The Project Gutenberg eBook of Little Eyebright and her pund o' care
Title: Little Eyebright and her pund o' care
Author: Agnes Giberne
Release date: August 17, 2025 [eBook #76696]
Language: English
Original publication: London: John F. Shaw & Co., Ltd, 1896
Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
Letitia stood looking in blank dismay,
not offering to help.
Little Eyebright
AND HER PUND O' CARE
BY
AGNES GIBERNE
AUTHOR OF
"THE EARLS OF THE VILLAGE," "IDA'S SECRET," "LIFE TANGLES,"
"FLOSS SILVERTHORN," ETC.
New Edition
John F. Shaw & Co., Ltd.
Publishers
3, Pilgrim Street, London, E.C.
CONTENTS
CHAP.
XVI. HOW "CARE" MAY BE CARRIED
LITTLE EYEBRIGHT
AND HER PUND O' CARE
———————
CHAPTER I
EUPHRASIA'S HOME
"I DON'T know, I'm sure, Mrs. Landor. I suppose you're right, of course. People never ought to fret, of course. Mr. Landor would say just the same if he were preaching. I suppose everybody ought always to feel sure that everything is always exactly right."
An odd expression crossed the other's face.
"Oh, I know it is quite wrong ever to let one's self get worried. But then, you see, it always was my way to be easily upset. Some people are made like that; don't you think so? And other people are made quite different. I don't see, for my part, how one is to help how one was made. When things go wrong, I always do get low-spirited. It is very foolish, perhaps, but then it is my way. I have been harassed half out of my senses the last week. As fast as ever one trouble clears off, another comes in its place. That is what I find," sighed Mrs. Mackenzie. "There's no sort of peace or rest in life,—nothing but worry!"
"Isn't it a comfort that one trouble does clear away before another comes?" asked her caller.
"Oh well, when it does. But sometimes everything seems to come together, all in a heap. I am sure, last winter I didn't know where to turn or what to do, with the influenza and all! And most likely it will be just as bad next winter. The influenza is certain to come again."
"Nay! Why certain?"
"Oh, they say it will; people all say so. And if my husband gets it a fourth time, I don't believe he will pull through. I don't, indeed! He has never been the same man since those three attacks, one on the top of another. He isn't fit for his work, and everybody says so, but if he stops, how in the world are we to pay our way?"
"He might take a holiday if needful. Still, I would not in your place give much for the opinion of 'everybody.' What does your doctor say?"
"Colin has not been to the doctor lately. He doesn't want to run up bills, but he looks so ill, I quite dread to see him come in! And Ken's cough frightens me. He has kept it on the whole summer, and now we are half-way through September. I suppose he won't lose it before the winter; and a boy is so exposed to risks . . . And in the middle of all my worries, my cook has given me warning, just because she wants to get married. It is hard, when she suited me so nicely, and when I have so many things weighing on me! And my housemaid has a bad finger, and can't do half her work . . . And then there is Euphrasia."
"What of Euphrasia? Nothing wrong there surely! Euphrasia looks the picture of health."
"Oh, as to health—yes, she is well enough. It isn't that, but I do get so disappointed. I suppose one must expect to be disappointed. I did think it would be such a comfort to have a daughter at home with her education done and no lessons, and plenty of time to help me: and really Euphrasia is as busy as Flo, and not half so pleasant. It is a sort of way with her—answering so shortly, I mean—but I always do feel hurt. And then she likes her own way so much! Girls do, I suppose, pretty nearly always. Flo is different, but then Flo always 'was' a little angel. It quite frightens me sometimes, she is so good."
"Euphrasia does not frighten you, apparently, in that respect. However, girls ought not to be too busy to help their mothers."
"Oh, I don't say she is. She means to do right, I dare say. Of course, she doesn't want to neglect her duties. Only I suppose I'm too sensitive: and then there is a grudging sort of manner; not that she means it so, I dare say. It is only awkwardness, only I can't help noticing. And to have her going away already, just when I was beginning to find her useful—"
"Going where?"
