blank in the house--a blank to be still further increased by the
permanent departure of Alick soon after his return from escorting
Stella. He had at last decided on the place in which he was to
settle--a new and rising village in the far West--and had already been
claiming his mother's promise, that so soon as he should be able to
provide a home for her, she would come and preside in it. Mrs. Steele
felt that it would be her duty to comply with her son's desire; and
Mr. Raymond, while very sorry to lose his sister's kind, motherly
supervision of his family, felt that he could not dissuade her from
an arrangement so right and natural, and to which he had long looked
forward as a probability. However, she was not to leave them for some
months at least, and during that time Lucy was to learn all she could
about housekeeping, in order to be able to fill her aunt's place as
well as a young beginner could do.
To Lucy, indeed, there mingled with her regret for her aunt's expected
departure, a certain latent satisfaction at the increased importance
of her own place in the household; and her ambition was so much
stimulated by the hope of fulfilling her new duties in the most
exemplary manner, that it somewhat alleviated her sorrow at the
thought of losing the kind aunt who had filled a mother's place.
Many were the regrets when the time came for Alick's final departure
from Ashleigh to his distant sphere of duty; and Mr. Raymond, in
bidding him a kind farewell, added in an earnest tone the not unneeded
admonition: "Alick, my boy, don't forget who says, 'Seek ye first the
kingdom of God and His righteousness, and all other things shall be
added unto you.'"
And so the happy party, who had enjoyed together at Ashleigh the
pleasant summer days, were scattered, never again to meet there under
the same circumstances; for the autumn, bringing the cold blasts and
nipping frosts that scattered the rich summer foliage and made the
earth bleak and bare, brought other changes, far sadder than these.
Nelly was the first to whose life came a sudden change. A rumour
reached the village that a deck-hand on one of the river steamers had
lost his life by a fatal accident, and that the man's name was Michael
Connor. It seldom happens that such reports turn out groundless; and
when Mrs. Connor, having heard of it, hastened to the wharf to
discover what truth there might be in it, she met a comrade of her
husband's who had come to announce to his family the sad fact.
Mrs. Connor did not profess any deep regret for a husband whom she had
often asserted to be a good-for-nothing scamp. She looked at the
matter chiefly in a pecuniary point of view, and, on making a rapid
calculation, came to the conclusion that any deficiency caused by the
loss of the small fraction of his earnings that came into her
possession would be more than made up by her being relieved of the
maintenance of Nelly, for whom she did not consider it her duty any
longer to provide.
But in Nelly herself Michael Connor had at least one true mourner. She
forgot all her father's carelessness and neglect, and remembered only
that he was her father, who used in days long past, when her mother
was alive, to take her on his knee and call her his "darlint." When it
broke fully on her mind that she should never see him again--that he
had left her for ever, as her mother had done--her grief for a while
knew no control. Poor child, she had literally no one in the world
"belonging to her," so far as she knew, and she felt utterly desolate
and forlorn. Finding but little comfort at home, where her new
mother's cold, unfeeling remarks only aggravated her sorrow, she
betook herself to Lucy, who had just heard, with great concern, of
Nelly's bereavement. She did her best to comfort her; and though at
first the kind words only seemed to make the tears flow faster, by
degrees the child was soothed and calmed, and able to listen to Mr.
Raymond when he laid his hand kindly on her head and told her that she
must look to God as her Father now, and must go and "tell Jesus" all
her troubles. Then he made her repeat after him the verse, "When my
father and my mother forsake me, then the Lord will take me up."
"But, Miss Lucy," said Nelly, as she was going away, "where is it I'm
going to live now?"
"Why, is your mother going away?"
"Niver a bit, miss; but she says she's kept me long enough now, and
she won't keep me any longer."
Lucy could scarcely believe that this could be more than one of Mrs.
Connor's meaningless threats, and tried to reassure Nelly that it
would be all right. But Mrs. Steele, knowing Mrs. Connor's hard,
selfish nature, was by no means so sure that there might not be
something in it, and was not surprised when she appeared next day to
say that she thought Nelly's grand friends might do something for her
now her poor father was gone, and she had no one to look to her.
"But she has you, of course," Mrs. Steele replied. "We shall be very
glad to help you as far as possible, but you have shown yourself well
able to support your family."
