I WASTED MY TIME SADLY IN THOSE DAYS.
Ralph Dugdale spent some weeks in our neighbourhood, but I did not see him again. He drove over from Cotsford one day to see Edmund, but I happened to have gone to New Burford that morning, and so missed him, rather to my disappointment. He took Edmund back with him to spend a day or two at Cotsford Manor, a change which Edmund much enjoyed.
Mabel came back from her wedding trip looking as pretty and charming as a bride could look. She appeared to have greatly enjoyed her stay abroad.
"You must go to Switzerland some day, Dorothy," she said to me. "Living here amidst such flat, tame scenery you can have no conception of the grandeur and loveliness of the mountains till you actually behold them."
"What is the use of talking to me about going?" I said, rather ungraciously. "You know very well that I shall never be able to do so."
"Indeed, I do not know that," said Mabel, playfully; "there is no telling whither our steps may tend in the future. I am sure I little thought a year ago that I should so soon go abroad."
True, indeed; and as little did I then think of the many associations of joy and sorrow, gain and loss, which were hereafter to link my head to the land of Switzerland.
I was constantly at The Towers during the first weeks Mabel spent in her new home. She wanted me to keep her in countenance when she was receiving visitors, she said, but in truth Mabel needed no such support from me; it was I who was the shy and embarrassed one. Mabel received her callers with perfect self-possession, and I could see that her prettiness and grace made a great impression on some of the county people who condescended to call on Mr. Steinthorpe's bride.
The days I spent with Mabel were pleasant ones on the whole. I was not insensible to the pleasure of living in wide and lofty rooms, where everything was in faultless taste, and the pictures and ornaments such that their equal could not be found nearer than London. It was not strange that Mabel should be proud of her mansion. She appeared to carry her little form with more and more dignity from day to day as she moved through her stately rooms, and she had the air of a duchess, Salome said, when she drove through Burford in the brougham her husband had bought for her use.
The presence of a bride at The Towers galvanised our social life at Burford, dull enough at most times, into unusual gaiety. Several evening parties were given in honour of the wedded pair, at which Mabel condescended to appear in bridal white, and I kept her company in my bridesmaid's gown.
Mabel's manner towards her old friends was very winning on these occasions, so much so, that I wondered whether she was trying to atone for her husband's coldness and stolidity; for Howard Steinthorpe, whilst punctilious in observing every form of courtesy, was often frigid and taciturn, and hardly concealed from his entertainers that he thought their party a bore. Yet, when in company that he cared to please, he could talk well, for he had travelled in many countries, and aspired to be somewhat of an art critic and connoisseur.
During those weeks my father had little of my company; but as he never appeared to miss me when I was absent from home, I left him without compunction, although Edmund had cut short his stay at home and gone on a walking tour with his friend, Ralph Dugdale. I saw enough of father, however, to know that he was anxious and careworn. I wondered at this, for he had talked more and been altogether more cheerful in his manner during the weeks that followed Mabel's wedding than I had known him for some time.
Had Howard Steinthorpe's return anything to do with the increase of gloom which I now observed? I could not tell, but I knew that few days passed without Howard Steinthorpe paying a visit to my father in his office. Sometimes he would come into the house to speak to me and deliver some message from Mabel. But more often, he forgot the message entrusted to him, till Mabel ceased to trouble her husband in this way, and found other means of communicating with me.
But I knew that he still came constantly to the place, for from the side window in father's room I used often to catch sight of him passing in or out of the tan-yard.
"Have you taken Howard in as a partner?" I asked my father one day.
"No, but he seems to have made himself my partner," returned my father, with a bitterness of tone at which I wondered.
"What do you mean?" I asked.
But father relapsed into silence, and gave me no explanation. Apparently, the words had escaped him under the pressure of secret irritation, and he had made an admission which he would now have recalled if he could.
I said no more; but I pondered my father's words, and made many guesses as to what he had meant in saying that Howard Steinthorpe had made himself a partner in his business.
Other things occurred to make me wonder. One day father asked me if I thought I could manage without one of the servants.
"Perhaps—if it were absolutely necessary," I said, my amazed looks inquiring why such a question had been put.
"I want to curtail our expenditure," said my father. "You must be more careful about the housekeeping, my dear. We spend too much; we do, indeed."
"But we spend very little, father," I said; "certainly, not more than we have always done. Are you poorer than you used to be?"
"These are hard times, Dorothy," he answered, evasively; "all business is bad."
"Business cannot be bad with Howard Steinthorpe, to judge by the way in which they live," I answered, rather bitterly.
"Oh, Howard is a wealthy man. He has plenty of capital to keep him afloat in bad times," was my father's reply.
So our younger servant was dismissed, and I did as best I could with the one who remained. But I should have got into dire confusion often enough but for Salome, who seemed to know by instinct when we wanted a helping hand in some domestic strait, and was sure to appear at the right time. She gave me many useful hints; and I might have profited by them more than I did, but I hated the trouble of housekeeping, and soon grew careless again.
Mabel was willing to help me as far as reproof and advice went, but she gave me little help of a more practical kind, and by a curious fatality, it happened that when anything went wrong in the household, or we had a poor sort of dinner, she would be sure to drop in to spend a few hours with me, and make our dinner her luncheon. Of course, she did not fail to point out to me how much better she would have managed. Indeed, she was constantly drawing my attention to something wrong in the house, or the cooking, or my own appearance, and it need hardly be said that her sisterly criticisms had no soothing effect on my temper. I resented her rebukes the more because I knew that they were not uncalled for. My conscience told me that I might have managed better, and made things more comfortable for my father if I had taken greater pains to do so. Ah, how often, when it was too late, did I wish that I had been wiser and more considerate for others in those days!
My father's health did not improve as the summer wore on. He fell a victim to dyspepsia, and not infrequently I had to take my dinner alone, my father sending me word from his office that he could take nothing but a little gruel, which would like to have there.
Yet still I did not disturb myself. I knew so little of illness, that when my father said he had only a fit of indigestion, I concluded that there was no cause for fear.
But late in September, something happened which roused me from my selfish indifference.
It was a lovely warm day. The month had set in wet and chill. We thought the summer had fled, and prepared ourselves to meet the keen winds of autumn, when lo! capricious summer shone forth upon us again in full splendour, and one would fancy that, like a playful maiden, she enjoyed the pleasant surprise she was giving us. I revelled in the glowing sunshine of that day, making the most of it, since I knew that the bright weather could not be of long duration. All the morning I was in the garden, ostensibly assisting Luke to strip the apple and pear trees of their ripe fruit, but in reality doing little more than feast upon the pears, and romp with my newest pets, three deserted kittens whom I had discovered in an empty shed in the tan-yard, and with some difficulty reared by hand. They were now three of the sleekest, prettiest, and most audacious of kittens, and I was never tired of playing with them, allowing them the greatest liberty, though their gambols were alike destructive of my gowns and of the furniture of the rooms in which I allowed them to riot.