"It's an invitation from a school friend, Letitia Johnston. Euphrasia is so odd; she makes hardly any friends. She only has this one, and really I don't know anything about the girl's family. There's been a sort of promise that Euphrasia should pay them a visit when she had done with school, and now Colin says we can't well refuse. We had Letitia here once for a week; and she seemed nice, rather. But still—"
Mrs. Landor made no immediate answer. She was a graceful woman, over middle height, and perhaps beyond middle age, with hair already silvered, and a certain innate queenliness of bearing, not lessened by the severe plainness of her black merino dress and close gray bonnet. Serene eyes beneath a broad brow studied the pretty woman opposite—for Mrs. Mackenzie, wife of the Manager of West Norton Bank, was a decidedly pretty woman still, despite her forty years. She might have been a very attractive one, had her lips fallen habitually into less fretted curves; had her blue eyes been habitually less full of trouble and self-condolence.
"Still if you do not feel that you can spare her—"
"I don't suppose it will make much difference. She has to go some day, and the visit may as well be got over. Euphrasia would not like to give it up, and any time, almost, would be as bad. Women's lives are just made up of harass and bother."
"Are they?" queried Mrs. Landor soberly. "Mrs. Mackenzie, if I didn't know you quite so well, I should venture to say something . . . One can speak more freely, I think, on some subjects as a stranger than as a friend."
"I hope she isn't going to begin preaching," darted through Mrs. Mackenzie's mind. And then came a swift recollection of innumerable kindnesses, followed by the resolve, "I mustn't seem to be vexed." Aloud she said cautiously, "I should think you might say anything you liked to me!"
"Then may I ask a question? You have a good deal to say about harass and worry, and, of course, life does mean a fair amount of them for most people. Yet there is another side of the question. I wonder whether that side ever presents itself to you . . . When our Lord said, 'Come unto Me . . . and I will give you rest'—what do you think He really intended to do? Is absolute rest a thing compatible with perpetual mental harass? For surely harass means unrest! If the two are not compatible—then, what did He mean?"
Mrs. Mackenzie was silent.
"If I were you, I would find an answer to that question," continued Mrs. Landor softly. She was not at all a demonstrative person, but for once she stooped and kissed the plaintive downcast face. "We may be sure of one thing, that what Christ said, He meant, and that what He meant was something very real and practical . . . Perhaps the question resolves itself into not so much what HE means by rest, as what 'we' mean when we ask for rest; and whether we ever do actually take Him at His word! . . . It seems such a pity, if He is willing and waiting to give us rest, that we don't trouble ourselves to receive it . . . Forgive me for saying so much. Good-bye."
"It's all very well, but Mrs. Landor doesn't know what life means with such an income as ours," sighed Mrs. Mackenzie. "If she did, she might have a right to speak. If her husband died to-morrow, it wouldn't make a farthing's difference to her comforts. And if Colin were to break down, we should just be at the end of everything. It's bad enough now, trying to make both ends meet and never able to get a quarter of the things we need. Of course, it is quite right to have a proper amount of trust, but all the same one must be anxious. Mrs. Landor would in my place, whatever she may say now. And there's nobody to understand, nor to be the least help to me. Colin never will talk over things till he has made up his mind what to do, and Euphrasia is wrapped up in her own concerns. I did think Mrs. Landor would give me a little sympathy, but she is no better than anybody else. I might just as well have kept it all to myself . . . Why, there's Colin coming home now! What can be the matter? O dear!"
Mrs. Mackenzie ran to the front door and flung it open in a tremor of alarm. A tall man of somewhat solid build, not amounting to stoutness, came slowly up the little garden. His face, albeit by no means handsome, had good strong outlines, but the complexion at this moment showed an unnatural pallor.
"Colin! What has brought you back? Do tell me—quick! Is anything the matter? I am so frightened! Oh, make haste and speak! I know something is dreadfully wrong."
"Nothing for you to be frightened about, my dear. I am merely—a little out of sorts to-day." He spoke with a touch of breathlessness, as if the walk home had been too fatiguing. "I'll be all right presently."
Making his way past her into the small drawing-room, he sat down in his favourite arm-chair.
CHAPTER II
EUPHRASIA'S PLANS
"BUT what is the matter? What is wrong?" exclaimed Mrs. Mackenzie. "Why have you come home at this hour?"
"Dr. North was there: and he said I should be better for an afternoon's rest. Where is Euphrasia?"
"How should I know, Colin? Girls are so restless. She is out somewhere walking with Flo. But I'm so unhappy about you! I know you are going to be ill. I am quite sure of it."
"My dear, I hope not. Pray do not talk so before the children. I am not quite up to the mark just now, perhaps." Then a smile dawned, as two girls came quickly in—the elder eighteen in age, the younger a mere child of thirteen, and an exceedingly pretty child.