"She ain't one of my family," replied Mrs. Connor, "and I've kept her
long enough for all the good I've ever got out of her; so I don't see
that it's any of my business to take the bit out of my children's
mouths and put it into hers."
Mrs. Connor would probably not have come to this decision had she not
been less dependent than formerly on Nelly's assistance. But as her
youngest child was now able to run alone, and the eldest could, on an
emergency, take care of the rest, and as she now took in most of her
washing, she had less need for an additional worker, involving an
additional mouth to be fed. Besides, Nelly was a "growing girl," she
reflected, and would be always costing her more for food and clothing,
so that to be rid of her maintenance would be so much clear gain. She
was therefore inexorable in her determination that Nelly should not
remain with her, unless, indeed, the ladies would pay for her board--a
proposition which Mrs. Steele declined to entertain.
It was taken seriously into consideration by Lucy and her aunt what
could be done to provide Nelly with a home. Lucy was eager that she
should be at once taken into their own household, to be trained for
domestic service; but this Mrs. Steele thought impracticable at
present, as she knew that their own busy, capable handmaid would
strongly object to have her time taken up in teaching a girl who would
give her so much additional trouble.
"But there are other people," she said, "who would be very glad of a
child like Nelly, who would cost nothing for wages, to train and make
useful. I am going to Mill Bank Farm this afternoon to see about some
butter, and I'll see if Mrs. Ford knows of any one who would take
her."
Lucy assented rather reluctantly. It would have been so nice, she
thought, to have her protegée immediately under her own charge, to
teach and train into a model servant. She had not yet learned the
distrust in her own powers which experience gives, and she saw only
the bright side of the plan, not the difficulties in its execution.
Mrs. Ford's motherly heart was at once roused to pity for the little
orphan's forlorn condition, and to indignation at Mrs. Connor's
heartless conduct.
"After all the work she's got out of her, too!" she said; "making that
poor child drudge away morning, noon, and night. I'm sure she's been
worth a deal more to her than the little bit of meat and drink she's
given her--with a grudge, as I hear from the neighbours. Well, well,
it's a queer world."
Mrs. Ford promised to try to find out a good place for Nelly, and
early next morning she made her appearance, having taken the long walk
on one of her busiest days, in order to "talk over Nelly's business,"
as she said. She proposed to take the orphan into her own family, for
a time at least, until some more permanent situation should turn up.
"We'll never miss the little she'll want," she said; "and if we did,
I've been often thinking of late that we've been too much taken up
with doing the most we could for this world, and been caring too
little for the poor that our Saviour says are to be always with us. So
my mind would be easier if I were doing this much, at any rate, and
the poor thing'll be more likely to get a good steady place if I take
her in hand and teach her a bit myself."
So it was settled, and Nelly, to her surprise and delight, found
herself an inmate, for a time at least, of Mill Bank Farm, though she
was made to understand that the arrangement was not a permanent one.
The present comfort and happiness were enough for her, however, for
she was not given to spoiling the enjoyments of to-day by thoughts
about the morrow; and she certainly had never, so far as her
recollection went, been half so happy as she now was under Mrs. Ford's
motherly care, with Bessie for a half-companion, half-teacher, and
removed from the sound of the harsh words and tones which had so long
been the constant accompaniments of her life.
One of Mrs. Ford's first cares was to provide her with some needed
clothing from Bessie's outgrown garments, which otherwise would have
been stowed thriftily away for little Jenny. Lucy added her
contribution for the same object, and it was considered a good
opportunity for teaching her what she so much needed to learn--plain
sewing. Mrs. Ford, who was a capital seamstress as well as housewife,
undertook to make Nelly a good needlewoman, if she would be diligent
in trying to learn; and she was too grateful, and too anxious to
please, not to try her best, though the long, tedious seams often
tried her restless, active spirit. When she found herself getting so
impatient that she felt as if she could not sit still any longer, or,
at any rate, could not force herself to do the work with patience and
care, she would remember the injunction to "tell Jesus" her troubles
and difficulties, and the restless spirit would become quiet, and the
strength to fulfil her good resolutions would come back. As it was too
far for her to go to Lucy now for her daily lessons, Lucy resigned her
to Bessie's tuition, though somewhat unwillingly, for her teaching had
become a source of real pleasure to her, and she felt that in it she
was doing some definite work for her Saviour. She had not yet got into
the habit of looking upon everything she was called in duty to do as
work done for Christ, just in proportion as it was done in a spirit
of cheerful faith and dependence, "looking unto Jesus" both as the
master and the friend.
