weeks! I will meet her at the Junction and bring her home. She cannot be fit for travelling alone. That old doctor must be an uncommonly kind man!"
Only, as we know, the doctor was by no means old!
CHAPTER XV
"WILL YOU?"
MONDAY came, and Euphrasia went through her good-byes with no particular distress, so far as Mrs. Johnston and Letitia were concerned. She had not quite so soon to bid farewell to Mr. Wells; and something in her heart whispered that this would not be so light a matter. But she tried to put aside the thought. Time enough when the moment should arrive.
Mrs. Johnston had looked dubious when the scheme of Euphrasia's "escort" was propounded to her. Yet after all it was only a matter of some forty minutes together in the train, and Euphrasia was such an uninteresting girl, and Robert, though not very far over thirty, might have passed for nearer forty. And Mrs. Johnston was extremely desirous to get Euphrasia safely off her premises. And if she raised difficulties, there was no knowing what amount of delays might be the result. So she left matters to arrange themselves.
And when a line came from Mr. Mackenzie stating that he would be at the Junction, she wished she had not been so complaisant. No doubt Mr. Mackenzie would have agreed with equal readiness to come the whole distance to Clifton—"which would have been so much more correct!" she complained to Letitia. But it was then too late for any re-shaping of plans.
Mr. Wells was grave still, and disposed to silence, albeit studiously attentive to his fellow-traveller's needs. He had not once relaxed since the Thursday interview. And Euphrasia was still puzzled whether to count that he had been displeased, or only pained, by aught that she had said—and if either, by what? Puzzled though she might be, however, a certain womanly reticence withheld her from making any attempt at explanation or apology.
Mr. Wells gave to Euphrasia a "Graphic" and occupied himself with the "Times." He seemed disposed to make a very limited use of this last opportunity for intercourse. Once and again he looked up to enquire briefly, "Quite comfortable?"
And receiving her assent, he returned to his leading articles.
Other passengers were in the same compartment. Indeed, he had chosen a somewhat full carriage at starting, but one after another vanished at successive stations. And no new ones filled the vacant places.
The last of their companions got out at the last station before West Norton. Only a few minutes more! Yet still the doctor read on, or, at all events, he pretended to do so.
Suddenly he stopped, folded his paper neatly into a minute compass, put it into his bag, and glanced across at Euphrasia, with the remark—
"Nearly there!"
"Yes!" A sense of the coming "good-bye" assailed Euphrasia, and a lump came into her throat. This would not do! She held it down fiercely.
The doctor looked her over with a calmly critical air of medical observation.
"Getting done up with your journey?"
"No, thanks!" Euphrasia spoke gruffly. Anything rather than to have him see what she felt, if he did not feel the same; and evidently he did not.
"We shall be at the Junction in five minutes or so. You say your father will be there. I shall give you over to him."
"And have done with you!" occurred to Euphrasia, as an appropriate conclusion.
He had spoken in an odd cut-and-dried tone, but something made Euphrasia raise her eyes, and she saw that the face belied the voice. A curious pitying gentleness had crept into it, and he leant forward to pull straight the light rug over her knees—a needless attention, since they were just on the point of arriving. Euphrasia found herself disposed to tremble.
Five minutes more!—less than five minutes!—and then, perhaps, never in life to meet again. Never, after a whole month of daily intercourse. True, the month's intercourse might have meant absolutely nothing to either of them; and in the majority of cases it would have meant nothing, being purely a case of professional intercourse. But—it 'had' meant more to her. Euphrasia knew now—she had not known before—to some extent how things were.
Less than five minutes! So much the better, for fear she might betray herself. And yet—if it had but been one more half-hour!
"Not in pain, I hope?" came in a voice of grave concern.
Euphrasia looked up again, quite involuntarily, to meet his gaze of kind enquiry. To her utter horror, she found her eyes suddenly full; nay, worse than full, actually overflowing. Two great drops fell, clear and visible, despite all she could do. Euphrasia felt as if she could gladly have sunk into the floor of the compartment.
