MISS PERSIS.
CHRISTIE made his way to Mr. Smiles's farm, and there met his master,
as arranged. He told him all that had happened.
"Well, Christopher, you have done your best, and now you must have
faith, and leave the matter in God's hand. He can do what we cannot."
"Ah, sir, I do fear for Hessie. The place seems even worse, and
poorer, and dirtier than it used to be; and to hear the shouts and the
language, sir, 'twould make your blood turn cold! And for a young thing
to say she liked it so. I do feel very bad about it."
"Trust and pray, my boy. An attempt is about to be made to gain a
footing in Blackmead, and though it may not be just yet, for there are
difficulties, yet the girl is very young, and it may be in time to save
her. You did what you could; the best of us can do no more. So take
comfort."
"But it is Hessie I am thinking of, not myself," answered Christie.
The old man looked thoughtfully at him for a few moments, and then said—
"That is well, Christopher; we think too much of ourselves—at least, I
do."
On the way home, to divert Christie's mind from sad thoughts, Mr.
Arkwright told him all about Miss Persis' engagement to the Vicar, and
that they were to be married in the autumn.
"We all thought it would be Mr. William, sir," said Christie.
Mr. Arkwright laughed.
"No, no, Christopher. I have done better than that for my dear child.
Edward Forster is a good man; indeed the other is a good boy—a very
good boy—but—"
He ceased speaking, but somehow Christie's remark had roused up ideas
that were not altogether pleasant. However, he soon convinced himself
that Persis had never had any thoughts of that nature; it was just the
servants' gossip.
But when Christie saw what a change there was in Miss Persis, he very
nearly forgot his own griefs. Persis spoke to him of his journey, and
of his failure, but though she was as kind and sympathizing as ever,
she had no words of cheer and hope to say,—only sad ones. She was very
quiet, going through her little round of simple duties and innocent
pleasures as before, but gravely and sadly; the pleasures had ceased to
please, the duties were a burden.
Christie and Debby, who worshipped her, had more than one whispered
confidence together, and told each other that they knew what was wrong.
And were the master and mistress in their right senses, Debby asked,
that they did not see how unhappy she was?
Now Mrs. Arkwright was well aware that Persis was grave and quiet, but
she thought it very natural. The child was about to leave her safe,
happy home, her free girlhood, and to be placed in a position of great
responsibility. Mr. Arkwright was not very observant, and was a good
deal out of doors, so that the change did not force itself on him. So
Edward Forster came and went, and Persis was gentle and submissive; and
preparations were being made for the wedding by all concerned.
In August, William Forster wrote to say that he was coming home for a
time. Mr. Forster told Persis this piece of news, when he came to Mount
Salem in the afternoon. He had found her in the garden.
"Home!" Persis echoed; scarcely knowing, poor girl, what she said.
"Will always calls it home. You know, he and I have no near relations;
I brought him up. I am sure, Persis, it will be none the less his home
when you are mistress there. This would be your wish, my dear?"
"No!" said Persis, quickly and loudly. "No—I—should not like it."
The Vicar stared. He had never been so astonished in all his life.
"I will speak of this some other time, Persis," he said; "but—are you
really in earnest?"
Persis stooped, and seemed to hunt among the strawberry leaves, though
the strawberries were all gone. She made no answer, and in a few
moments the bell rang, and she hurried on before him to the house.
Now, Persis was under the impression that Edward Forster had had
no secrets from his brother, either now, or previously, about his
marriage. Doubtless William had known all along that this was to be,
and so had been friendly and kind, as to a sister,—though she had so
misunderstood him; and how the poor pretty face burned at this thought!
And the truth was that William had not heard of his brother's intended
marriage even yet. He had long felt sure that Persis loved him, even as
he loved her, but he would not disturb her peaceful, quiet life until
he was in a position to marry. He had been promised a mastership in a
great public school, for he was a very clever man, and much thought
of; when this post became his, he would speak. If he ever thought of
his brother in connection with this, it was with a conviction that he
knew perfectly how things stood, though he never spoke of it: when the
Forsters went together to Mount Salem, Edward sat with Mr. and Mrs.