Nobody ever called Euphrasia pretty. She had blunt manners, and irregular features, and no particular complexion. But, in Mr. Mackenzie's opinion, all defects were compensated for by the peculiar stedfast gleam of her gray eyes; a gleam which, in childhood, had made suitable the pet name of "Little Eyebright." The name clung to her still, though she was "little" no longer, but of good medium height and rounded proportions.
Perhaps Mrs. Mackenzie had never become entirely reconciled to the fact that Euphrasia had failed to take after herself. Kenred, the only boy, was good-looking enough to satisfy her desires: and Flo she was wont to describe as "a perfect picture" of her earlier self. Some people demurred privately, counting the "picture" far more attractive than the original. But, "poor dear Euphrasia had nothing to boast of in the way of looks," and this constituted one of Mrs. Mackenzie's many trials in life.
The elder girl was commonly said to be more her father's than her mother's child. She had inherited much of his Scotch reserve, of his Scotch slowness in giving expression to the deeper feelings, but she had not inherited his placid temper. At times, under pressure, she could be stirred into vehement speech. When not so stirred, she was apt to veil her true self under a crustiness of demeanour, which repelled some people and perplexed others. It certainly stood in marked contrast with Flo's sweet and winning ways.
Almost everybody liked Flo best, and wondered how it was that the elder girl should be so different. Perhaps Mr. Mackenzie alone in the house, and Mrs. Landor alone out of the house, guessed the real worth of character which lay undeveloped beneath this outer crustiness.
"Is father ill?" exclaimed Flo. She came to his side and put her little hand on him caressingly. "We met Mr. Everett, and he said he had been bringing father home."
"A little out of sorts, my dear. Just a headache," interrupted Mr. Mackenzie.
"Colin, you never told me that! Why, I saw you come in alone!"
"My dear, there was no cause for a fuss. Everett gave me his arm part of the way."
Mr. Mackenzie did not find it needful to state how large a part of the way. He was rather annoyed at this unexpected rencontre of the young clerk with his two girls, and vexed with himself for not having warned Everett to keep silence. But somehow he had felt so confused as to be unable to think steadily.
"It was just nothing," he reiterated,—"just a headache. I'll be all right to-morrow."
"But, daddy, he said—"
"Flo, do hold your tongue. You are bothering father," Euphrasia said sharply.
And Flo's sweet face flushed up, the blue eyes filling, like veronica blossoms full of dew.
"Really, Euphrasia!—You do scold that poor darling!" remonstrated Mrs. Mackenzie.
"Nay, nay; nobody is going to scold anybody," interposed her husband, always the family peacemaker. "My dear, I don't think we will have a discussion just now. I am not just up to the mark. I wonder if you could get me a nice cup of strong coffee. Somehow I think it would do me good; and nobody makes it like you, Mary."
"Why, nobody's likely to. I learnt it from a Frenchwoman," said Mrs. Mackenzie, much flattered.
She went off, and Colin Mackenzie used the opportunity for a strict injunction. Nobody was to say anything that would make the little mother anxious.
"But, daddy dear, 'was' it true? Mr. Everett did tell us you fell right down, and couldn't tell where you were at first. And he said you looked 'awfully bad.' Was it true?"
Flo's lips were quivering still with the rebuke she had received.
"James Everett is a silly boy to go and chatter. I was a trifle dizzy, I'll admit, but nothing to make a fuss about, nothing at all, you understand. I'll write a line to Everett, and bid him hold his tongue, and Ken shall take it round presently. And the less you both say to your mother the better."
"I told you so, Flo! I said father wouldn't like you to repeat it."
"Never mind! It's all right,—no harm done! Nobody is going to say anything more. I think I'll lie down for an hour, and then I'll be myself again." Mackenzie kissed Flo and patted Euphrasia's arm as he rose to move away. The slight fluster of talk had brought again confused sensations.
"Flo, you'd better tell mother where to take the coffee. Father will be upstairs." Then, as she vanished, Euphrasia came nearer and asked, "Is nothing the matter really? Not like what Mr. Everett said?"
Mackenzie stood still, leaning on the back of a tall chair. "I was—not just the thing, my dear; Everett was not so far wrong. Just a passing little attack, but I'm not to be counted ill; and Dr. North hopes it will not recur. I would not have your mother know, on any account. She would give herself no peace."