"Ah, I was afraid that the journey might be rather too much for you," said Mr. Wells, with no appearance of surprise. "You are not strong yet. Never mind; a good rest by-and-by will put it all right." He bent forward, and continued—"Do you think that some day I might venture to find my way to your home? I have your West Norton address."
The reserve on which Euphrasia was wont to pride herself scarcely served in the present emergency. It was impossible that the doctor should fail to see the change in her face. "Oh do!" she said eagerly. "Oh do!" Then alarmed at her own delight—"I am sure—quite sure—they would all be so glad. My father—"
"Your father would not object?"
"O no, indeed!"
"And would you be, perhaps, just a slight degree pleased too—yourself?"
The train was slackening outside the station, not yet at the platform. A minute or two remained. Euphrasia could only say shyly—"O yes!" Adding after a pause—"You have been so good to me."
"Do you think you could let me go on being 'good' to you?" Robert had not intended to say more at present. In fact, he had very nearly come to a settled conclusion never to say anything more at all because Miss Mackenzie so evidently regarded him from nothing more nor less than the professional point of view. But her sudden and unmistakable distress put a new face on matters, and severely shook his resolution. Suppose, after all, that he were mistaken—that she did care? "I almost thought, last week, that your one wish was to see nothing more of any of us!"
"Oh, how could—" Euphrasia broke off in confusion.
"How could I think so? People misread one another sometimes. Perhaps I fancied you would have understood better—have seen intuitively how things really were!" Robert Wells looked out of the window, but the train remained motionless.
Half-a-minute passed in silence. Then an impulse seized him, too strong to be restrained, and he spoke again:—
"Euphrasia, could you make up your mind to be a doctor's wife? Will you be mine?"
Euphrasia almost gasped for breath. The utmost for which she had definitely craved was that some day they might meet again, that this parting should not be a parting for always. She had wanted him still for a friend. But—to be his wife! Did he mean it? Had she grasped his words in their true sense?
The train began to move.
"We are just there," said Wells, gently. "I don't want to hurry you. Shall I come to West Norton for an answer in two or three days? That would give you time?"
"O no!" Euphrasia, crimson and confused, hardly knew what she said.
"No!" The doctor's face fell. He might be excused for not understanding.
"I only mean—Oh, I don't mean—I do not want time—I only—"
"You only do not quite know your own mind. I have taken you too much by surprise."
Euphrasia pulled herself together, with a resolute effort, and looked up at him once more, her eyes full of a happy light. "Yes, I 'do' know," she said. "And I mean—if my father is willing—"
"If he is willing—"
"I mean—Yes!"
Not more than twenty seconds remained to them, but of those twenty Robert Wells made the best possible use.
Then the train drew up, and Mr. Mackenzie's face appeared in the window.
"Euphrasia, my dear! Welcome home! Better, child? Why, I never saw you look so well! Such a colour! So your friend, the old doctor, did not come after all."
"Father,—'this' is Mr. Wells!" murmured Euphrasia, unable to meet his gaze.
CHAPTER XVI
HOW "CARE" MAY BE CARRIED
"SO here is the fruit of your month's absence, little Eyebright! To come back 'an engaged young person!' And not a hint of it to any of us beforehand!" Mrs. Landor spoke in her cheeriest tones, not in the least like one bearing a heavy burden.
This was the earliest meeting of the two. Robert Wells had so far altered his plans as to go direct to West Norton for three nights, sleeping at the Inn, but spending two long days with the Mackenzies.
Mrs. Mackenzie would not soon forget that startling moment when her husband had first walked in, with an excited whisper—"Euphrasia and Mr. Wells, my dear! A most nice young fellow! And he wants our little Eyebright!"
The manner of the "wanting" was left to conjecture, but Mrs. Mackenzie hardly needed to ask an explanation of the term. Her answer was a dismayed exclamation—"But, Colin! Why, Colin! Nobody knows anything in the world about him!"