Arkwright, while he and Persis went into the garden. Good old Ned!—he
belonged to the elders by virtue of his forty years and his gravely
formal manner.
William Forster had just heard that the headmaster of S— had given the
trustees notice that he would resign at Christmas; and as there was
no doubt that he would now get an appointment in the school, he felt
that he might now speak. The interval between this bright August and
the time for him to take up his new work would just suffice for being
married, and taking his bride on a pleasant foreign tour. Persis would
enjoy that, she had had so little variety in her life. So he wrote to
announce his home-coming, meaning if all went well with him, to resign
his fellowship at once.
He was to arrive by the coach which passed within a couple of miles of
Kingsfield twice a week; and Mr. Arkwright sent Christie with the pony
to bring him on to the Vicarage. So Christie was the first person to
see him, and the soft-hearted fellow could have cried to see what fine
spirits Mr. William was in, for he guessed at once that he had not yet
heard the news.
"Hullo, Christie, you've come to save me a walk. Very kind of Mr.
Arkwright. Can my valise go with us? Is Mr. Thomas Thumb able for so
much?"
"Yes, Mr. William."
"Let me settle it,—there, it won't be in the way."
"Let me walk back, sir, and call for Tom as I pass the Vicarage, if you
please."
"I don't please. Get in and drive. Why, you have to tell me how every
one is, you're the first person I have seen, and you see my brother is
a very lazy correspondent. I declare he hasn't mentioned any of you at
Mount Salem for an age."
"No, sir, I'm sure of that."
"Nothing wrong, Christie? No one ill?"
"No, sir."
"Why, Christie, what ails you? You have not a word to throw to a dog
to-day? You're not a bit like yourself."
"I've had a great disappointment, sir. A sorrow, like. It do seem to me
as if the world was full of sorrows, and sometimes they come to those
that one wouldn't think needed them. Not that that's my case, sir. I'll
just walk up this hill, Mr. William."
When he got in again, William Forster said—
"Tell me what your disappointment was, Christie. I am very sorry,
whatever it was."
This, Christie was very willing to do, and he made the story last till
they were at the Vicarage gate; where Mr. Forster met them.
"Well, Will, I'm glad to get you home. Come along; I'm sure you're
hungry. Christie, oblige me by telling Mrs. Arkwright that my brother
and I will come over for a dish of tea."
"And tell Miss Persis from me, that I mean to have raspberries and
gooseberries too," put in William.
Christie drove on, shaking his head dismally.
"Ned, what do you think of my good luck? I am to have the appointment
at Christmas. Old Dr. Bushe is resigning, and Stanhope becomes
headmaster. He tells me that the house and gardens are delightful—and
it is a provision such as—a man may marry on."
Edward laughed. They had reached the house now, and setting the valise
down in the hall, he said—
"Come into the study, Will. So you, too, are thinking of marriage?"
"I too!" cried the younger. "Do you mean to say that you, my dear old
sobersides, are going to be married?"
"It is even so, William. It has been a settled thing for three years,
though Mr. Arkwright desired me to keep it secret; besides, it was not
absolutely certain until about a month ago, and then I waited to tell
you myself, instead of writing it to you. This marriage of yours makes
everything easy and pleasant,—yes, it is a great ease to my mind."
"And who is the lady, Ned?—But I guess! It is Miss Hardress. I often
suspected you of a liking for her."
"Miss Hardress! Oh no, Will. Had it been Miss Hardress, who is, I
think, past thirty, I should not have been so long kept waiting. Mr.
Arkwright decided that nothing should be said until Persis was at least
twenty."
William was so long silent that even his absentminded brother was
surprised, and turned to see what he was doing.
As he turned, William sprang to his feet, upsetting a little movable
bookcase and his own chair.
"Why, Will, you are not often so awkward," Edward said; "never mind the
books, my dear fellow, the maids will set all to rights. Never mind
them, Will, dinner will be ready, and we have to wash our hands. Come
to your room."