I wasted my time sadly in those days. I had begun the course of reading recommended by Miss Carefull, but, although several months had gone by since I left school, I had not read more than half of the first volume of Macaulay's history, and the marker put to keep the place where I had left off had now been unmoved for weeks.
I was quite oblivious of time as I stood beneath the fruit trees, rolling apples across the grass for the kittens to run after, when Martha came to tell me that dinner was ready.
"Dinner-time!" I exclaimed. "Surely it is not so late?"
"Why, yes, miss, it's after one. Master has sent to say that he cannot come yet, and you must not wait for him."
"All right," I said, and slowly I made my way towards the house, followed by the kittens, who kept springing at my flounces, and then falling back and tumbling over each other in a general "mélée."
Having so freely lunched on fruit, I sat down to dinner without much appetite. I allowed the kittens still to play about me—I had fallen into shocking habits since Mabel left home—and every now and then I treated them to a tit-bit from the dish before me. All four of us found this a pleasant diversion, and I sat at the table a long time, although I ate little. When I rose, I was surprised to see how late it was. Why did not father come to dinner? Did he want gruel? I wondered, and forthwith started off to the office to ask him the question.
Running across the yard, I tapped lightly on the office door. There was no response, and I opened the door and looked in. For a moment, I imagined the place to be empty. The ledger lay open on my father's desk, but his chair was vacant. I half turned to seek him elsewhere, when my eyes fell on my father lying prostrate on the floor, midway between the table and window.
For an instant, I could hardly believe my eyes, then, with a cry, I sprang to his side and tried to rouse him to consciousness. He lay with his eyes closed, his face wearing such an ashen hue that the awful fear that he was dead seized me. With trembling hands, I loosened his neckcloth, and laid bare his throat and chest. A bottle filled with water stood upon the table; I snatched it up, scarce knowing what I did, and, soaking my handkerchief, bathed freely his head and face.
My rough and ready treatment was not without result. To my joy, I saw my father's lips move, his eyelids quivered, and he turned a little on his side. The next moment, I heard one of the men whistling as he passed along the yard. Instantly I called to him, bade him send Martha to me, and then, with all speed, hasten to fetch the doctor.
Ere the doctor came, my father had regained consciousness; but he appeared bewildered, and could give no account of how he had been taken ill. When good old Dr. Perrow arrived, father questioned him rather anxiously.
"They tell me I fell down," he said. "I suppose it was only a fainting fit?"
"Very likely," said the doctor, cheerily, and proceeded to his questioning.
But later, after he had persuaded my father to go to bed, Dr. Perrow said to me, privately, that he hoped it was only a fainting fit, and hinted that there were symptoms he did not like.
"Your father has evidently let himself run down of late," he said; "he has been keeping too closely to business, I fear. Is it not so?"
I said that my father had seemed very busy, and I feared he had been worried in business.
"Ah, that is it," said the old doctor, gravely, nodding his head; "there is nothing so wearing to the constitution as worry. Mr. Carmichael has evidently fallen below par—considerably below par. Well, good-day, Miss Dorothy. Don't be uneasy about your father; he will be better to-morrow, I trust."
He had said enough, however, to render me very uneasy. But when I repeated his words to Mabel the next day, she would not attach much importance to them.
"Dr. Perrow always looks on the dark side," she said. "Of course, father only fainted; he will be all right in a day or two."
"I don't know," I said, "I can't help feeling anxious, and I have not much confidence in Dr. Perrow. He may be very well for old women and children, but I don't believe he is good for much in a really serious case. Father has been out of health, suffering from indigestion and headache for a long time. I wish he would go to London and have advice from some clever physician."
"Really, how you talk, Dorothy!" exclaimed Mabel. "Dr. Perrow is a very good doctor, and has had great experience. You forget what the physician's fees would probably amount to. How could father bear that expense? And it is no wonder he has indigestion with such cooking as you give him. I shall not soon forget how hard that hash was when last I dined with you."
"Oh, that was an accident," I exclaimed, angrily; "but of course you will blame me. I suppose it is my fault that father is ill?"
"I did not say that," replied Mabel, evidently thinking me very unreasonable.
But her words had hurt me, and I felt it hard, too, that she, who never had to curtail her own expenditure, should always be the first to point out what expenses father and I must avoid.
But it appeared as if Mabel were right in taking a light view of father's illness. In a few days, he was down stairs, and, according to his own account, as well as usual. But Dr. Perrow still urged him to keep away from the office. What he needed, the medical man said, was perfect rest.
"Can you not persuade your father to go away for awhile, Miss Dorothy?" Dr. Perrow asked me one day. "Get him to take you to the seashore, or, better still to the Continent. Nothing would do him so much good as a complete change."
I promised to try what I could do, though without much hope of success. When I mooted the idea to my father, he said at once that it was out of the question, and begged me, almost sharply, not to mention such a thing again.
One day, ere my father had resumed his post in the office, Howard Steinthorpe came in to see him. He arrived when we had not long finished dinner. Father was still in the dining-room, but I had wandered into the summer parlour, which, as has been described, opened out of the larger room.
Hearing Howard's voice greeting father, I remained where I was, thinking that they would like to talk alone. I sat down and began to cut the pages of a magazine, which I had bought at New Burford on the previous day. I plunged into the serial story in which I was interested, and for some time forgot all else. The murmur of voices earnestly talking in the next room formed an accompaniment to which I paid no heed. Suddenly, however, I was roused by hearing my father say in tones that, though low, were so charged with feeling as to be peculiarly penetrative.
"For God's sake, do not be hard on me. It was no fault of my own that brought me into these straits. If you press for payment, there is nothing before me but ruin."
That word ruin thrilled me like an electric shock. What could my father mean?
The magazine fell into my lap! I sat up erect, every sense on the alert, and listened eagerly to hear what would follow.
"What is the good of trying to escape the inevitable?" Howard asked, not in the smooth, bland tones he was wont to use in society, but with a cold, hard, incisiveness which revealed his true character. "You have employed expedients enough without result, save increased embarrassment. Surely it is time to give up the vain attempt, and make it known that you can go on no longer."
My father murmured something that I could not hear.
Howard replied at some length, but in tones so cautiously lowered that I could only distinguish a word now and then, although the door of communication between the two rooms stood slightly open. Then my father seemed to be imploring him to be patient or asking help of him. Whatever it was for which he pleaded, Howard responded with some suggestion from which my father appeared to shrink.
"There is no alternative," I heard Howard say, in his hard, metallic tone. "In no other way can I help you. I have a right to demand such security."
"But the children," I heard my father say, in a voice so broken and feeble that I knew he must be sorely troubled; "I cannot bear to make things hard for the children."
I could not catch the reply that Howard made. I fancied he said that father could have no anxiety about Mabel, and he added something about "the others" that escaped me.
"But Dorothy—poor child?" I heard father say.
With that I started up, my cheeks flaming, as I remembered how wrong it was of me thus to listen to what was obviously not meant for my hearing.