But dark days were at hand for Lucy too,--days when she would need all
the support her faith could give. Mr. Raymond's never robust
constitution had been for some time gradually failing, though Lucy,
seeing him daily, and accustomed to consider her father "not very
strong," had not observed it. Late in November, a long, cold drive in
sleet and rain to visit a dying parishioner brought on symptoms of
fever, which rapidly increased, till the doctor, who had been summoned
to attend him, looked very anxious, and pronounced his patient in a
most critical condition. Lucy had been so long accustomed to his
occasional illnesses, that she was slow to admit the idea of danger to
her father, the possibility of losing whom had scarcely ever occurred
to her mind. Therefore, though she could not help seeing her aunt's
extreme anxiety, she resolutely turned her thoughts to the happier
prospect of her father's recovery, when he would again occupy his
wonted place, and the house would be like itself again.
Even when Mr. Raymond's extreme weakness forced the others to give up
hope, Lucy still hoped and prayed, by the sick-bed and in her own
chamber, as she had never prayed before. Surely, she thought, if she
prayed humbly and earnestly, her prayer would not be denied by Him who
has said, "Ask, and ye shall receive;" and her father would be
restored to her. She did not consider that as regards earthly things
the promise must be limited, or the conditions of human life would
have to be altered. If our prayers that our dear ones should be spared
to us were always to be granted, when would they ever attain that
blessed rest in the Father's house--the haven they have been looking
for through all the cares and troubles of their mortal pilgrimage?
Mr. Raymond had often longed for the time when his earthly work should
be done, and he should be called to the presence of his Saviour--to
reunion with his early-lost wife. And now, though in the
unconsciousness of his exhausted powers he knew it not, that time had
come. His "falling asleep" was as peaceful as the sinking of a child
into its nightly slumber; and Lucy did not realize that it was death,
till, in the dark December morning, she stood by the cold white couch
on which lay the inanimate form to which, from her earliest days, she
had always looked as her protector and guide. It was hard to persuade
herself that that cold form was not her father, but that all that had
made the living, sentient being had passed to another state of
existence beyond her power to follow--beyond her power to conceive. In
the strange awe that came upon her, she lost for a time the sense of
the desolation of her bereavement--lost all thought for herself, in
trying to pierce the darkness which hung between her and the
"undiscovered lands" in which both her parents now were. With Fred it
was much the same,--an awestruck solemnity at first repressing in both
the natural feeling of personal loss. Harry was the only one whose
bitter, childish grief broke forth uncontrolled.
But there was time in the blank, desolate days that followed to
realize the full bitterness of the bereavement. Once out of the still,
solemn chamber, which seemed to hush all violent emotion, there were
associations at every step, in every room, of him whose place should
know him no more, to call forth the uncontrollable agony of tears that
had for a time been repressed. And when the still form had been
carried to its last resting-place, and the heavy consciousness made
itself felt that he was gone, never in any possible event to return to
them, it seemed to Lucy as if it would have been too terrible to bear
but for the Saviour, to whom she carried her grief, and found that,
though He does not always at our asking restore our sick to this
mortal life, yet that, when He takes them away, He can and will be a
very present "help in time of trouble."
But there was already another grief looming darkly in the distance,
which Lucy almost shrank from facing. The home that had been hers from
her birth must be broken up. The external surroundings in which her
life had been always set were to be torn from it; and any other phase
of life seemed as if it must be a dreary blank. She could not then
realize the possibility of ever forming new associations, or taking
root in any other home. And indeed it is doubtful whether one ever
does take root again in the same sense as in the home of childhood,
which is linked with the earliest associations of opening thought, and
with all the hallowed ties that cluster around a child's happy home.
Other houses are but places of abode, made home by association: _that_
seemed absolutely and in itself _home_.