"Did anything happen to worry you, father?"
"Things do happen once in a way!" Mackenzie spoke evasively.
And Euphrasia, looking straight up into his face, read there an unwonted shadow, as of something impending.
"It isn't only that you are poorly," she said decisively. "Not only just a headache, father. Something or other has gone wrong at the Bank."
"Hush! My dear! I wouldn't have you overheard for anything. That is not your business. Something of worry comes, of course, now and again; and very often it means nothing—just nothing at all. Why should it? I am not quite what I was since the influenza, and a trifle too easily knocked down, perhaps. But you must not talk to people as if I had any special weight upon my mind. Be sure you do not! I would not have it said for anything. And I'll be all right in the morning."
"I will not tell, of course, but of course I can't help seeing," Euphrasia answered sturdily. Then an impulse came, and she acted upon it, without pausing to consider. "Father—would you like—would you rather—if you like, I'll put off going to the Johnstons! Shall I? If you are bothered, and would like to have me at home!"
As she made the offer, her heart gave a resisting bound, and then sank low at his look of instant relief. But quickly as she saw what his wish would be, so quickly he saw what the giving up would mean to her.
"No, no—nonsense—not the least need. Have your pleasure, Little Eyebright! I wouldn't for the world stand in the way. Not for a moment! No, no; you'll be off in two days, and back again in a month. And what is a month? Why, it's just nothing!"
CHAPTER III
SOME CAUSE FOR CARE
EUPHRASIA stood close to the bay-window, deep in thought. Her brows were knitted, her eyes fixed upon the dull street, seeing nought.
Most of the West Norton streets were dull; and this particular row of houses, built all upon the same fashion, fronted by a long blank wall which enclosed Dr. North's kitchen-garden, could not be called an exception. A girl who had lived there all her life might be expected to grow used to the dulness, but Euphrasia had not always lived there. Three years at a Brighton school, by way of educational finish, had made a marked break.
West Norton, after Brighton, wore a slumbrous aspect. For the sleepiness Euphrasia cared little. She had within her young self, life and vigour enough to counteract it. What she did mind was separation from her one friend, Letitia Johnston. Girl-like, she had flung herself, heart and soul, into this friendship; and Letitia had grown to be the centre of her world. An occasional letter by post was found to be a poor substitute for daily and hourly intercourse.
Moreover, Euphrasia was suffering from the abrupt ending of school-work. She had not yet found her niche in life, and her unused energies craved for more scope than seemed at present to be within their reach. A certain restlessness was upon her; and this added to the zest with which she looked forward to the promised visit. A whole month in a new place with Letitia's unknown relatives, above all with Letitia herself—all this contained a promise of delight, without a shadow. Euphrasia had not by nature her mother's unquiet spirit, always expecting ills. Her spirit was unquiet only in the desire for more change; and she was unsophisticated. Life thus far had been easy, on the whole.
And now as the day drew near, only two nights remaining between, the question arose sharply, Ought she to give it up?
Euphrasia was a girl of right principle, and to some extent, of subjection to duty. Religion in her was as yet a thing rather desired than possessed; and the personal love for an unseen Lord and Master, which cannot but result in obedience to His Word, had not yet dawned—although she wished for it. She had a very distinct aim in her mind, to do what was right, not to be selfish, not to be lazy. But the self-pleasing will was strong, as in most young natures—not to speak of older ones, unless transformed under a nobler force of love. She wanted very much to do her duty, but she wanted still more to get her own way. In this particular natter of the projected visit to Letitia, the craving to have her way was overmastering.
"Could" she give up so great a delight? That was the question which she asked of herself, standing in the bay-window. Not so much "ought she?" as "could she?" If her parents had insisted, she would, of course, have remained at home—not contentedly, or of her own free will, but simply because the thing had to be. Euphrasia appreciated the difference between such discontented submission and voluntary giving up.
Moreover, she knew that her parents would not insist. Mr. Mackenzie might wish, and Mrs. Mackenzie might fret, but neither of the two would decide against her going, so as to leave with her no further choice.
After all, why should she lose the pleasure? Why should anything go wrong at the Bank? Why should Mr. Mackenzie be ill? Anybody might suffer from a trifling attack of indisposition; and occasional business worries were a necessity. There, at least, she was powerless to help.