Robert Wells was, however, a man to be rapidly known when he chose to open himself out; and on this occasion, he naturally did choose. All went well for his wishes; everybody was charmed with him. And before he left the place, full consent to the engagement had been accorded.
Euphrasia "could hardly believe in her own happiness," as the saying goes. In point of fact, she did believe in it very thoroughly, and felt supremely joyous. Her whole being expanded; and the face which most people counted plain had never been so nearly pretty.
Mr. Mackenzie thought it more than pretty, with so tender a gleam in the gray eyes; and what Robert Wells thought is hardly worth while to enquire.
She had to remain indoors, to rest the knee after its journey. And nothing would content Mr. Mackenzie short of conducting his future son-in-law round the place, to visit their most intimate friends. Euphrasia might have murmured at being necessarily left behind, but she was far too happy for her serenity to be so easily upset. She was only delighted with her father's satisfaction in Robert.
Now the doctor was gone, but only for a time. He would soon run over again, for a peep at his "Eyebright!" He had adopted with readiness the home pet name. And in no long time, the wedding would have to be discussed, Robert having intimated pretty plainly that so far as his voice in the matter was concerned, he was in no mind for a long delay. Meanwhile, he had invited Colin Mackenzie to spend two or three weeks with him in Clifton by way of needed change, and for the purpose of their becoming more fully acquainted.
When he had vanished, and not before, Mrs. Landor appeared, for a good chat with Euphrasia.
"I want the child to tell me all about it," she said.
And they were left alone together.
"So here is the fruit of your month's absence, little Eyebright!" she repeated. "And not a word to any of us beforehand!"
"How could I?" asked Euphrasia, blushing. "I didn't know—really. I only knew—just that I liked him very much. And he only spoke in the very last moment."
"Three seconds before the train got in! Yes, I heard. A most original mode of proceeding! If your answer had been a 'No,' he could have decamped instantaneously, and never been heard of more!"
"He went to see you." Euphrasia spoke wistfully.
"He did; and I liked him—so far as one can tell in a quarter of an hour. I am not often mistaken in first impressions. Perhaps I might even like him very much indeed, if I knew him very well indeed."
"It seems almost too much happiness to be true!"
"Ah,—I wouldn't say that. It springs from a false idea. Nothing is ever too great happiness to be true. We are made for happiness. God loves us so well that He would fain have us always happy. Only we do not always use the happiness rightly, and so we cannot always be trusted with an abundant supply of it."
"I hope I shall use this rightly. Oh, I hope I shall. Robert is so good and kind."
"That is right. You ought to feel so. Now tell me all about him, child."
Euphrasia obeyed to the best of her power, and at least she succeeded in showing the completeness of her own trust in Robert Wells.
"But doesn't it seem—" she asked, "doesn't it almost seem as if I were rewarded for being naughty? I did not half think that I was right to go to Clifton at all; and yet I went. Was that right? And yet, if I had not gone, I should never have known Robert!"
"You cannot say that. He and you might have met elsewhere."
"But still—"
"Do you remember that verse in the Prayer Book version of the Psalms—'He will not be always chiding'? I would not, if I were you, get into a way of expecting God to be 'always chiding.' He does not chide except when it is really needful. If you did what was wrong, then probably you have had your punishment—your required discipline—in the accident and the dull days following, not to speak of the disappointment in your friend, from whom you had expected so much. Some of that time was rather hard to bear, was it not? And perhaps you did bear it patiently; and then in love and kindness, this joy was brought to you, out of your very discipline. One sees that sort of thing so often with those who love and trust Him!"
"And I have not said one word about your trouble," Euphrasia presently observed. "But indeed I have been thinking about you a great deal. I am so very very sorry!"
"People waste far too much pity upon us. Life has plenty of happiness still, without wealth. I don't say that the loss of money is not in any sense a trial. Of course, it is meant to be that, but I 'do' say I would not have things otherwise, if this is God's will for us!"