Alick had come to Ashleigh as soon as possible after his uncle's
death, and was anxious to take his mother at once to the new home he
had been preparing for her. As to Lucy, there seemed to be but one
course advisable. As Mr. Raymond could leave only a very slender
provision for his family, he had always been anxious that Lucy should
have an education sufficiently thorough to put her in a position to
gain her own livelihood by teaching, and a way seemed opened for her
to carry out his wishes in this respect. Mr. Brooke, urged thereto by
his daughter Stella, had written to Mrs. Steele, offering to receive
Lucy into his own family for the next two or three years, in order to
give her the advantage of a first-class education, which was, he
remarked, "the best he could do for her, as it would give her the
ability to do for herself."
Lucy shrank from the prospect of so long a residence in a home so
unlike the one she was leaving, as from Stella's remarks she felt sure
it must be. But to go with Harry to live with Mrs. Steele and Alick,
as they kindly invited her to do, in case she could not make up her
mind to go to Mr. Brooke's, would, she felt, be imposing far too great
a burden on Alick's kindness, though it seemed just the right home for
Harry. Fred, who had been summoned from college to his father's
deathbed, must return to resume his theological studies, for they all
insisted that he should not think of giving up the career which had
been his father's desire for him as well as his own. The more Lucy
thought about the matter, the more distinctly she saw that there was
no other way rightly open to her, especially as, even could she think
it right to accompany Mrs. Steele and Alick, she could not, in the new
village in the West, expect any educational advantages. But it was
with much reluctance, and after many prayers to be strengthened to
meet the new experiences before her, that she gave her decision to go
to live for the present in her Cousin Stella's home.
Fred, to whom she confided her extreme shrinking from venturing into
an atmosphere which her fancy pictured as so cold and uncongenial,
endeavoured to reassure her, by reminding her of what she knew,
indeed, but found it difficult to realize, that her Saviour could be
as near her in the crowded city as in her quiet country home, since
His love is
"A flower that cannot die
For lack of leafy screen;"
and that it was a sickly Christianity which must necessarily fade and
droop when removed from the atmosphere in which it had been originally
nurtured.
"Well," she said at last disconsolately, "it doesn't matter so very
much. I can never be very happy again, now papa is gone; and the best
thing is to think most about the home he has gone to, and try to
follow him there."
Something of this kind she wrote to her old friend and teacher, Mrs.
Harris, who had sent her a letter of loving sympathy. She smiled half
sadly when she read Lucy's disconsolate reply. Mrs. Harris had seen
enough of life to know that a young heart is not permanently depressed
by a first grief; and she feared for Lucy, if she should trust to the
influence of sorrow alone to keep her "unspotted from the world."
"My dear Lucy," she wrote, "while it is well that you should always
cherish your dear father's memory, and keep his counsels and his
example always with you as a protecting influence, beware of trusting
too much to this. He himself would have told you that it is not him
you are to follow, but Him whom he followed, 'Jesus Christ, the same
yesterday, to-day, and for ever.' This alone can be our strength. Time
is strong against our deepest sorrow, and no influence can permanently
hold, except the constraining love of Christ. Never lose the habit of
looking steadily to Him, and to Him alone, for daily and hourly
strength."
It was wise counsel, and Lucy in time came to find out how true it
was.
It is needless to dwell upon the pain of the breaking up,--the packing
up and stowing away treasured possessions, so closely associated with
the times now passed away; the sorrowful leave-takings of old friends,
who felt as if they were losing the last link with their beloved
minister in the departure of his family; the sad farewell looks at all
the well-known home objects, the flower-beds, the gravel walks, the
shrubs and trees, every twig of which had such a familiar look. Many a
time it seemed as if it must be only a sad dream, that all these
things were about to pass from her daily life into a vision of memory.
Happily it was winter. Had it been in the fair flush of summer, when
her home looked its loveliest, the parting would have been far harder.
As it was, it was hard enough; but she tried to conceal her sorrow
from those to whose pain it would have added, though many a tear was
secretly shed over even the old grey cat and the gentle petted cow,
which were almost home friends.