To be sure, her father did sometimes seem to find it a relief to confide in his eldest girl, when afraid to say a word to his wife lest she should magnify his meaning tenfold, and worry herself ill with unreasonable fears. He could be sure that Euphrasia would understand. But he would not expect that she should be invariably at hand for such confiding . . . To be sure, it was a very short time since her return from school, and she had not meant to go away again so soon. But the invitation had come, and was irresistible. Under a momentary impulse she had offered to withdraw from the promised pleasure; and the instant throb of fear lest her offer should be accepted, had shown her what such withdrawal would mean. Each hour since had made the giving up harder to contemplate.
She resolved to wait through the night, and to see how her father seemed in the morning.
At breakfast, he called himself "better," and looked wretched. His fixed paleness, yet more, his fixed look of trouble, gave her a guilty feeling. Mrs. Mackenzie, rather singularly, while noting and commenting on the former, did not perceive the latter.
Euphrasia was haunted through the meal by a sense of threatening trouble. Something surely had happened, or was going to happen. So she told herself, and then she tried to believe the notion a mistake. Anything rather than allow herself to feel that she might not go.
He kissed Euphrasia when starting for his day's work. "Pack up your traps, Little Eyebright. You will be off to-morrow. Mid-day train, is it not?"
"Father, are you really better?"
His smile was not cheerful. "'A man's weel or wae as he thinks himsel' sae.' I'm not going to be fancying myself an invalid, till I grow into one."
"If you would like me to put off my visit—"
Again the momentary gleam of half-assent, and the quick pulling in of himself. "No, no!—no need—it is best over. Have your pleasure while you can, child."
A deep sigh was audible as he turned away.
Then it was that Euphrasia found her way into the bay-window, to stand lost in thought.
"Ought I to go? I wonder if I ought? Is it wrong? 'Must' I give up? I don't see any real reason. It may be all just nothing at all. And Letitia would be so hurt. Perhaps she would never ask me again."
That thought won the day. Euphrasia resolved to leave arrangements undisturbed. She did not feel satisfied, but it was something to have come to a decision of any sort; and she went in vigorously for packing. She went in also for anticipations. This coming month promised to be the happiest she had ever known. Letitia and Letitia's parents, Letitia's home, and Letitia's brother—Euphrasia's imagination rang the changes on these thoughts hour after hour. But ever and anon rose once more the question, "Ought I really to go?"
"It is settled now. I can't unsettle things. Mother would be worried if I did. My box is packed, and why 'should' I put off? It would be absurd!" So she made answer, yet the little questioning voice would not be entirely put down.
Mr. Mackenzie, as an ordinary rule, came home to early dinner, but once in a way, if very busy, he would take lunch at a confectioner's close by. On this day they saw no more of him till the evening, and then his gray shadowed look sent a fresh thrill through the girl.
"Ought I to go?" the voice asked again.
"Oh, but I can't give it up now," she cried within herself. "Now! How can I? Just when everything is settled! Oh, I can't!"
And so the evening passed, till bed-time drew near.
"Euphrasia, my dear, I should rather wish—I should like a few words with you."
Mr. Mackenzie's voice broke into a half-happy, half-uneasy dream. Mrs. Mackenzie was upstairs, called away by some domestic appeal; and Flo had retired with Ken to the dining-room, where he prepared his lessons.
"Not here, I think. Your mother will be back directly."
"No. She said she would be more than half-an-hour. Nobody will interrupt us just now."
His face worked uneasily, the muscles twitching, the eyes sombre.
"I should like to say—something. It would be a—something of a relief to me. For yourself alone, mind—absolutely for yourself alone. Not a word to anyone."
"Father, you can trust me. You know I would never repeat a single thing." Euphrasia drew her chair a little nearer, and his hand came on hers. "How hot you are!" she said involuntarily.
"No, my dear, you never repeat things. I am quite aware! You are a good child! . . . Perhaps I am not wise to speak, but this burden on me—"
"What burden?"
"A sense of coming calamity. And if I do not speak now—if I should never have another opportunity—"
"Never—'what,' father?" A spasm of terror almost deprived her of utterance.
"My dear, nobody ever knows. Nobody can tell. Anything might happen before you come home. A whole month! Nations have changed owners in less than a month!" And he laughed faintly.
"But in West Norton—what 'could' happen? I don't understand what you mean!"