What should I do? Father had evidently forgotten my presence in that room, and Howard Steinthorpe did not suspect it.
I pushed my chair back rather noisily, and moved to and fro once or twice, hoping thus to attract their attention. But, apparently, they were too absorbed in their talk to heed the sounds I thus made.
Presently solicitude for my father prompted me to adopt a bold course of action. I would show myself in the dining-room, for I hoped that thus I should bring to an end the interview which I knew must be sadly worrying to father. I waited till my excitement had subsided somewhat, and then, stepping firmly across the room, I pushed back the door and passed into the dining-room.
Father was seated at the table with a pen in his hand and some papers before him. He was writing when I entered; his face looked grey and worn, and his hand trembled visibly. Steinthorpe was bending over him; but he started up, flushing hotly, as I appeared.
For a moment he could not conceal the annoyance he felt at my intrusion; but he quickly regained self-control, and said, in his usual, nonchalant way, as he held out his hand to me—
"Ah, Dorothy, how are you? Your father and I are just arranging a little matter of business."
Though he spoke so carelessly, his eyes searched my countenance with a keen, suspicious air. Then he glanced at the magazine which I carried. He knew my love for reading stories, and, I doubt not, assured himself that I had been too absorbed in my book to hear anything that had passed between him and father.
"Father is hardly strong enough yet to be troubled with business," I said; "I hope you will not keep him long over it."
"Certainly not; we have just done," said Howard, quickly. "I quite understand how desirable it is that Mr. Carmichael should not over-tax his strength."
My father said nothing, but I fancied there was a helpless, beseeching look in his eyes as he raised them to mine for a moment. I quitted the room. Ten minutes later, I heard Howard leave the house; then I went back to my father.
He was still seated at the table; but now his elbows were resting on it, and his face was hidden in his hands. He raised it, however, as I approached him, and looked up at me with a sad, weary expression.
"Oh, father!" I said. "You should not have let Howard worry you with business matters."
"There is no escape from worry for me," he said, wearily; "there will never be anything but worry for me in this world."
"Father," I said, impulsively, "is Howard as kind to you as he should be in business affairs?"
"Business and kindness, Dorothy, are words that have no connection," father said, drily.
"Perhaps not, generally speaking," I returned; "but between you and Howard it should be different. He ought to look upon you as a father."
Father did not reply, but he laughed to himself as I spoke—a feeble laugh, with no mirth in it, a laugh which it pained me to hear.
"Dorothy," he said, sadly, after a pause, "I have been a very unfortunate man. Remember that, if ever you feel disposed to blame me. I always meant to do well by my children, but I have been very unfortunate."
My affection for my father was never demonstrative. As a child I had stood greatly in awe of him, and up to the present time, there had been an impassable barrier of reserve between us. But now there was such a pathetic expression on his face as he looked up at me, that my whole heart went out in a desire to give him comfort.
"Whatever happened, I could never blame you," I cried; "that is impossible."
And I threw my arm about his neck and laid my cheek fondly against his. It was the first and the last purely spontaneous caress that I gave him. There came a time when I was deeply thankful to remember that on one occasion, at least, I had shown my father that I loved him.
He seemed touched by my impetuosity, much as it startled him.
"You are a good child, Dorothy," he said, gently, and kissed me.
Then he rose and went off to his own room, whither I did not follow him.
====================
CHAPTER VI.
WHAT A DAY BROUGHT FORTH.
A THOUGHTFUL writer has said, "We are never happy; we can only remember that we were so once." There is truth in those words. We do not know when we are most happy. Girls seldom realise how happy they are in their sheltered, peaceful home life till the shock of some calamity upheaves its foundation, and they see with sorrow that their future cannot "copy fair their past."
It seems to me now that I was very happy in the clear, bright autumn days that fell that year, though no doubt I sometimes complained of their dulness, or vexed myself about trifles, or pitied myself on account of imaginary troubles. But how I enjoyed the long rambles across fields and through lanes which I took, with no companion save our dog Rough! What beautiful spoil of bright leaves and crimson berries I brought from the hedges, with which to decorate our rooms! Somehow I liked these wayside beauties better than the exquisite hothouse blooms Mabel would send me from the conservatories at The Towers.
There were times when I asked myself whether I were not indeed happier than my sister, fortunate young woman as most people esteemed her. True, Mabel generally appeared serene and satisfied; but one day, bursting unexpectedly into her boudoir, I found her crying as if her heart would break. How indignant she was with me for surprising her thus! How annoyed that I would not at once accept a nervous headache as the sole explanation of her tears! If I were not always in such rude health myself, I should know that others must occasionally feel weak and dispirited, she said.
But I was not satisfied. That incident set me wondering whether Mabel found her married life quite so blissful as she had expected it would prove. Already I had observed that Howard Steinthorpe's demeanour as a husband differed considerably from his bearing as a lover. I had heard him address Mabel in a dry, sarcastic fashion that I felt would have pained me sorely had I been in her place; and his omission of little acts of courtesy towards her, which he would not have failed to bestow on other ladies, made me question his right to be considered a true gentleman.
My heart grew tender to my sister as I reflected that there were perhaps many hours when in solitude she endured a heartache, for which her handsome rooms, beautiful pictures, and costly dresses could afford her no solace. But whatever were Mabel's trials in her new position, true to her nature she kept them to herself.
As autumn deepened into winter, business appeared brisk in the tannery once more. I saw new machinery arrive, and learned—not from my father, for he rarely spoke to me about his business—but from the foreman, that certain improved methods of tanning were to be introduced into the yard. Fresh workmen were engaged, strangers from London, who were not very well received by the older hands, I fancied, judging by hints that Martha and Salome let fall.
And every day, Howard Steinthorpe rode into the yard on his fine black horse, and passed to and fro inspecting everything with a far more master-like air than father displayed. I watched and wondered greatly, but something withheld me from asking questions.
The deep depression father continued to manifest was inconsistent with the returning prosperity these changes seemed to indicate. Whatever others thought, I could see that he was far from well, and my anxiety was quickened when I discovered that he had had one or two slight returns of the dizziness and faintness which had overpowered him on the morning when I found him lying senseless in the office.
I remember that one day I was deluded enough to impart my fears to Howard Steinthorpe, with the hope of getting sympathy and help from him. I happened to meet him as I came out of Salome's cottage. He was coming apparently from our place, walking, as his habit was, with his head bent and his eyes on the ground. He was smiling to himself with his sardonic smile, and his meditations were so pleasant that he was not aware of my appearance till I spoke.
"Ah, Dorothy!" he said, then, in the cool, careless manner he had adopted towards me since his marriage. "How are you?—All right?"
"Oh, I am well enough," I replied; "but have you noticed how ill father is looking to-day? You have seen him, I suppose?"
"Ill?" repeated Howard, lifting his eyebrows as he spoke. "I have seen Mr. Carmichael, certainly, but I cannot say that he struck me as looking ill. He seemed as usual."