At last all the preparations were completed. The house, stripped of
most of its familiar furnishings, wore already a strange,
uncomfortable aspect, full of packing-cases and confusion. Fred had
already been obliged to return to college, and Lucy was to be the next
to go. Alick was to escort her to the next railway station, and see
her on the train which was to take her to the city. It was the first
time she had ever travelled alone, and she rather dreaded it; but she
knew that it would be very inconvenient for Alick to accompany her the
whole way, and she would not admit that she thought the solitary
journey at all a formidable one.
Poor Nelly, who grieved as much for her friend's departure as she had
done for her father's death, came on the last morning to say good-bye,
although Lucy had already taken leave of her and Bessie at Mill Bank
Farm, and had made the latter promise to write to her sometimes.
"And it's sorry I am, Miss Lucy, you're going, and you so good to me,"
sobbed Nelly, when she felt the parting moment was really come.
"Well, Nelly, we must both try to remember our Friend in heaven, who
has been so good to us both. You love Him, I hope, Nelly, and pray to
Him always?"
"Indeed I do, and I always pray God to bless you, Miss Lucy."
"Well, I won't forget to pray for you, Nelly, and we know He will hear
our prayers," replied Lucy kindly.
Acts of Christian kindness often bring their reward even in this life:
the "cup of cold water" we give sometimes returns to refresh our own
parched lips. It was some comfort to Lucy, even in this time of
sorrow, to feel that she had been enabled to help Nelly to know the
Saviour, whom the poor, friendless child seemed to have received into
her heart with a true and simple faith.
IX.
_Introductions._
"My God, my Father, while I stray
Far from my home in life's rough way,
Oh teach me from my heart to say,
'Thy will be done.'"
The short January afternoon was closing in when Lucy's train drew near
its destination. Gradually thickening clusters of houses, a momentary
glimpse of distant steeples, a general commotion and hunting-up of
tickets, packages, and bandboxes, betokened, even to Lucy's
inexperienced eyes, that the city was nearly reached.
She had made no acquaintances on the way; but a polite elderly
gentleman, who had been sitting beside her, and had occasionally
exchanged a kind word with her, seeing that she was alone, stopped to
hand her out with great courtesy.
"Any one to meet you?" he asked, seeing that she seemed at a loss what
to do next.
"Yes--that is--I expect"--faltered Lucy, looking round to see if
Stella was not to be seen among the hurrying crowd. But no familiar
face was to be seen; and the gentleman, who had caught only the first
word of her answer, hurried off with a friend he met, forgetting all
about Lucy.
It seemed to her a long time that she stood there, wistfully watching
the people who were meeting their friends, or hurrying away alone; and
her spirits, temporarily excited by the journey, began to sink fast.
It seemed so strange that no one should be there to meet her, as her
uncle had promised; and if no one should appear, what was she to do?
At last, after about five minutes had elapsed, a slight,
delicate-looking young man, very fashionably dressed, with an eyeglass
at one eye and a cigar in his mouth, sauntered along, lightly swinging
his cane and looking leisurely around him. Presently he came up to
Lucy, and, after a scrutinizing glance, he said, touching his hat:
"My cousin Lucy Raymond, I presume?" and seeing he was right, he
added, with a nonchalant air, "Glad to see you; been waiting long?"
"About a quarter of an hour," Lucy replied, thinking she was speaking
the exact truth.
"Hardly that," he replied. "I expected to have been here in time, but
these trains are never to be depended on."
Then he motioned to a cabman, who advanced and asked for the checks
for the luggage.
Lucy had forgotten all about them, and her cousin mentally set her
down as "green," while she nervously searched for them.
"Take your time," he said good-humouredly.
They were found at last, and everything being collected, Lucy and her
cousin were soon driving away from the station.
"You are cousin Edwin, I suppose?" Lucy ventured to say timidly.
"The same, at your service. I suppose Stella posted you up about us
all? You've never been in a place as big as this, have you?" he said,
observing her eager, watching look.
"No, never; Ashleigh is hardly more than a village. How is Stella?"
"Stella! Oh, she's quite well; she was out walking when I left."
Lucy's heart sank at the apparent coldness of her reception. Had
Stella been coming to visit _her_, she would have been watching for
the steamboat for an hour before its arrival!
"Left all well at home?" inquired Edwin. "Oh, I forgot; I suppose
you're all broken up there now?" he added, glancing at her black dress
and crape veil. "Fred's gone to college again, I suppose?"