'The night is mother of the day,
The winter of the spring.'
Mrs. Forsyth came to see her sister directly she returned from town, and was vexed that she had not been sent for before. She was quite willing that I should remain where I was, and so after she had returned home again I had some quiet, restful weeks during Miss Rayner's convalescence. I call them restful, but though I had the sense of peace and rest deep down in my heart, I am afraid on the surface I was restless and ill at ease. Every post awakened fresh expectation and hope, only to be followed by the depression of disappointment. I prayed much to be given a quiet mind, and I do think, to some extent, my prayer was answered. And I had the intense joy of seeing Miss Rayner's whole life change, her interests and thoughts now centred on things above. She did not say much, but her Bible was now her constant companion, and I felt by her conversation how real and deep the change was in her.
It was one evening in the beginning of July that we were sitting out in a low verandah that ran along one side of the house. The sun was setting in front of us, and a glorious sunset it was; the sky was illuminated with rosy light from the deepest crimson to the most delicate pink, and the fleecy clouds that passed by seemed bathed in its golden splendour.
'It always makes me think of heaven's gates,' I was saying to Miss Rayner; but before she had time to reply we were startled by the sudden appearance of Hugh.
In a moment I was on my feet, and I felt every vestige of colour leave my face.
'You have some news!' I cried.
For answer he quietly put a letter in my hand, and when I saw the well-known writing the reaction was too much, I sat down and burst into a flood of tears.
Miss Rayner wisely left me alone. She drew Hugh away, and took him inside the drawing-room, saying, 'It has been a strain to the child—this time of suspense, though she has taken it so quietly. She will be better left to herself.'
And then when they had left me I opened my letter. It had evidently met with some delay on the road, for it was written a long time past. Only one sheet as follows:—
'MY DEAREST,—
'How you must have wondered at my silence, and how little I thought what a test your love and trust would be put to during this long time! When I reached New York I found it imperative to push on somewhere in these remote regions, from where I date this letter. I had only time to send you a card, but I little thought how long it would be before you would hear from me again. A bad accident resulted in my being stretched on a sick-bed for two whole months, and I am only now able to write. But I am on the way to speedy recovery now, and as soon as I can be moved I shall make the best of my way home to you. The business I was called out here about is at an end. Circumstances have made me wonder, as I lie on my bed, whether it is still right to allow you to link your life with mine. But I cannot write it. I must see you face to face, if God permits, and then we must talk it over. I am hoping to be in England soon after you receive this. Till then, darling, good-bye.
'Ever yours,
'P. STANTON.'
I sat with the letter in my hand, one thought after another following in rapid succession. But what really filled me with anxiety and dismay was the date on which the letter was posted. According to his statement he ought to have arrived in England long before this, and why had he not done so?
I rose from my seat and called Miss Rayner, who came to my side at once.
'Well? Good news, I hope!' she said cheerily.
'Why isn't he here?' I said, and I handed her the letter. She read it, and told Hugh its contents, as I did not seem to have the voice to speak.
'He may have been delayed,' Hugh said at once, 'I will go up to his agents again in town, and find out if they know anything of his movements.'
'Again!' I exclaimed. 'Have you been before then?'
'Yes,' he said hesitatingly; 'there was nothing to tell you, or I would have done so. They had lost sight of him themselves.'
'When did you go?' I demanded, 'and what did they say? Oh! Hugh! you might have told me. I didn't know he had any agents in town, or I would have gone myself. Let me come with you now—tonight.'
Miss Rayner laid her hand on my arm. 'Don't be so excited, child. Use a little of your common sense. Do you think there is any chance of getting up to town at this time of night, or if there were, would you be likely to get the information you need? Hugh can sleep here, and go up the first thing tomorrow morning.'
To this Hugh agreed at once. He seemed almost as anxious as I for the welfare of his friend.
The letter had brought little comfort to me, but I could see it had greatly relieved Miss Rayner's mind. My one fear now was that it was illness, perhaps death, that was the cause of his absence.
'He says so little,' I remarked presently; 'he does not tell me the nature of the accident, or how badly he has been hurt. And why should the letter have been delayed?'