"He is ill, I fear. He tells me he cannot sleep as he should. Sometimes I think that the worry of business is making him ill."
A change passed over Howard's face as I said this. I do not know how to describe the change; but it conveyed to me the idea that my words had a deeper meaning for him than for me, and prompted by this notion I exclaimed impulsively—
"Oh, Howard! You know more about father's affairs than I. Do tell me what it is that is going wrong in his business?"
He smiled a cold, it seemed to me a cruel, smile.
"That is more than I can say," he returned carelessly. "I have business worries enough of my own without concerning myself with your father's."
"But you must know about them," I said, "You are in father's counsel; you come to the office almost every day; you must know what it is that worries him."
Howard's manner changed. His cold, blue eye rested on me with an air of quiet contemplation fora few moments, ere he said, in measured tones—
"And if I do—if your father does like to consult me—do you suppose that I shall repeat to you what passes between us in private? I wonder you can ask me to do anything so dishonourable. If you wish to understand Mr. Carmichael's business affairs, why not ask him to explain them to you? He would do so, doubtless, if he thought it well."
"I beg your pardon; I did not mean—" I faltered, shrinking from him in hot confusion.
Howard Steinthorpe lifted his hat with ironical politeness, and passed on without another word.
I walked home with burning cheeks and a bitter sense of shame. I felt almost ready to tear my tongue out in my mortification at the folly it had committed.
Very slowly did the weeks pass before Christmas; but the happy season came at last, and our home was brightened by a brief visit from Edmund. Ah, how brief it seemed, and how heavy the gloom that succeeded it!
I did not see very much of Mabel as the New Year advanced. She had little leisure to bestow on me. She and Howard gave many dinner-parties and went to many, for there was some talk of Howard Steinthorpe's standing for one of the Essex boroughs in the next election, and his acquaintance was being sedulously cultivated by those interested in politics.
As a rule, I was not invited to dine at the Towers when Mabel had company. My gowns were not sufficiently elegant to grace her rooms on those occasions.
The winter was long, the spring cold and wet that year. At the time when we were wont to look for spring flowers and blossoms, keen winds and drenching rains prevailed. I have not known a drearier spring. Day after day the skies were dark and the rain lashed down with pitiless severity. Everyone was complaining. The farmers were in despair, for in many places whole meadows were flooded, and the prospect for the corn was deplorable.
There was much sickness, too, abroad; ague and rheumatism, fevers and colds, beset both old and young. Dr. Perrow was in his element as he went about, shaking his head and darkly hinting at coming evils.
"Dorothy," father said to me one day as we sat at dinner together, he, as was so often the case, making but a sorry pretence of eating, "I must drive to Halstead this afternoon; I suppose you do not care to go with me?"
As I glanced out of the window, I shivered at the very thought. It was not raining, but the sky was overcast, a chill mist darkened the atmosphere, the trees were dripping, the ground sodden.
"No, thank you, father," I said. "Why, I should be splashed from head to foot. Do you think you had better drive all that way? The roads will be hardly passable. We heard yesterday that the water was over the bridge at New Burford."
"It will have subsided by this time," he replied; "there has been no rain for some hours."
"But there will be before many more have passed," I returned; "it will pour before night. Do, father, be persuaded to go by train!"
"I cannot, dear; the train would not serve me," he said.
So I let the matter drop. But when I saw him driving out of the yard alone, I was seized with regret that I had refused to go with him. It was always so with me. I became aware what was the right thing to do when it was too late to do it.
But as an hour or two later, the rain began to pour down again in the steady, determined way which had become so familiar to us, I soon ceased to regret my decision. It was grievous to think of my father being exposed to such weather.
Ah, how well I remember every incident of the dreary hours during which I waited for him! For once my favourite books failed to interest me. I could not settle to steady reading. I grew nervous as I sat by the window in father's room, listening to the plash, plash of the drops falling from the eaves overhead. I went out to the kitchen, disturbing Martha in the midst of a gossip with Luke, who had no right to be idling there at that hour.
She naturally resented my intrusion, but I stayed with her, preferring her company to my own thoughts, till I had talked her into a good temper.
Remembering that father had taken hardly any dinner, I planned to have a savoury dish for the late tea he was to have when he came in. I helped to lay the table, and arranged everything almost as daintily as Mabel would have done it.
Then I waited. How slowly the time passed! But now, at any moment father might return.
Yet he did not come. What could be keeping him? But of course the roads were heavy. How foolish of me not to know that he would be late.
I would not own to myself that I was nervous, but I stationed myself at the window and listened eagerly for the return of the dog-cart. One or two vehicles passed, but I knew at once that their lumbering wheels did not belong to the dog-cart. It grew dark early that evening, and whilst I waited, the rain seemed to increase in violence, and the wind, which had been slowly rising, beat against the casement and moaned drearily in the chimney.
"Miss Dorothy," cried Martha, bursting unsummoned into the room, "do you think master would come home by the road? Luke have been up to the Swan, and they do say up there that the water be right over the bridge at Burford, and it wouldn't be very safe to drive that way at dusk. Not so be that I would frighten you, miss."
Alas! I was frightened enough already. But the resolution I took astonished Martha.
"Something must be done," I said. "I shall run up to The Towers, it is on the way to Burford, and tell Mr. Steinthorpe. He will know what to do; he will send someone perhaps to Burford."
"You, Miss Dorothy! You must not go out in such weather! And to The Towers! What would Mrs. Steinthorpe say? Indeed, miss, you must not think of it; Luke will go."
"I shall go more quickly than Luke," I said. For I felt as if fear would give me wings, and Luke was not remarkable for celerity, either of thought or movement.
So without listening to my maid's remonstrances, I proceeded to equip myself for a struggle with wind and water. It took me but a few minutes to don a thick pair of boots, tuck up my skirt, and wrap myself in an ample waterproof cloak, to which was attached a hood which I drew over my head. Then, without an umbrella, which it would have been difficult to carry in such a wind, I dashed out into the rough weather.
Oh, what rain it was, with what passionate gusts it beat on me, and how the wind buffeted me, driving me into the deepest puddles, as vainly I tried to avoid them! How long appeared the way to The Towers! I could see the great house as soon as I got beyond the village street, the windows all brightly lit shining out in the gloom, but I felt as if I should never get to it, for the speed I longed for was impossible when the road was half water and the wind and rain blew straight in my face. But I splashed on with desperate courage. And at last, the great iron gates were gained; I passed through them and hurried up the gravelled path to the house.
My appearance on that stormy evening, and in such a plight as I was from the combined effects of mud, wind, and rain, might well create consternation in Mabel's well-ordered household. But the servants hardly seemed so astonished as I expected, though they exclaimed at my condition as they relieved me of my dripping cloak.
"Where is Mr. Steinthorpe?" I asked, as soon as I could get my breath.
But before they could answer, he appeared, coming out of the dining-room with a flushed, elated air.