"I am—not wise, perhaps. Looking forward and expecting ill is not a sensible occupation. But the feeling overpowers me at times. It has been upon me so strongly of late—a constant sense of coming trouble. I can hardly define what I mean; it weighs me to the ground! And it will come true!" The last few words were almost whispered.
Euphrasia's heart beat thickly. "Then it is not only a feeling. It is something that you really know, something going wrong at the Bank."
"Hush! Hush!" and he glanced round apprehensively. "You must not suggest such things." He held one hand over his brow. "I wish my head did not feel as it does of late. But that is a small matter. If I could only think—"
"Father, what is wrong really?"
"Did I say—anything was?"
"Yes. You meant it."
Another anxious look round.
Euphrasia went to the door and demonstrated the fact of its being fast shut. Then she returned to his side, standing close and speaking low.
"Please tell me. I will not talk. I will not repeat a word. Only tell me what you mean."
He hid his face, groaned, and said, "Everything is going."
"Not the Bank!"
"Hush!"
"Father—do you mean—is 'that' going to fail?"
He laid his large hot hand again on her little plump one, and held it in a grasp which gave positive pain.
Euphrasia endured the pain without flinching. As she stood thus, waiting, listening to the loud ticks of the clock, watching the veins swollen on her father's forehead, she had a strange sense of growing older fast, of each minute being almost as a year in her existence, of all remnants of childhood slipping from her. Whatever her father's mood might imply, it certainly implied something serious.
A mutter came at length, hoarse and low, "Loss of everything."
"For 'us?'"
He moved his head in silent assent.
"When? How?"
"I cannot tell. I see it looming."
"And nothing can be done to keep it off?"
"Nothing whatever."
She crept closer, and caught her breath audibly.
"Hush! If your mother comes in—"
"Must she not know?"
"Not a day earlier than need be! . . . It will kill us both! . . . Let her be happy a little longer." His haggard eyes looked into Euphrasia's. "I do not know why I have told you—such a child as you are! It does no good. I have been selfish to speak."
"Poor father!" Euphrasia's voice was seldom so tender.
Mr. Mackenzie was stirred by it to strong emotion. He hid his face.
"Poor Euphrasia! Poor little Eyebright! They will say I have been a bad father to you all! But—not from want of love!"
"Oh, no! Don't say that! Don't talk so, please! The dearest and best of fathers! Please don't say such things. I can't go to-morrow. I'll stay at home."
"No, my dear. You must go."
"I can't! How can I? There will be no pleasure in it at all—now."
"You must. We could give no reason. I would not have this guessed for anything! I do not know how I have come to say so much. It has been foolish—selfish of me! To spoil your pleasure for no good. But the burden seemed more than I could endure alone."
"I'm glad you told me." She wondered vaguely—might not some word of trust be helpful here? People had to trust in trouble. Mrs. Landor would say so at once. But the trouble seemed so real, and the trust so dim. Euphrasia could not feel conscious of anything like real trust within herself; and how then might she advise another to exercise it?
No, all she could do was to give up going away, and stay at home, to be, if possible, some little comfort to him. But she strove in vain. His will was as a flint in opposition. The dread lest anything might in consequence be guessed overmastered all other considerations. To Euphrasia the fear seemed unreasonable, but she had no power to make him see as she saw.
"If you had decided against it earlier—of your own will—before I spoke, that would have been different," he said once, wistfully.
And a stab of self-reproach shot through the girl, for she knew "now" that conscience had spoken plainly, and that she had refused to listen.
"But not since I have spoken—not on any account! I could not permit it!"
When she pleaded further, a look of distress and confusion came. "I cannot stand discussion. You must go, my dear, and enjoy yourself. Nothing can alter the plan now."
Euphrasia's train was not until after mid-day. And an early message from Mrs. Landor intimated that a good-bye call was expected at the Rectory.
"I told you she would not be pleased if you didn't go," Mrs. Mackenzie observed.
"Mother, I was there the day before yesterday."
"Well, you must run round again now. There's no need to stay long, and your packing is finished."
Mrs. Landor was always especially kind to Euphrasia, treating her in some sort as she would have treated a favourite niece. She had no nieces, and she had known "Little Eyebright" from infancy. Euphrasia gave much quiet love to Mrs. Landor—a steady affection, without romance, but reliable.