'That is easily accounted for,' said Hugh, taking up the envelope and examining the post-mark. 'He was evidently at some rough mountain place when he wrote, and posts are few and far between. If you trust your letters to a messenger or a passer-by, you may think yourself fortunate if he remembers to post them at all, and they may often lie in his coat pocket for weeks before he thinks of them.'
That was an anxious evening to me. As I was wishing Hugh 'good-night' I said, 'I have never thanked you yet for coming over to me at once with the letter. It was very good of you.'
'The governor suggested posting it, but I thought you would like to get it as soon as possible. Nell was dying to open it; she told me to tell you she wanted you home again. When are you going to part with her, aunt?' And he turned towards Miss Rayner as he spoke.
'When she wants to go,' was the blunt reply.
I went to bed soon after, but I could not sleep. I read and re-read the letter, and wished much that further details had been given. Yet when I thought of him penning those lines on a sick-bed, perhaps with the greatest difficulty and pain, I could wish he had not troubled to write so much. Earnestly did I pray that his health and strength might be given back to him. I felt it such a comfort to pour out all my doubts and fears to God, knowing that He was not only willing to listen, but able to control all Himself, and watch over and protect, yes, and heal the absent one. I fell asleep, repeating to myself, 'The steps of a good man are ordered by the Lord,' and it brought comfort to my soul.
Hugh was off the first thing the next morning, but Miss Rayner would not allow me to go up to town with him, and it seemed the longest day that I had ever spent. Miss Rayner asked me if I would like to return to the Forsyths at once, but I shook my head.
'You are not quite strong yet,' I said to her, 'and I do like being here. I feel as if they will be so full of questions, and will pick my letter to pieces, if I go back. General Forsyth always imagines the worst about people. None of them believed it must be illness that caused his silence, though I felt myself it must be. They all ascribed the worst motives they could think of for it. And—and sometimes I feel I can't forgive them for doubting and mistrusting him so.'
'You don't mean that?' Miss Rayner said, looking at me steadily.
'No,' I said, colouring a little, 'I have no ill-feeling really, I ought not to have harboured it for an instant, but it would come. I try and look at it from their side, and of course I know that what you all say is true. A few months ago he was a stranger; oh! Miss Rayner, tell me, do you fear the worst? If he is dead, I think my heart will break!'
'Hearts are not so easily broken,' Miss Rayner replied, with a little sigh; 'my dear, you must have patience and wait. I think most likely he has only been delayed. You would have heard before now if the worst had happened.'
Hugh returned about eight o'clock that evening, but he had little news to give us. Philip's agents had known only quite recently of his illness, and were expecting to hear of his arrival in England every day.
So there was nothing for me to do but wait patiently. I left Miss Rayner soon after, for the Forsyths wanted me back.
'I shall miss you, child,' she said, as we were parting, 'and you must pray for me. I find that the habits of a lifetime are not easily uprooted; if I get into a tangle, I shall send for my little minister to put me straight again.'
'No; you don't want any one to come between you and God,' I said with a smile; but I left her with a heavy heart. We had grown, in spite of the disparity between our ages, to be such very close friends since her illness.
And then I took up my old life again, hoping every day to hear fresh tidings, and trying to bear the disappointment as brightly and bravely as I could.
One afternoon I wandered out by myself to the moor. It was a hot day in August, but there was always a breeze up there, and I loved to get away from every one; the loveliness and stillness soothed and comforted me. I had my Bible with me, and the hours slipped by so quickly that when I began to retrace my way homewards I found it was much later than I had imagined. At the entrance to the village I met Kenneth. 'Well, you are a nice one!' was his remark when he saw me; 'do you know we have been scouring the country for you all the afternoon? A telegram came for you about a quarter of an hour after you had left the house—Goodness gracious! are you going to faint? There's nothing wrong—allow me to finish my sentence—and now there's something better than a telegram arrived in the shape of a two-legged specimen——'
'He has come then!' I exclaimed. 'Oh, Kenneth, tell me!'
'Who has come? Who are you expecting? You interrupt me so that I have lost the thread of my discourse, and forget what I was going to say.'