"Dorothy, this is good of you!" he exclaimed, ere I could explain what had brought me. "You are brave to venture out in such weather. But how did you hear the news? I was just going to send a messenger to you."
"What news?" I asked, in amazement.
Then he told me that Mabel was the mother of a little boy. The news drove all else from my mind for a while, but presently I bethought me of what had brought me out in the wild rainy weather.
Howard made light of my fears when I imparted them to him.
"Your father knows how to take care of himself, Dorothy," he said. "I daresay he will stay the night at Halstead if he hears that the roads are under water. Or perhaps he will leave the gig there and come back himself by the last train. You have no cause to feel uneasy yet."
His words cheered me greatly. I began to think that my fears were groundless. Perhaps my father would stay the night at Halstead, though to be sure I had hardly ever known him spend a night away from home. More than most men, he loved the shelter of his own roof. It seemed to me more likely that he would return by the last train, and I said so.
"Well, perhaps you are right," replied Howard, "but if I were in his place, I should certainly put up at Halstead. If you like, I will send a man into New Burford to inquire if anything has been seen of him; but you have really no cause for fear. I am just having my dinner; you had better come and have some with me," and, taking my arm in kindly fashion, he led me into the large dining-room.
Paternity had a wonderfully softening influence upon Howard Steinthorpe, it seemed to me. I had never known him so kind, so brotherly in his manner. Evidently his heart was kindled to unusual warmth by the thought of the young mother and infant upstairs. It no longer appeared impossible that I should come to feel towards him as a sister should. I took myself to task for the hard thoughts and suspicions I had cherished concerning him.
The dinner could not tempt me, so Howard ordered coffee and cake for me, and drawing a deep, low chair close to the glowing hearth, he made me rest there whilst he took his meal; and to such an extent had my anxiety been allayed, that I enjoyed sitting comfortably by the fire for half an hour whilst we chatted pleasantly.
But when Howard rose from the table, I, too, rose and said that I must be going home.
"Oh, you need not go yet," he said. "Wait whilst I have a cigar. I know you do not object to smoking."
So I waited; but I was no longer easy in doing so. When at last I insisted upon going, Howard went to the front door to judge of the weather.
"Whush! How it does rain!" he exclaimed. "Dorothy, you cannot go out in such weather. You would be drowned. You had better stay here for the night."
"Oh, no! I cannot do that," I said, earnestly; "father would be alarmed if he found me missing when he came back. Whatever the weather is, I must get home."
"Then I shall send you in the carriage," he said, with unusual good nature, for it must have involved some sacrifice of feeling to send horse and carriage out on such a night.
But he would not listen to my remonstrances. The order was given, and after some delay—for doubtless the coachman was not disposed to hurry himself in preparing for such an unpleasant drive—the carriage drove up to the door, and Howard carefully put me into it.
"You must come in a day or two to see your nephew," were his last words. "Percival Howard Steinthorpe, his name is to be, Mabel says. Now, mind, you are not to alarm yourself if Mr. Carmichael is not at home. Good-bye."
Earnestly I hoped that I should find my father had returned during my absence. But my anxiety was less than when I left home. My mind no longer dwelt exclusively on the fears that had suggested themselves. Master Percival Howard Steinthorpe shared my thoughts. I was not a little proud of my new dignity of aunthood. My heart had a loving welcome for my infant nephew. I was passionately fond of children, and I thought what happy hours Mabel and I would spend together in worshipping and petting this wonderful baby. The Towers would be a different place to me now that the home could boast a child. So I mused whilst the brougham plodded on along the muddy road, and with every gust of wind the rain lashed the glass.
It was past nine o'clock when I reached home, but my father had not come back. In spite of Howard's words, my heart sank within me as I entered the empty house. How dismal now looked the preparations I had made some hours earlier!
Martha met me with so long a face that I was forced to rally my courage as I met her questioning glance.
"Mr. Steinthorpe says that we need not be anxious, Martha. He thinks that father would probably put up at Halstead as it is such a stormy night."
"Does he think so?" said Martha, her tone expressive of a contrary opinion. "It would be something new for master to do so, that is all I can say."
"Why, of course," I returned, almost impatiently, "but the weather is unusually rough, and exceptional weather demands exceptional action."
Martha did not appear satisfied. I hastened to tell her of the baby's birth, and the news gave as pleasant a diversion to her thoughts as it had to mine, and inclined her to take a more cheerful view of things. We discussed the event at some length.
"It will be a fine piece of news for master when he comes in," Martha said. "He will be mighty proud and pleased to learn that he has a grandson."
Her words reawakened my anxiety. Would he come that night? Somehow I could not bring myself to believe that he would stay the night at Halstead. It was impossible to contemplate the idea of locking up the house and retiring to rest, satisfied with that bare supposition.
I went into father's room and made up the fire, that there might be a warm hearth to welcome him should he come in. Then I sat down and waited.
I tried to persuade myself that I was not nervous; I tried to fix my thoughts on Mabel and the baby, but the fear haunted my mind like a grim shadow dimming the brightness of every other idea.
Suddenly I started up with a cry of joy. My ear had caught the roll of wheels. Yes, it was the dog-cart; I could not mistake it, and my consciousness was quick to approve itself, saying, "I knew he would come home."
But how rapidly and heedlessly father was driving! I heard the wheel jar against the gate-post as the horse and cart dashed into the yard.
I sprang to the window which commanded the tan-yard, but I peered vainly into the darkness. I could see nothing, only hear the clash of hoofs and wheels as the cart went by. No matter; father had come home.
I ran out to the back door, opened it, and stood, fearless of the beating wind and rain, to welcome father. I could hear Luke checking and soothing the horse, which apparently was restless and excited, but I caught no tone of my father's voice. He must be very tired and exhausted. But why did he not come in? In my impatience, I caught hold of a shawl which hung in the passage, folded it over my head, and ran round to the yard.
In the darkness, I could at first see nothing save the gleam of the lantern Luke carried. But presently I discerned the outline of the vehicle, on which Luke was throwing the light as he tried to examine its condition.
"Luke," I cried, "where is father?"
"Eh, gude sakes, Miss Dorothy; how can I tell? And what 'll be the meaning of this, do you suppose?"
"Oh, Luke, what is it?" I cried, hastening to his side, for the man's bewildered, frightened manner warned me of some catastrophe.
Then he held the lantern so that I could see that the poor, panting, frightened horse was streaming wet, that the reins were broken and draggled, the cushions gone, and the whole vehicle wet and muddy, and knocked about to an indescribable extent. I saw, but my mind refused to take in what it meant.
"And where is father?" I said, stupidly.
"Eh, who can say?" the man returned. "The poor beast came blundering alone into the yard, and he's come some way without being driven, I reckon, by the look of things."
I knew the truth then. From that moment, I had no hope of seeing my father come home alive. They told me to have courage, and to hope for the best; but I knew that there could be no best in this case, and that courage was only needed for endurance.