Although Lady of the Manor, Mrs. Landor had, since her marriage some ten or twelve years earlier, lived always at the Rectory. Her own house lay at a good distance—inconveniently far for the clergyman. So it was let to strangers, and she quietly devoted herself to Parish work. Some people thought and whispered that Mrs. Landor's affairs had become involved, and that her wealth was by no means what it once had been. She seldom spoke of her own affairs, however, and conjecture went no further.
"Did you mean to flit without one word to me?" Mrs. Landor asked, when the girl came slowly in.
It was not Euphrasia's way to go about with lagging step, and Mrs. Landor noted the change instantly. Then she saw a look in the young face not commonly there, and she put aside the work over which she was busy, motioning Euphrasia to a seat by her side.
Euphrasia did not take it. She went to a chair at a little distance, resolutely reticent in air. Mrs. Landor would see, of course, that something was wrong, for Mrs. Landor always saw everything, and Euphrasia knew that she must guard her words carefully. It was so natural to tell Mrs. Landor all that was in her mind, and here she might not do so. She had an odd feeling that distance meant greater safety. But Mrs. Landor quietly moved to the nearest sofa, so she gained nothing.
"Mother said I was to come."
"Against your will, child?" Mrs. Landor scrutinised the grave face. "It is not a question of 'Little Eyebright' to-day. Those eyes have been awake nearly all night. What have you been doing with yourself?"
One glance answered, quickly veiled.
"Some little matter that you do not want to tell me? Girls have their troubles, have they not? Don't make too much of it, whatever it may be. Yours is not, I think, a peculiarly anxious temperament, but most of us possess some power of self-worrying."
"I don't think—" Euphrasia failed to complete her sentence.
"You are pleased, on the whole, to go to your friend."
"I didn't want to give it up."
"Not even if your mother wanted you at home?"
"But my father says I must go. I did offer—last night."
"Ah! That alters the question." A pause; and then—"Euphrasia, what is the matter with your father?"
CHAPTER IV
FOR ONE'S GOOD
THE question came abruptly, though uttered in gentle tones. It took Euphrasia by surprise. A wave of colour crimsoned her face to the hair-roots, and then fled, leaving her white. Mrs. Landor watched with quiet attention. She could do so, since the downcast eyes were not raised.
"I see. He has been talking things over with you. No; you need not answer. I am asking no questions. Perhaps, a little mistake on your father's part. The best of men make occasional mistakes. He does not quite realise what a child you are."
"I don't feel like a child."
"Children seldom do. You will feel younger when you are really older . . . But of course he does not realise—how should he? And he has not been the same man since last winter. A sort of nervous disorganisation about him. He ought to go abroad for a few weeks, and get shaken out of it . . . He has been telling you of some little business worry or other; and in his present state, it has grown to Brobdingnagian proportions. The mole-hill is to your mind a veritable mountain."
"I must not repeat—"
"Not a word. I wouldn't have you do so, on any account. Confidence is sacred, from anyone—from a father or mother especially so, if there can be any 'especial' in connection with what is absolute. 'I' shall not repeat even my own conjecture to any human being. Be sure of that! . . . But I do not wish Little Eyebright to leave home with so sad a face. It's not needful, child. Things will come right."
"Will they?" Euphrasia looked with unbelieving eyes at her friend. "How can you tell? Things don't always come right."
"Not with everybody. That may be. It depends—"
"Does it?" Euphrasia seemed to take the rest of the unspoken sentence for granted. "If people are good enough, you mean. But nobody can be more good than my father. And that does not mean that everything must always come right with him."
"I think it does. 'We "know" that all things work together for good to them that love God.' We 'know' so much, with a certain knowledge. If he loves God, then all things must and will work together for his good. Whether that is exactly what you mean by 'things coming right,' I cannot say. It is what I mean."
A certain girlish resistance was in the other's face.
"Not easy to grasp, at your age, perhaps."
"I don't see how that would make trouble any the less hard to bear."
"Trouble is meant to be trouble; and you must not expect it to be aught else. The knowledge that it is to work utterly and absolutely for our good, ought to make it less hard to bear."
"It wouldn't, with me. I should want the trouble taken away,—just the same. I hate things going all crooked. It's so miserable. I suppose I ought not to talk so—but—I'd rather be without the trouble, and without the good of it too."