Then seeing that I was not in a state to stand much more joking, he altered his tone. 'Yes, he has arrived, looking rather seedy, but he is alive. He has been closeted with the governor for the last two hours, giving an account of himself. I hope it is all fair and square, but he won't let us into his secrets, though I told him his conduct had been rather "fishy" in our eyes. What are you going to do? Run away from me? You are such a dignified little soul generally, that I expected we should have a saunter up to the house together; but I forgot that "love lends wings," isn't that the saying? I will race you if you like. Now, one, two, three, and away!'
And in another minute we were tearing through the village and up the avenue to the house in a style that would have greatly shocked Mrs. Forsyth, had she seen us. Kenneth gave a loud 'whoop' when we entered the hall, which brought every one out at once, but I was only conscious of one form, one greeting, and the next minute I found myself drawn into the empty library. Then my composure gave way: clinging hold of him, I could do nothing but sob, and for some minutes there was perfect silence between us. I could only feel the touch of his fingers on my hair, and the strong beating of his heart, against which my head was resting.
And then I controlled myself, and looked up into his face. 'Oh, Philip, how ill you must have been! How worn and ill you look! Are you well again?'
'Very nearly well, thank God!' was the reply. 'And now come and sit down, childie, here by me, and let me tell you everything. You have never doubted me, have you? I need not ask you, for your eyes tell me. Only you are looking white and thin, darling. The suspense must have tried you!'
'It is all right now,' I said. 'I am longing to hear it all.'
But Philip's explanation had to be postponed—the gong rang for dinner, and I knew we must not keep the others waiting.
As I went up to my room to change my dress, Nelly seized hold of me. 'Oh, Hilda, I'm so glad for you! And it will come all right, though father is shaking his head downstairs, and saying to mother he doubts whether he ought to countenance your engagement proceeding. What is it? has he lost money?'
'I don't know,' I answered,' and I don't care. I only know he is safe home again, that is quite enough for me at present!'
'My wife, my life. O we will walk this world
Yoked, in all exercise of noble end,
. . . . Indeed I love thee, come
Yield thyself up: my hopes and thine are one.'—Tennyson.
It was after dinner, wandering arm-in-arm through the dusky garden, that Philip told me the whole story. It appeared that a young cousin of his whom he had promised a dying mother to befriend, had fallen into bad company out in New York, and had accomplished several successful forgeries for very large amounts in Philip's name. He was clerk in a house of business out there with which Philip was connected; in fact, he had obtained the situation for him. The forgeries were discovered whilst Philip was with us, and though he forbade any proceedings to be taken until he had investigated the matter himself, Ronald Stanton, the culprit, took fright and absconded, taking with him a great deal of money from the firm in which he was. And Philip on the impulse of the moment determined to follow his track and save him if possible from worse ruin. It was the wish to shield this cousin that kept him silent, and made him leave us with so little explanation. When he arrived at New York, he told the managers of the firm that he would be responsible for the missing sums, and started with a confidential servant in quest of the runaway. He went through a variety of adventures before he came on his track, and then at length when he met him in the depths of some backwoods, the young fellow turned upon him in desperation, and before Philip could explain that it was on an errand of mercy and not of justice that he had followed him, in the heat of the moment Ronald drew his revolver and shot him.
'It was very nearly proving fatal for me,' said Philip as he told the story, 'but God in His mercy prevented the sin of murder being laid to the poor lad's charge. He was in such a state of mind when he found what he had done, that if it had not been for my servant's restraining hand, he would have made an attempt on his own life. I could just manage to say, "I have come to save you," and then I remembered no more; but when I recovered consciousness I found that he had become my watchful, untiring nurse. I think it was due to his indefatigable care that I recovered. Both he and my man Dawson never left me night or day. Poor fellow! it was as I feared. He had been a mere tool in the hands of others, who had decamped, leaving him to bear the consequences of his sin.'
'But, Philip, how long were you ill? And were you hurt much? I have no pity for your cousin—no, none; how could he, oh, how could he treat you so?'
'Perhaps I had better tell you no more. Let us talk of other things.'
'No, no, I want to hear everything; please go on.'