I have no distinct recollection of what followed. I think Martha must have sent for Salome, for I know that my dear old nurse came to me and sat silently by my side during the long, awful watches of that night. She tried to get me to bed, but I would not seek rest whilst my father's fate was yet unknown.
All night long in the wind and rain, men were out making search along the country road. Towards morning, the wind sank and the rain ceased. I observed that it was so, for something prompted me to go to the window, and I stood there for awhile, with my burning forehead pressed against the pane as I blankly watched the growing light. I began to shiver at last, and I went back to the hearthrug and stretched myself there with my head resting on Salome's lap.
In that attitude, I must have slept for a while, for when I opened my eyes again it was broad daylight, and Martha stood in the room with a cup of tea in her hand which she had brought for me. I was very thirsty, and I was drinking the tea eagerly when I heard again the sound of wheels on the road which passed the house.
With a shiver, I set down the cup and went to the window. Dr. Perrow's chaise came in sight. It was early for the old man to be abroad, and I felt sure that he had come on a special mission to me. Without surprise I saw the horse drawn in at our gate, and the old man descend and approach the house. I went forward to meet him as he entered.
"You bring me bad news," I said, as he took my hand.
"It is true," he said, gravely; "this long, sad night has prepared you for bad news, has it not?"
I waited for him to tell me more, questioning him only with my eyes.
"Your poor father has been found beneath the bridge at New Burford," he began, falteringly; "he must have fallen—"
"Then he is drowned?" I said, in a low, quick whisper.
And he made a sign of assent.
====================
CHAPTER VII.
MAKING PLANS FOR THE FUTURE.
THE sad accident that had befallen my father was not an unheard-of thing in the flat, low-lying district in which we lived. Almost every winter we heard of narrow escapes from drowning at Burford, when the river, swollen by rain, flooded the road, and from time to time some child, or animal, or drunken man would be swept away by the waters. But when John Carmichael, one of the oldest and most respected inhabitants of the little place, found his death in this way, everyone was startled and dismayed, and there was some discussion as to what measures could be taken to prevent such catastrophes in future.
How it was that my father had fallen into the river could not easily be explained. Subsequent examination of the road showed that the horse and trap had passed over the bridge. There had been no missing the way in the darkness, and straying into the main current of the stream, a misadventure known to have befallen wayfarers at other times. If the horse had been able to struggle through the water and bring the vehicle home without great injury, why had not its driver kept his place? Had a sudden jar against the parapet of the bridge thrown him from his seat? Or had he, as Dr. Perrow was inclined to believe, been seized by the dizziness which had more than once overpowered him, and, losing consciousness, fallen into the deep swollen river? It was vain to ask. Of the dire fact only could we be sure—suddenly and alone, in the wet, stormy night, my father had met with his death.
I was not stunned by the shock of sudden bereavement. I did not faint, nor cry out, nor sob myself into a stupor of exhaustion. I listened quietly to all Dr. Perrow had to say, asked one or two questions, and then, refusing to allow Salome to accompany me, I went upstairs and locked myself in my own room. There had been tears in Salome's eyes, tears even in Dr. Perrow's, while Martha's sobs were loud and vehement, but I could shed no tear as yet.
I wanted to be alone, that I might realise the calamity that had befallen me, and think out the confusion of thoughts that pressed upon my mind. Shivering with cold and excitement, I sank upon the window-seat, and pressing my icy hands to my burning brow, I tried to force home on my consciousness the bitter truth that never more would father look on me and call me, "Dorothy!" Never more could I give him smile or word, nor render him the least service—never more!
Ah, truly has it been said that when those near to us are called away, it is never our tenderness we repent of. Rather do we mourn that we have not made better use of the opportunities the past offered for tender words and loving devotion.
All my shortcomings as a daughter rose up before me in this hour. How cold and careless had been my demeanour towards my father; how little had I studied his welfare, how seldom denied myself for his sake! How much better I might have served him; how much more I might have been to him! But now it was too late—too late! The words rang in my ears like a knell.
True, I had never wilfully failed in my duty towards my father. I had only been thoughtless. But I could no longer excuse my thoughtlessness, regarding it as a common characteristic of girlhood. I saw now that thoughtlessness is sin. Since God had given me a mind capable of distinguishing between right and wrong, and discerning the duties He would have me fulfil, it was sinful to live careless of all save my own selfish pleasure. And thus, amidst the poignant regrets that stung my heart in this hour of sorrow, it seemed to me that I had lived in the past.
Suddenly the noise of opening doors and tramping feet roused me to painful consciousness of the present. I shuddered, and, throwing myself on my knees, buried my head amidst the cushions of the window-seat as I recognised the meaning of those sounds. They were bringing my father's body into the house. Then at last, my composure gave way. Sob after sob shook my frame, and a hot shower of tears fell from my eyes as I cried to myself—
"Thank God, thank God, he did call me good once. God knows I never deserved it; but he did. He did call me good!"
I do not know how to write about the days that followed. They have left on my mind a confused sense of pain and gloom, and I cannot recall events in the order in which they fell. Edmund came home looking pale and sad, and was very tender in his care for me. There was the inquest and then the funeral, with all the trying preparations these demanded, and through those sad days, I suffered much anxiety on Mabel's account, wondering how she would bear it when they told her that father was dead.
I remember an hour on the day following the funeral, when I sat alone in the dining-room with my hands clasped in the lap of my black frock, doing nothing but gaze about me on familiar objects with that sense of unreality which sudden bereavement gives. Edmund was in the office with Howard Steinthorpe and a solicitor from Halstead. He was being made acquainted with the state of my father's business affairs, and presently he would come and tell me what had passed. But I felt no anxiety as to the information he would bring. I was yet living in the past, careless what of good or evil the coming days might have in store for me.
Presently I heard the tan-yard gate swing on its hinges, and concluded that Howard Steinthorpe and the solicitor were departing. Still some minutes passed ere Edmund came. When at last he entered, his face was flushed, his eyes very bright, and there was an indefinable something in his appearance which told me he had been very much put out. I thought it wisest to keep silence, and waited till he should begin to speak.
He drew a chair in front of the fire and fiercely attacked with the poker a prominent lump of coal ere he said a word. Suddenly he burst out—"For consummate astuteness commend me to that fellow Steinthorpe. He has managed things nicely for himself, upon my word."
"What has he done?" I asked, wondering at the passionate tremulousness with which my brother spoke.
"Oh, nothing," he said, bitterly; "he has merely contrived to possess himself of the tannery and all its belongings; of everything, in short, that we might have thought would have come to us at our father's death."
I looked at him in bewilderment. Seeing how astonished I was, Edmund made an effort to control himself and tell me quietly what he had learned to be the state of our affairs.