William rose, letting all the books he had picked up fall again. He
followed his brother to the room he always occupied. Edward left him
there; and poor William, sitting down by the window, tried to pull
himself together, and make sure that he had heard aright.
Engaged so long! And doubtless Persis thought he knew all about it, and
so treated him as a brother. He had not got beyond that when he was
summoned to dinner.
When again alone with his brother, William said—"I did not wish you
joy, Ned, but you know I do wish it with all my heart. When is it to
be?"
"Next month, I hope. William, you have not told me the name of your
fair lady yet."
"No—but—wait until I know more myself. I think, do you know, that I
shall go on at once. I don't wish to delay. It will be wise to—make
certain. I think I shall go, after dinner, and borrow a gig, and drive
to Bradstone, and go on to-morrow. Better to make sure—don't you think
so?"
Mr. Forster wanted him to stay, at least until next morning. But he
said at last—
"Why, you are very much in love, William."
"I am—Heaven help me," answered William, "and so I cannot stay here—let
me go. When—if all is well, I will return."
"Return in any case, dear boy, but I see it will be kinder to let you
go."
So after dinner, William took his valise and walked off to a farmer in
the neighbourhood, from whom he knew he could borrow a horse and gig.
Christie, when he reached home, put up the pony and went to deliver his
message. He found the whole party in the garden.
"If you please, ma'am, Mr. Forster bid me tell you that he and Mr.
William will step up this afternoon in time for tea; and, Miss
Persis, Mr. William bid me tell you he will want some raspberries and
gooseberries too."
Persis turned away without a word, and left the garden.
A few minutes afterwards Janet came out.
"Please, ma'am, come to Miss Persis, she doesn't seem well."
Mrs. Arkwright hurried up to her child's pretty little room, where
everything looked so white and fresh, and where Persis lay on her bed,
her face as white as the pillow her head pressed.
"What is it, my dearest?"
"Mother, I have a headache; I will lie here quietly. Do not ask me to
come down. I cannot—I cannot."
"No, my child. I fear the sun was too strong for you. Have you felt
ill, Persis? I mean, before to-day?"
"No, mother,—only—my heart is heavy," and clasping her arms round her
mother, Persis sobbed and trembled.
Mrs. Arkwright felt startled. However, she said no more. She
administered some simple soothing mixture, darkened the room, and bade
the girl rest for a while.
Five minutes afterwards, Christie was told to go to the Vicarage and
ask the two gentlemen to put off their visit, as Miss Persis had a
headache. And he reached the Vicarage about ten minutes after Mr.
William left it.
Mr. Forster was sitting in the dining-room window, smoking a long pipe,
and meditating upon Will's strange behaviour.
Christie drew near and gave his message.
"Miss Persis not well, Christie? Why, she looked very well yesterday."
"Did she, sir? We servants don't think Miss Persis looks well at
all—not this some time. She creeps about, sir—all the blithesomeness is
gone from her."
"What brought on this headache, Christie? Was she out in the heat of
the day?"
"The mistress thinks 'twas the heat. I had just given her Mr. William's
message about the berries, when she went away to the house, as white as
a sheet; and Janet found her on the stairs, nigh fainting."
Mr. Forster was an absent man, but no fool. Will runs off—was it
perhaps to avoid Persis? Persis nearly faints when told that Will is
coming.
"Christie, my brother has gone to Farmer Price to borrow a horse,
meaning to go to Bradstone this evening. Go to the farmer's as fast as
you can, and bring him back to me. Make him come. You will go faster
than I should; besides—I want to think."
Christie looked at him. "I always said,—" he began. But without
finishing the sentence, he set off running as fast as he could.
He knew the place well by this time, no high-road for him! Over
walls, hedges, fields—straight as an arrow from the bow did he run,
and reached the farmer's house just as William, seated on high in an
old gig, was gathering up the reins of a stout roadster, and saying
good-bye to his friend the farmer.
"Mr. William, Mr. Forster sent me after you. He wants you, sir; come
back to him."
"No, no, Christie, I shall hardly get to Bradstone in time, as it is."
Christie came up close.