'I tried to write to you when I got better, for I thought you would be less alarmed than if a stranger wrote to you; but in illness one does not take much count of time, and I had no idea that I had left you so long without a line. At last I was able to manage, and then I did hope I should get home. Ronald, poor boy, waited to come back and give himself up to the hands of justice, and in telling your guardian about it he thinks I was wrong in not letting the law take its course. But I would be the only sufferer, it was my money he had made away with, and I could bear the loss. He was so thoroughly and truly repentant that I did not regret it. I made arrangements for him to go and start life afresh out there on a farm. It is his determination to pay back gradually as he can all he owes; but this would be the work of a lifetime. It was through gambling that he was tempted first of all.'
'But why did you not come home at once?'
'I had a relapse, and found when I reached the nearest town I must go into hospital to have the bullet extracted, which had never been done. I did send you a letter from there, which you ought to have had, but an accident happened to some mail bags about that time; they got burnt, and I can only conclude yours must have been amongst them.'
'And were you very ill in hospital?'
'I had rather a bad time of it. If I had been able to have a proper doctor at the time, it would have saved me a good deal. As it is, my right lung has been injured, and I shall have to be careful for a long time.'
'I feel as if I can never forgive that cousin of yours, never! Oh! Philip, why were you so good to him?' And unnerved by the account he had given me, I burst into tears.
'It has been too much for you to-night, childie,' and Philip drew me closer to him. 'You will feel differently towards him to-morrow. I have told you all, for you have a right to know, and I found I was obliged to tell your guardian; but I did it in the strictest confidence, and I know he will respect my wishes about it. Others need not know particulars, and you must try to forget it. Now to come to the subject that will concern us much more closely. This has made a difference in my prospects. I have not gone thoroughly into my affairs yet, but I see nothing for it but to let Cobham for a few years. I will not go into debt, neither will I mortgage it, and I cannot now afford to keep the place up as it should be. I think eventually I shall be able to go back to it, but not at present. Will you be content with a small house somewhere near town, while I follow my literary pursuits, as much now for gain as formerly for pleasure?'
'Why do you ask me such a question? you know how satisfied I shall be.'
'The general is not. He is very distressed about it, and then there is another objection now—my health.' He stopped, and his face looked grave and worn in the', dusky twilight. I stood still and faced him, a dreadful fear taking possession of me.
'Philip, tell me truly, is your life in danger? are the doctors afraid of anything serious?'
He took my hands in both his, as he answered, 'There is nothing to be anxious about, my darling, at present. I shall need care and nursing, perhaps. They give me hope that time will outgrow the mischief, but perhaps it may shorten my life. I tell you this because I want you to see what is before us. I have no right to expect you to link your life with mine under these circumstances, and your guardian is very doubtful as to the wisdom and expediency of it.'
'Does he think,' I said, the blood rushing to my cheeks with indignation, 'that this will make any difference in my feeling towards you? It will certainly in one way; it will make me ten times more conscious of the honour it will be to become your wife. It will make me realize more and more your unselfish devotion and goodness towards the one who has marred and spoilt your life, and make me know what a noble——'
'Hush! hush!' he said, half laughing, as he dropped my hands, and put his arm round me, 'you may think me a hero to-night, but in the calm light of to-morrow morning you may think differently. And yet I am so confident of your love and trust that I have never doubted how you would act. I would not let you sacrifice yourself, if I were sure in my own heart that my health was seriously injured; but I do not think it is. I believe the doctors are right when they say that time will heal the mischief. I do not think we shall be called to give each other up, if you are content to take me as I am.'
Much more we said to each other on that calm, still evening; and before we came indoors we gave thanks together to our Heavenly Father for His goodness in bringing us together again.
I was obliged to have an interview with my guardian the next morning. He was very kind, but said he was doubtful whether, under the present circumstances, I ought not to look at things with a different eye. When he found, as I think he must have expected to find, my opinions on the subject were totally unchanged, he ended up by saying, 'Of course I have tried to act towards you as I should towards my own daughters. It is a disappointment to me that you will not be as comfortably off with Stanton as I had supposed you would be at first, and there is his state of health that is a drawback; but still I cannot press you to break off the engagement, having given my sanction to it. I only wish he had not acted in the extraordinary quixotic way he has. Then all this trouble might have been spared you both. For a man of his age and stamp, I consider he has been most foolish, if not to say culpable, in the manner he has treated that young scoundrel of a cousin!'