"You may say what you think to me. Probably many of us feel so at times, in our ignorance of what we wish. To be 'without the good' 'might' imply such awful loss in the future,—yet of course we don't understand. And God knows that we don't. Mercifully He doesn't punish us by taking us at our word, and treating us according to our folly. After all, it is just Father and child over again, as we see the relationship daily. The father, knowing best and loving most, bent on the child's happiness, and willing at any cost to himself, to give present pain for future good. The child bent on present ease and enjoyment, not able to understand the discipline it has to bear, or to look ahead . . . What do you say? Yes, cost to the child, no doubt, but greater cost to Himself: because the pain of giving pain is more severe to a loving nature than that of receiving pain! . . . There is nothing for it but trust, where we cannot see. HE deals with us commonly according to the measure of our trust, responding more when we expect more, and less when we expect less."
Euphrasia seemed to be lost in thought. When she spoke, it was to put a question.
"Do you mean that if—if I saw a trouble coming—and if I prayed that it might not come, and felt quite sure it would not—do you mean that that would keep it off?"
A rather odd expression crossed Mrs. Landor's face. "You couldn't do it, child."
Euphrasia's look fell.
"Such a prayer in itself would be presumptuous, unless prayed in submission, and then, of course, the mode of answer would be doubtful. If you resolved wilfully to pray that the trouble might at all hazards be kept off, you could not make yourself believe that it inevitably 'would' be kept off."
"I thought, sometimes, people were so sure about getting an answer."
"People may be absolutely sure, always, about getting an answer, but not about getting the particular answer which they would choose for themselves . . . I don't say there are no exceptional cases. Sometimes a trouble threatens to come, and the child turns to his Father for help; and an instant assurance is whispered to him that the trial shall not come. Then it does not come . . . But I doubt if such assurance is ever given to one wilfully insisting in prayer on having—'Not Thy will but mine.' It is not for us to dictate to God: only to ask."
"Then I don't see the good of praying," Euphrasia broke out passionately. "One might just as well let it alone."
She gazed again with rebellious eyes, expecting to see signs of indignation, but she could detect nothing beyond pity.
"Poor child!" the elder lady said softly. "Wait a little while, till you know Him better! Then you will find the difference between bearing your own burden and putting it off into His hands."
Something of the same thought came to Euphrasia that had come to her mother. "If Mrs. Landor expected to lose everything, would she feel so, 'then?'" The question found half-expression in a murmured, "It is easy to talk—"
"For people who have not the trouble themselves. Yes, I dare say it seems so. It must, naturally. You know your own troubles, and you don't know mine. Perhaps you would even say that I had none. If it were so, my dear, remember that the highest honour God can put upon one of His children is, perhaps, to 'leave' that child in the dark, that he may trust without being able to see."
Euphrasia's glance was uncomprehending.
"Try at least to think what a splendid thing it is to have such a Friend as Christ to hold one's hand, and to shape one's life. If He includes some pain in the shaping, it is because we need the pain. Better to accept what He brings, bravely and without murmuring. I don't mean for a moment that we may not pray against coming trouble. We ought to pray, and to be confident of an answer. Only we may not dictate the manner of answer."
"I can't see the good of praying if the trouble is to come just the same."
"It does not come 'just the same.' If it comes, it comes differently, or we are made able to meet it differently. My dear, try for yourself," urged Mrs. Landor, her slender hand resting on the girl's sunburnt fingers. "Only try, and prove for yourself how kind and true a Master He is. He will not be dictated to, but He does love to be appealed to. Only put your worries straight off into His Hands, and ask Him to arrange everything for the best. If your experience in life is to be at all the same as mine has been, you will constantly be amazed at the manner of answer that comes, so simple and direct. Very often so exactly the thing that you have asked and wished for. I don't say it 'will' be the same. God does not treat us as patients were treated in olden hospitals—laid us in rows, to receive the same doses of medicine all round. Each case needs its own treatment, and each case gets it. But one thing I do know, that you will never turn to Him in vain."
"Some people don't seem to get such answers."
"Do they expect such answers, Euphrasia?"
Mrs. Landor had no reply to her question. Half to herself, yet distinctly, she quoted,—
"'If our love were but more simple,
We should take Him at His Word:
And our lives would be all sunshine
In the sweetness of our Lord.'
"All sunshine doesn't mean no clouds, but it does mean sunlight between and through the clouds . . . Still, answers are sometimes long delayed. That again may be the higher honour put upon us. We test a rope more or less severely, according to our belief in the strength of the rope."