"Only it seems so hard—"
"Not hard! To some extent trying, but we have to expect trials. Things may turn out better than we at present venture to hope. If not, we shall be provided for,—one way or another. No one ever yet trusted God, and found Him to fail. And we do trust Him."
She passed her hand softly over Euphrasia's, a smile on her face.
"I am not boasting. A child does not boast of trusting his mother's love and care! He trusts because he knows what she is, because he cannot help it! It is no matter for boasting, but only for delight . . . Curious that I should have had for years a kind of longing to be allowed more opportunity for trust. Where one loves much, one likes to be able to show the love by action. And I have always been so amply provided for—never the smallest chance of unsupplied needs—never any loophole for wants being supplied straight from above. Room enough for trust and dependence in spiritual matters, but not as to everyday needs. It has always seemed to me that probably I couldn't be trusted with that. I have often thought how beautiful it must be to sit, like Elijah, waiting for the ravens, perfectly sure that they could never fail to come. Of course, I do not mean, sitting idly, not doing one's utmost; only when one's utmost is done, and the needs are not supplied, 'then' to wait for Divine action."
"Ravens!"
"Modern ravens would not wear black feathers, child. They come just as straight from God. But I have feared presumption in having such thoughts, and I have not allowed myself to wish. Now that this has come quite independently of anything we could do, it 'does' seem that to wait on them for daily bread may be very sweet—always knowing that He can never by any possibility fail His children."
"Ought everybody to feel so?"
"I do not think the same lessons are given to all. People are differently constituted, for one matter, and they have to be put into different classes in the Divine training-school. The same teaching is not adapted for all characters—perhaps could not be learnt by all. But such thoughts help me, till we can see our way. At present we cannot. To live in a house the size of this Rectory, on £85 a year, with all the Parish claims in addition, seems an utter impossibility. But then, if we saw at once exactly how to manage, we should not need to trust and wait."
"And you don't even feel anxious?"
"I think—not what you mean by 'anxious.' I 'see' the difficulties and the uncertainties. But the coming guidance is so very sure, that one cannot feel bowed down by it. Trust does not mean not realising. My dear child, why should we be anxious? It will be all right one way or another—whether we stay here, or go elsewhere."
*****
One little drawback Euphrasia saw in her bright future, which otherwise seemed cloudless, and that was the fact of a home near the Johnstons. Could she have chosen, she would undoubtedly have preferred almost any other place than Clifton. But choice did not exist. She waited, with some trepidation, the first intimation of Robert having been to Royal York Crescent. And when it came, her fears proved to have been needless.
Mrs. Johnston would beforehand have done all in her power to have prevented so "imprudent a match," had she foreseen it. Now, however, that the thing was inevitable, she was far too wise a woman of the world to show ineffectual disgust. Her letter of congratulation to Euphrasia, if not entirely sincere, was at least as to its phraseology all that it ought to have been.
Three months' delay Mr. and Mrs. Mackenzie begged that they might have a little taste of their eldest child at home, before she left them altogether. And then the wedding came off.
On that very same day, tidings were received that Mrs. Landor's property having sold unexpectedly well, and certain other matters having reached a better consummation than had been feared, enough would be saved from the wreck to ensure an income of over £250 per annum, in addition to the Rector's small stipend.
"It will not be quite like waiting for the ravens now!" murmured Euphrasia, as she clung to her friend in the very moment of parting—when she was no longer Euphrasia Mackenzie, but Euphrasia Wells.
"I have often noticed in life," Mrs. Landor said placidly, "that when some trouble is held out to us, if we say at once—'even so!'—then it is taken away, or perhaps lessened . . . Always! No, not always; only now and then! . . . Waiting for ravens! No, indeed. We shall be positively rich, in comparison with what we have been expecting."
"You did not 'wish' for the other! You are not disappointed?"
"Disappointed to have greater ease! My dear child, what I want is not to choose—to be willing either way. And now you are off! I have no right to keep you here. Let me hear soon, Little Eyebright. And do not be afraid to feel 'too happy!'"
THE END