Two evenings after this we were in the drawing-room after dinner, when Philip asked me if I would play to them.
There was silence amongst the others whilst I opened my violin case, and then Kenneth remarked, as I began to tighten the strings, 'Can it ever be used again? Don't you know, Stanton, that it was not only a broken heart, but a broken fiddle you left behind you, when you departed so suddenly last time you were here? It's astonishing how soon hearts get mended, and fiddles too, it appears. Goody has shuddered at the sight of that instrument ever since. I thought the epitaph on her tombstone would be, "She never played again!"'
I found a difficulty in playing that night in the midst of this nonsense. I seemed to have lived a lifetime since last I had touched my violin; but when I had once started, I as usual forgot everything but just the comfort and soothing it brought me. And when I had finished, Nelly said, impulsively, 'There! now you look like your old self, Hilda. You haven't been the same since that night Kenneth was speaking of. Don't you love your violin? I am sure you do, from the way you handle it!'
'Of course I love it,' I responded warmly.
Kenneth laughed. 'You have a rival, Stanton. I tell you, when she stands up there, her eyes getting bigger and bigger, and her precious fiddle hugged tighter and tighter, you are absolutely nowhere—out of her affections and thoughts altogether! I think, if I were in your place, I should quietly make away with it when you have an opportunity. It will bring discord into your life, I warn you; it is capable of it!'
We all laughed; but Philip said to me afterwards, 'Everything that I see and hear makes me realize afresh what an anxiety and strain I have brought into your life. Can you forgive me?'
'Is there anything to forgive?' I asked. 'I have been anxious, Philip—it was no wonder, but I think the trouble and anxiety has only made me realize the force and strength of that verse in the Psalms, as I never should have done otherwise: "God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble."'
'And it is worth going through the darkness to experience His tenderness and care,' was the rejoinder.
Philip had a great deal of business to do for the next month or two, and then it was settled that our marriage should take place the latter end of November. A dreary month for a wedding generally, but it was not so in our case, and it was a sunshiny, frosty morning when we stood together in the little village church as man and wife.
I could not have believed, if any one had told me a twelvemonth before, how much I should have felt the parting with the Forsyths—Nelly especially lay very near to my heart; we had had many a talk together of things above, and I sometimes dared to hope that she had grasped hold of the truth, though she was fearful of letting others know about it. The night before our wedding she came to me and asked me to pray with her, which I did; and then with tears in her eyes she said, 'I shall miss you so dreadfully, Hilda; you have helped me to see things so differently, and I don't think I shall ever be satisfied now with just a whirl of gaiety.'
'You have promised to take my Sunday class, so that will give you an interest,' I said, trying to speak brightly; 'and oh! Nelly, if you get to know the Lord as your personal Friend, you won't miss me. He will be quite sufficient.'
'I am trying to,' she said softly; 'I would like to know Him as you do.' Then in a brisker tone she said, 'And you will ask me to stay with you soon, won't you? When you are in town, you know! I should like to come, and I won't ask to go to any theatres, or even to a picture gallery, or a ride in the Row, if you think it worldly! But do let me come just to be with you.'
Miss Graham bid me good-bye with much grief; but I felt happy about her; she was steadfastly setting her face heavenwards, and praying and influencing her pupil into the same path too. I think Mrs. Forsyth was genuinely sorry for me to leave, and when I said something to her about being so sorry that my views had clashed with hers, and hoping she would understand how it was, she gave me a warm kiss, saying, 'Never mind the past, my dear. Perhaps if I had been brought up differently, I should have seen more with you. We shall miss you very much, for you have been a great help and comfort to us whilst you have been here.'
Miss Rayner appeared at the wedding, to every one's great astonishment. Her parting words caused me much thought and consideration: 'Don't be surprised if you hear soon that I have given up my chicks, and departed to the wilds of Africa as a missionary. I must do something with my bit of wasted life left me.'
My little Sunday scholars were in full force at the church gate as we went through, and irrepressible Roddy darted up to me and clutched hold of my dress,—'You isn't going away to heaven, is you, like Jim?'
'Not yet, I think,' I answered, trying to detach his chubby fingers from my skirt.