It appeared that for many years the tannery had not prospered. Year after year father had lost money by it, till, about the time of Mr. Howard Steinthorpe's coming to The Towers, he found himself on the verge of bankruptcy. My father's pride shrank from an issue involving so much disgrace in the eyes of his neighbours at Burford, and he eagerly sought some means of escaping it. He was led to appeal to Mr. Steinthorpe for help, and that gentleman, after making some inquiries into the condition of the business, consented to advance a large sum of money on security of a mortgage on the tannery and its appurtenances.
According to Howard's account, he had advised my father to effect sundry improvements in his methods of tanning which he believed would render the business more profitable; but father had obstinately refused to make any changes, and had gone on in the old way, to find himself after a time in increased difficulties. At that juncture Howard Steinthorpe pressed for payment of his debt, and urged my father to declare himself a bankrupt. But the idea of this was intolerable to my father, and he implored Steinthorpe to save him from it, and again Howard lent him a large sum of money, receiving as security a bill of sale on our house and furniture. And thus my father's sudden death left in the hands of Howard Steinthorpe everything belonging to the business and all we might have thought would be ours, when our father had passed from earth, since it was utterly out of Edmund's power to redeem the mortgages.
But, as Edmund told me, it was some time ere I could take in these facts.
"Do you mean to say that this house and the furniture are his?" I asked, incredulously.
Edmund nodded.
"Have we, then, nothing?" I asked. "Are we absolutely penniless?"
"Not quite so bad as that," replied Edmund. "There are a few hundred pounds coming to us from the insurance on father's life, that is all."
At that moment, I recalled the day when, seated in the summer parlour, I had overheard part of a business conversation between my father and Howard Steinthorpe. I remembered the hard, almost bullying tone Howard had assumed in speaking to father. I remembered the trouble in my father's voice as he said: "I cannot bear to make things hard for the children."
"Edmund," I said, "I don't know what you think; but I believe that Howard Steinthorpe was very hard upon father. Could he not have helped him in some other way, without grasping everything for himself?"
"Of course, he could," returned my brother. "No one could better afford than Steinthorpe to risk money on a doubtful investment. But although John Carmichael was his father-in-law, he would not venture a brass farthing to save him from failure without the best security. The worst of it is," continued Edmund, clenching his fist, "what maddens me beyond anything is, that I can see he counts upon making a very good thing out of the tannery. The business has begun to look up since the new machinery came into use."
"Did he express no feeling, no desire to help us?" I asked.
"Express feeling? Of course he did. You know how smoothly he always speaks. He deeply regretted our position, and said he was ready to give me all the assistance in his power for my settlement in life; but I told him, once and for all, that I would accept no help from him. I will receive no favours from such a snake in the grass."
As I looked at my brother's flushed, indignant face, I fully sympathised with the spirit in which he spoke.
"Nor will I," I said, proudly.
"Oh, but Dorothy, I forgot to tell you; he said there would always be a home for you at The Towers."
"Did he?" I exclaimed, flushing hotly in my turn. "I am very much obliged to him; but I will never accept a home from him. I could not breathe under his roof after all that has come to pass."
"But what will you do, Dorothy?" my brother asked. "You cannot support yourself."
"I 'must' support myself," I said, firmly, though my courage failed me at the thought; "I must take a situation."
"But what sort of a situation are you fit for, my Dottie?" asked Edmund, tenderly.
It was the very question father had put to me on my return from school two summers ago. Ah, he must have know then, poor father, that it was by no mean improbable that I might one day have to earn my living. I could not find it in at heart to blame my father for anything he had done; but I could see that words of blame not seldom trembled on Edmund's lips, though better feelings withheld him from uttering them. Our circumstance might have been much easier, if father had revealed his difficulties years ago, instead of vainly struggling to retrieve his position.
"I do not know what I am fit for," I said, sadly; "but there is surely something I can do. I would take a servant's place rather than owe anything to that man."
"Let us hope you may find a pleasanter post than that," said my brother. "I know you can't like the idea; but perhaps it would be well for you to go to The Towers for awhile! After all we must not be too hard on Steinthorpe. I suppose he has only acted as many other men would have acted in his place. And you must remember that he is Mabel's husband. You would not wish to effect a breach between you and your sister?"
"Mabel has hardly seemed like a sister since she belonged to Howard Steinthorpe," I said, bitterly.
"Of course, her husband stands first with her," Edmund replied; "but, Dorothy, you must see that at this time, when we mourn our father's loss, we three should draw closer to each other rather than allow anything to loosen the bond between us."
Edmund was right, I knew, but I would not own it. Pride was strong within my heart at that time; stronger far than love. We sat in silence for a while. The furrow on Edmund's forehead told that he was thinking deeply. Was he debating the question of my future or of his own? No one knew better than Edmund the poverty of my mental attainments, and how little they would justify my seeking a post as governess. Presently I ventured to disturb him by a question.
"Edmund," I said, "you will return to Cambridge, will you not?"
"I think so, Dottie, for the present," he said, "till the matter of the scholarship is decided. Oh, if only I could win it; what a help it would be to me now!" Edmund had told me when last he was at home of this scholarship, for which he was working with all his might. The money it would bring him, if he won it, would certainly be most useful now.
"Oh, I hope you will get it!" I exclaimed. "I believe you will, too."
"I am far from sharing your belief," he said, shaking his head; "for I have no mean competitors to contend with. And, you see, I have lost time, and been thrown out of training through the shock of our great loss. But, perhaps, by working ten hours a day when I get back, I may be able to make up for lost time."
"Ten hours a day!" I exclaimed. "How dreadful, Edmund! It is enough to kill you! Surely there is no need for you to work so hard."
He smiled at my outcry. "That is the way we do things at Cambridge. The prizes of university life are only for men who 'can' work hard."
That night I lay long awake, revolving in my mind sundry plans by which I might secure independence. But I saw objections to each. I could resolve on nothing save that on the morrow I would write to my old governess, Miss Carefull, and ask her to advise me.
I had come to this decision when my thoughts were turned into another and gloomier channel, for in the stillness of the night I heard my brother coughing. Alas! That hard, hacking cough, what a chill it sent to my heart, what an awful possibility cast its drear shadow upon the future. Who does not know how when death has once entered the home, we cling the closer to the loved ones who remain, fearing lest the grim enemy should rob us of them also?
Such fear took definite shape for me now. I cried to myself, "Edmund, too, will be taken; I shall lose him who is dearer to me than all beside. I shall be left alone and desolate."
My heart made wild protest against this unendurable idea. Here was a thing I could not bear. God would be cruel if He smote me thus. How could I live without the brother, who was the only being I had to cling to now? Ah, how wildly I prayed under the pressure of that fear! In effect, I cried unto the Lord—
"Cause that this which I dread shall not come to pass, and I will be so
good! I will toil at whatever work Thou givest me; I will do and suffer
anything—only spare me this!"
Who will say that such a wilful, unworthy prayer as this is unheeded by the God of love?
"Like as a father pitieth his children—"
That scripture rebukes the thought. Yes, verily He hears us even when we pray thus, though He does not always answer us according to our words.