"Let me get in, sir, and you drive on. I'll hold the horse while you
speak a word to your brother."
"I'll drive you back to the turn, Christie, and drop you there. I do
not want to—go back myself."
Christie looked up, his pleasant, honest face crimson, and his words
coming very slow.
"Mr. William, drive slow till you reach the turn. Sir, I'm only a
servant, but I do love Miss Persis, and know she's very nearly an
angel. And—Mr. William—go back. Forgive me—'tis a terrible liberty.
But, there's been mistakes—go back, sir."
William looked at him. They reached the turn, and he drew up the horse.
"Edward sent for me,—why?"
"He'll tell you why, sir."
"Is it only from some thought of his own, or has—something happened?"
"Not much has happened. But, sir, I'll tell you what 'will' happen if
you don't go back. Miss Persis will do as they bid her, and—she'll die.
It will kill her, and 'tis Debby says it."
William turned the horse into the road to the Vicarage.
As they neared the gate, Christie whispered—
"Forgive me, Mr. William; don't tell any one that I took so great a
liberty. I don't know how I ever had the courage. It was very impudent
of me, I'm afraid."
William Forster took the lad's hand and shook it heartily, but he did
not speak. He went up the short avenue and entered the house.
"Will, my dear boy! Will, I have been thinking, and it seems to me
possible that the girl you spoke of to me this morning is Persis
Arkwright. When you spoke of marrying, I mean. Am I right, brother? As
a favour to me, answer clearly, and at once."
"You are right. But, Edward, I shall go away."
"Not so. One or two things that have puzzled me lately are easily
explained, if Persis also loves you. It is of her that I am bound to
think; and so are you also. Till we can settle the question, you must
stay here. You will believe me, Will, that I never dreamed of this till
now."
Christie was sent back to Farmer Price with the horse and gig.
And next morning, the Vicar walked up alone to Mount Salem. Mr. and
Mrs. Arkwright received him in the parlour, but Persis was not there.
Not very long afterwards Janet was sent to find Miss Persis, who was in
the garden.
Persis came in, looking pale and tired.
"Persis, my daughter, Edward Forster tells me that he fears that the
prospect of a marriage with him does not make you happy. Is it so, my
dear? Speak plainly. I know that you would obey me, but—"
"But I would not owe my happiness to your obedience, Persis," said
the Vicar. "I always knew that you could only love me in a quiet,
friendly way, but I was content, and believed it would grow to a wifely
affection, enough for our happiness—if there was no one else. But it
has come to my knowledge that my brother William loves you, and that
with all his heart. Ah, Persis, your face speaks so plainly, your
tongue does not need to utter a word. Then I withdraw, my dear. You
shall be my dear sister, instead of—"
Well, he could not speak the two words "my wife." But that was the only
weakness he showed.
"Why did you not tell me, my darling?" said Mrs. Arkwright.
"Mother, how could I? When I was told it was all settled years ago. I
thought of course that—he knew."
"And I kept it from William because your father wished it. Well, I am
cured of keeping secrets, Mr. Arkwright. We have been on the way to a
tragedy."
But except William Forster, none of them knew how important a part
Christie Brent had played in preventing the said tragedy. Had he gone
on that evening to Bradstone, he would there have written two letters
which must at least have postponed his marriage. One, to refuse the
appointment at S— School, the other to an old college friend whose
father had great influence, asking for a chaplaincy in India which he
knew was vacant.
Persis was married on the very day fixed for her wedding, in the last
week of September. And a bonny, sweet-looking bride she was. On the
wedding day, William Forster presented Christie with a silver watch,
saying to him—
"Though I am silent, Christie, I don't forget."
So sweet young Persis went away from Mount Salem, to gladden a very
different home, and to be her husband's efficient help-meet.
And Mr. Arkwright never ceased to regret that she had preferred William
to Edward; it would have been such happiness to have him so near them.
But Mrs. Arkwright, though she naturally missed her daughter sorely,
never said a word about it, but rejoiced in the girl's happiness. There
is no love so unselfish as the mother's love!
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