'I thought you was, in that booful angel dress!' And he fell back with a trace of disappointment on his rosy face.
Kitty was by his side openly weeping. As I came down the path after it was all over, I could not help giving her a special 'good-bye.' Her sad little face flushed with pleasure as I did so, and she murmured, 'I never shall forget you, teacher, you've taught me to love Jesus'; and my own eyes filled with tears at her words.
As we drove away to the station on our way to the Continent for a month or six weeks, and I felt I was on the threshold of a new life, I said to Philip, 'I feel as if I could put to this chapter of my life, "Not one thing hath failed of all the good things which the Lord God spake concerning you!"'
'One in heart, in interest and design,
Gird up each other to the race divine.'—Cowper.
'Hilda, I have an old friend coming to dine with us to-night. I came across him in town to-day; you are sure to like him, he is a general favourite wherever he goes.'
'What is his name?'
'Ratcliffe—Charles Ratcliffe. I have known him a long time, before he cared for serious things. It was a meeting in town to which I took him that was, in God's hands, the means of his conversion. That was many years ago, when I was just beginning to understand these things; I was quite a young fellow myself, and he is my senior by many years. I shall like you to know him, and I want him to know my wife.'
We were at breakfast, and it was a cold morning in February. Philip had taken a flat in South Kensington, and though in many ways we should have preferred a house of our own, we were perfectly happy with this arrangement. The only anxiety I had was Philip's health; his lung that had been so affected still gave him trouble, and he was often confined to the house for weeks at a time. All day long I kept repeating the name of Charles Ratcliffe over to myself, and wondering where I had heard it before, but it was not until our guest was actually in our drawing-room, and shaking hands with me, that it flashed across me. Miss Rayner had been engaged to a Mr. Ratcliffe. Could this be the same, I wondered? And I determined presently to find out. He was a tall, handsome man with an iron-grey moustache and clear blue eyes. I could not keep my gaze off him. How often I had longed that somehow or other I might be permitted to bring those two together again! It would be strange if I were to discover that he was the identical man.
Our conversation got round to the Forsyths and their part of the country, and then I said boldly, 'One of the prettiest parts is where Mrs. Forsyth's sister lives, a Miss Rayner. She lives in an old farmhouse close to the moor. I spent some of my happiest days with her.'
He did not start or show any emotion at the name, as I hoped he would; but he said slowly, after a minute's pause, 'I used to know a Miss Rayner long ago—Helen Rayner her name was. I suppose it is the same, as I heard she had settled down there somewhere.'
'She is a very great friend of mine,' I said warmly; 'but I do not think she will be there much longer now, she talks of giving the place up. In fact, she is coming up to town to stay with us next week for a few days, whilst she is meditating an interview with some missionary society; she wants to go abroad as a missionary. Perhaps, as you are old friends, Mr. Ratcliffe, you would like to meet her. Won't you come and dine with us again whilst she is here? Would next Friday suit you?'
I saw Philip glance across at me with slight surprise; but I was too intent on my own plan to mind, and he at once added his invitation to mine.
Mr. Ratcliffe hesitated a little, and then asked if he might leave it an open question for that night, as he hardly knew what his engagements were. And having gained my point I changed the subject, and Miss Rayner's name was not mentioned again.
We had a pleasant evening with our guest. And when he had gone Philip turned to me.
'I need not ask you how you like him,' he said, with an amused sparkle in his eye; 'I never saw my little wife more determined on making acquaintance with any of my friends, or of improving the opportunity. Who else is to be invited to your dinner-party on Friday, may I ask?'
'You mustn't tease me,' I rejoined,' for you don't know my motives. Come and sit down here, and let me tell you all about it.'
He did not seem as interested in my story as I was, though he laughed at my 'match-making' propensity, as he called it.
'I recollect now,' he said, 'that he was engaged to some girl at the time I first knew him. It is strange that it should have been to Miss Rayner. I remember how glad I was when he told me it was broken off, for I feared she would be a stumbling-block to him. I should let matters alone if I were you, little woman. They are very happy now, both of them. It's too late in the day to alter things, and neither of them would wish it, I am sure!'