Praying and weeping, I lost myself in sleep at last. With the morning, hope dawned on me again; I took up the cares of the present and forgot all forebodings.
Howard Steinthorpe came in soon after breakfast, and I forced myself to greet him with politeness, though my cold, almost sulky, manner did not, I felt sure, escape his notice. Mabel was as well as could be expected, he said; he had told her of our father's death, and though much distressed, she was maintaining admirable self-control.
Then Howard began to talk to me about my future. He appeared amazed when I quietly but firmly declined his offer of home.
"But what will you do?" he asked. "You cannot live on the interest of those few hundred pounds."
I told him that I did not yet know what I should do; but I was determined to be independent. I could see that he was much annoyed by my refusal. Mabel would be hurt by my conduct, he declared.
As he went away, he said, with a sneer, that he hoped I "should enjoy independence."
After that, I lost no time in writing to Miss Carefull. Two days later I received her reply, and with it there came into my hands another letter, at which hardly glanced until I had satisfied myself as to what Miss Carefull had to say to me.
She wrote very kindly. It was clear that I had her warmest sympathy in my sad loss and the consequent difficulties which beset me; but she was too true a friend not to be quite frank with me.
She reminded me how weak and inaccurate was the knowledge I had gained at school; how short a way I had travelled in the various sciences I professed to study; how imperfect was my acquaintance with foreign languages. She did not wish to pain me, but she felt bound to say that she could not conscientiously recommend me as a teacher, save to very little children, and the position of a nursery governess was one she would not like my father's daughter to hold.
What she would advise, she said, was that for a while I should give up all thought of a situation, and devote myself to earnest study with a view to fitting myself for some good post in the future. She had always maintained that I had good abilities, and she was sure that if I really "worked," I might turn a year's study to such good account that she need have no hesitation in recommending me as a governess. She could not doubt that there was some home open to me, whilst I pursued my studies (she meant Mabel's home, of course, though I had carefully refrained from mentioning to her that I was welcome to reside at The Towers); but should I ever wish to spend a week or two in London, she would be delighted to receive me, if by any possibility she could make room for me.
Dear, kind Miss Careful!! Her advice was sound although it galled me. Her letter did not help me, as I wished, by suggesting some remunerative employment on which I could enter at once. A blank feeling of disappointment came over me as I re-read her words. Live at The Towers for a while, as she half-suggested, I would not, yet in no other way did it seem possible for me to give myself to study.
As I thought thus, my eyes fell on the other letter lying near me, which I had forgotten. I took it up and examined it curiously, having no idea who the writer could be. The address was written in a small, cramped, old-fashioned hand, so fine that the characters looked as if they had been traced with the point of a pin. I had a vague idea that I had seen this writing before, but whose it was I could not remember.
Opening the envelope, I unfolded the note and glanced quickly at the signature.
Mary Lyell. To be sure; this was my father's old friend, Mrs. Lyell, of whom he had often spoken to me. It was at her house that he had first met my mother, and he had ever cherished a peculiar, reverent affection for this noble Christian woman, as he esteemed her, and at rare intervals had paid her a visit. I had never seen Mrs. Lyell's home at Weylea, but Mabel had twice stayed there for a week or two. It was my own fault that I had not been there, for Mrs. Lyell had invited me, and father had wished me to accept her invitation, but I refused to go. For the account Mabel had given me of Mrs. Lyell's piety and strict notions, and the methodical, unvarying routine observed by her household, made me take a prejudice against the old lady. I felt sure that I should never get on with her. I was not like Mabel, who could adapt herself to the ways and thoughts of every one with whom she was thrown.
What had Mrs. Lyell written to me now? Very kind, very soothing seemed the words to me as I read them. I have the letter still; it is one of those I can never destroy.
"My dear Dorothy," she wrote—"To-day's 'Times' has informed me of your
sad loss. A heavy sorrow it is that has befallen you; it would be
neither wise nor kind to represent it otherwise. I, who have known your
father nearly all his life, share your sorrow to some extent. There
was no friend I esteemed more highly than John Carmichael, and life is
poorer to me now because he is gone. But it is a small matter that I
should miss a friend for a little while. The days of my pilgrimage are
almost over. I grieve for you, my child, to whom life yet seems long.
But remember that though the fathers of our flesh leave us, the Father
of our spirits is ever with us. To Him I commend you. He is the Father
of the fatherless, and He will be your guardian and friend.
"Will you write to me soon and tell me what are your plans for the
future? I am wondering whether you would like to come to me for a
while. Your home, I suppose, will now be broken up. Your sister, I
know, is married, and your brother much engaged with his studies. If
such a quiet change as a visit to an old woman would be acceptable, I
should rejoice to welcome you. Come for as long or as short a time as
you will. There is a home for you in my house and in my heart if you
will have it.—Your affectionate friend, MARY LYELL."
This letter touch me keenly, filling me at once with wonder and gratitude. Here was a home offered to me where I could pursue my studies in peace, and prepare myself for the teacher's vocation. The very quiet and monotony of Mrs. Lyell's life, which had withheld me from visiting her before, would be to my advantage now. In her home I should be free from all outward distractions, all temptations to prefer play to work.
When I showed Edmund the two letters, he heartily approved of the decision to which I had come. I wrote without delay to Mrs. Lyell, telling her of the position in which I was placed, and how glad I should be of the shelter of her home for a time, whilst I endeavoured by diligent study to make up for my idleness at school. Her answer was even warmer and kinder than her previous note had been. She was delighted to hear that I was willing to come to her. She promised me that I should enjoy perfect freedom in her home; I should spend my time as I liked, only she should feel it incumbent upon her to see that I did not work too hard and injure my health!
I smiled as I read the last words. No one who knew me could have imagined that my health would ever be endangered by over-work.
A few days later Edmund went back to Cambridge and I was left alone, save for our faithful old Salome, in the house which was no longer a home. There were final arrangements to be made with respect to the furniture and belongings of the old home, which had to be postponed till Mabel was strong enough to enter into them, so I could not leave Burford immediately as I desired to do. Mabel sent me an invitation, which was almost a command, to go to The Towers; but as I still cherished enmity towards her husband, I declined to take up my abode, even temporarily, under his roof.
When first I saw Mabel after our father's death, she did not hesitate to tell me how wrong she thought me. She looked prettier than ever, invested with the new grace of motherhood, and as I held in my arms the bundle of rich lace and lawn from which peeped out the wee round face of my nephew, I was almost sorry for a moment that I had decided to go away. I could not look without emotion on the little one whose life had begun on the wild, stormy evening that had seen our father's death.
"Is he not a beauty?" cried Mabel, gazing on her infant son with tender pride. "Ah, see, he is smiling! Look at his eyes; are they not the purest violet? But nurse says they will change as he gets older. Is it not a pity?"
"Yes, but it is just the same with kittens' eyes," I remarked irreverently, assuming some 'brusquerie' to hide what I really felt. "Not one of those three I took such trouble with has blue eyes now, though they all seemed to have blue ones at first."