'You men never understand these things,' I said, laughing; but at the same time I felt very doubtful as to whether my experiment would succeed.
Mr. Ratcliffe did accept for Friday, and now I grew very nervous about telling Miss Rayner. She arrived, and had been two days with us before I could pluck up courage to broach the subject, and it was Philip who eventually did it for me.
'By the bye, Miss Rayner,' he said at breakfast on Friday morning, 'a friend of mine is coming in to dinner to-night. I hope you won't object. Ratcliffe is his name.'
She gave a little start, but answered, 'Of course I have no objection; but I told Hilda I would not be drawn into society whilst up here. I came up solely on business, and when that is over I shall go home.'
She did not ask any questions about him, and I said nothing. When he was announced that evening she and I were alone in the drawing-room. Certainly of the two Mr. Ratcliffe was the coolest. 'We have met before, Miss Rayner, so need no introduction,' he said, holding out his hand.
She took it. 'Yes,' she said, 'it was a surprise when I heard your name mentioned. What cold weather we are having!' and we drifted into general topics of conversation as easily as possible.
There was no constraint at the dinner-table.
Miss Rayner could always talk well, and I never heard her talk better than on this night; more than once I saw Mr. Ratcliffe looking rather furtively across the table at her, but nothing could have been more indifferent than his tone when addressing her.
Then we began to talk on mission work at home and abroad. Mr. Ratcliffe seemed thoroughly at home with this subject, whilst Miss Rayner grew more and more silent. I was longing for an opportunity to leave them alone, and hoped that we might succeed in doing so after dinner, but I could not manage it. When he was taking his leave he turned to Miss Rayner and said, 'Would you care to come down and see over the premises of the East End Mission I am interested in? If you have never seen London slum work, I think this would give you an insight into it.'
And to my great delight Miss Rayner responded in the affirmative. They arranged a time, and tried to include me in the visit, but I declined; and when the next morning I saw the two walk off together, I turned to Philip with a beaming face.
'There!' I exclaimed. 'I consider I have managed that. Now if they don't make it up, it won't be my fault.'
'You are a foolish child,' Philip responded, as he turned round from his writing to draw me to him. 'Why should you be so anxious to bring them together?'
'Because,' I said, as I laid my cheek lightly against his, 'I want them to be as happy as we are, Philip, and I believe they will be.'
Miss Rayner returned from her morning in the East End very quiet and preoccupied. I asked no questions, but was surprised when later in the day she said to me, 'I must leave you to-morrow, Hilda. I have done my business, and am longing to get out of London. It never suits me. I feel as if I cannot breathe here.'
'You promised to stay till the end of the week,' I said reproachfully.
'Circumstances alter cases,' she rejoined briefly.
This did not sound very hopeful. I was silent, not knowing very well what to say. Presently she said, with a short little laugh, 'I am always outspoken, Hilda, so I'll tell you frankly that if you had not Mr. Ratcliffe hanging about this part I might have lengthened my visit. I cannot stand the chance of meeting him again.'
'Why?' I asked innocently.
'Why?' she repeated. 'You know my story, and he will not let bygones be bygones, but insisted this morning upon dragging up old memories that are best left buried. In fact, he wants things to be as they once were, and they cannot.'
'Oh, Miss Rayner, why not?' I again exclaimed.
'Because we are old and grey,' she said, laughing; 'because he has drifted into ways of his own, and into mine. It would be ridiculous and besides I—I should be no help to him. I am such a beginner.'
She turned from me quickly and left the room.
I was perplexed and disturbed. I had felt sure that my little plan was going to succeed, and I was very disappointed at its apparent failure. I knew that she still cared for him, and why she would persist in standing in her own light, and putting such happiness from her, I could not imagine!
That evening Miss Rayner and I were dining alone as Philip had an engagement out. I was a little anxious about him, as he was only just recovering from a bad cold, and made him wrap up very warmly before he went. Miss Rayner said to me at dinner, 'I am afraid your husband's health is a great anxiety to you.'
'It is a little cloud to our happiness,' I said, 'but we are not troubled. I always feel He is in God's hands; I suppose we shall never have unclouded sunshine on earth, and I don't think I would have it so, otherwise we should perhaps lose the experience of "dwelling deep," and I would not wish that.'
'Have you seen Kenneth at all lately?' Miss Rayner asked. 'I heard he was up in town. Do you know, I used to fancy that he was very partial to you.'
I laughed. 'He says he is still; but Kenneth is just Kenneth, Miss Rayner! I look upon him as a brother. He was calling here the other afternoon and brought Captain Gates with him.'
'Was that your friend?'
'Yes; but he got over that a long time ago. He is engaged to a very nice girl, I believe, and told me he was steadying down. I wish he had the real thing in his life; but perhaps it may come yet.'
A short time after dinner I was surprised by Mr. Ratcliffe being announced. Miss Rayner did not happen to be in the room. He looked a little awkward, I thought, and said, 'I meant to have given Miss Rayner a Report of our Mission this morning, and thought I would bring it round, as I understood she was leaving you to-morrow morning.'
'Yes,' I said gravely; 'I am afraid she is. I wish you could persuade her to stay a little longer.'
I have no influence over her,' he said, a little sadly.
'But you once had,' I said softly.
'Do you know about us, Mrs. Stanton?' and there was a slight eagerness in his tone. 'How I wish you could help me now! All these years, though I have steadfastly put it in the background, her face—in fact, her self—has been haunting me. There has only been one woman in the world for me; and now, when I find her so changed, I thought that perhaps she might—even though I am no longer young—be willing to come to me. Her parting words years ago were, "It is not you that I dislike, but your views; and those I cannot stand." Now she loves those very things that were so distasteful to her, and yet she will not listen to me. I can only conclude her affection for me died out long ago, and is a thing of the past.'
'No, no,' I cried; 'it is not so. I believe you have always been as much in her thoughts as she has been in yours. I cannot quite understand her now. She seems as if she is afraid of letting you see what is in her heart. I should persevere, if I were you, and make her listen to you.'
I could say no more, for the door opened and Miss Rayner came in. I saw from the determined set of her lips, and the distant, frosty tones in which she spoke to him, that she had no intention of relenting; and I knew it was only a cloak to hide her real feelings, and longed to tear it aside.
I tried all in my power to make conversation easy between them. I could not bear to see the troubled, pathetic look in Mr. Ratcliffe's eyes. Miss Rayner was in her worst mood—cynical and hard. She did not seem to care how she was wounding by her words, and I felt she was purposely representing herself in the worst light possible. Suddenly a thought struck me. I knew how music softened her, and quietly taking out my violin, I asked them if they would like me to play. They assented, and moving to a distant corner of the room I began. I think I put all my soul into it, for I was longing the sweet sounds should soothe and soften her, as they had so often before.
I played on. There was perfect silence in the room. She was sitting in the firelight, and he, leaning against the chimney-piece, never took his eyes off her face.
When I at last paused I saw her eyes were moist, and all the hard lines about her face had entirely disappeared. Without a word I slipped softly out of the room, and going into Philip's study, I knelt down and asked that the two hearts and lives that had been so long severed might be brought together again. Then I waited, and the time seemed long before I heard the drawing-room door open, and Mr. Ratcliffe's voice inquire, 'Where is Mrs. Stanton?' I went out, and received a grasp of the hand that I felt for long after. 'God bless you for what you have done for me to-night!' he said, in an agitated tone; and without another word he departed.
I went in to Miss Rayner. She was sitting where I had left her, but no explanation was needed to see from the expression of her face what had taken place.
I just went up to her, and put my arms round her neck.
'I am so glad and thankful,' I whispered, 'and I do hope that you will be happy.'
Miss Rayner did not speak for a minute, and then she said, in a broken voice,—
'You have brought two blessings into my life, child. This present one is big enough, but the other outweighs it by far, and my heart is too full to speak of it. As for Mr. Ratcliffe, I only hope I shall be a help to him now, and not a hindrance.'
'It is all right, Philip,' I said, as I met my husband an hour later in the hall; 'they have come together at last!'
He put his arm round me, and said gently,—
'I hope Ratcliffe will be as much helped and blessed by his wife as I have been by mine. I have experienced the truth of this, "He that getteth a wife beginneth a possession, a help like unto himself, and a pillar of rest."'
THE END