OPENING THE CASKET.
After the close of the service, Isa, as before, spoke to her little
black-eyed maid, and inquired after the health of Gaspar.
“Master has caught cold in his eyes, and he says it’s east wind, and
shuts himself up. He can’t read, nor write, and he seems very dull-like,”
said Lottie, whose own sunburnt face was bright with the anticipated
holiday before her.
Isa sent a message to Mr. Gritton, and after exchanging a few words with
Henry Eardley, left the cottage with Edith Lestrange. The little heiress
thought her cousin unusually silent as they walked back to the Castle.
“Edith, dear,” said Isa at last, “I am going to return to Wildwaste
to-morrow.”
“Not to stay there, I hope,” cried Edith.
“Yes, to stay there,” replied Isa, suppressing a sigh. “I feel that poor
Gaspar needs me; I think that my right place is home.”
“Perhaps it is,” said Edith, reluctantly. Unwilling as she was to part
with her cousin, Edith’s own views were clear on the subject; the nearest
relation had the nearest claim—nothing would have induced her to leave
her own father when he needed the comfort of her presence. Edith thought
it wrong to try to prevent Isa from doing what she would have thought it
right to do in her place.
The baronet was not, however, so forbearing. When his niece announced
to him her intention of leaving the Castle on the following day,
he playfully but strongly opposed her resolution. Sir Digby justly
considered that Isa’s companionship was both a pleasure and an advantage
to his child, while her lively conversation and intelligence made it
also agreeable to himself. Sir Digby felt that his graceful niece was
an ornament to his Castle, and would fain have ignored altogether her
connection with “a low man retired from business, who had disfigured the
neighbourhood by sticking up on the heath a cockney villa, which only
wanted a swinging sign to be mistaken for a newly built public-house.”
“Having you safe here in ward in this our Castle, we shall certainly not
let our prisoner go, save on parole to return within two hours,” said the
baronet; “Edith, I commit the charge of our captive to you.”
“But what if I am a warder not to be trusted?” asked Edith, with a smile;
“what if I connive at the captive’s escape?”
“Seriously, Isa,” said Sir Digby, “you cannot think of going back so soon
to that—that damp and not very cheerful locality;” the baronet did not
know how to designate the dwelling itself by any term combining courtesy
with truth.
“Indeed, I must return to my brother,” said Isa.
“You will stay over Sunday, at least. I have an idea—I believe that you
like attending the service at Axe.”
How greatly Isa enjoyed the Sundays spent with the Lestranges the baronet
knew not. The devotional spirit which breathed through the church service
was refreshing and reviving to her soul. To Mr. Eardley Isa looked up
as the most faithful of pastors and the holiest of men; she met him
not unfrequently at the Castle, and the deeper the knowledge that the
young maiden gained of the sterling qualities of his character, the
more she wondered that her eyes had ever been dazzled by unsubstantial
tinsel, and the more grateful she felt to God for having preserved her
from the effects of her own folly. Isa would probably have yielded to
the temptation to “stay over Sunday,” but for the reflections which the
story of Gideon had suggested to her mind. The grove, emblem of things
in themselves lawful and desirable, which become snares when they stand
in the way of duty, might not Isa find its counterpart in the pleasures
of Castle Lestrange? Isa thought of the throwing down of self-will, the
sacrifice of inclination, and so resisted the kind pressing of her uncle,
and the more powerful pleading of her own wishes.
Edith ordered the carriage on the following morning to take her cousin to
Wildwaste; she would herself accompany her thither. Isa would have liked
to have asked her young companion to stay and spend the day at the Lodge,
to brighten its dulness with her society; but in Gaspar’s nervous and
irritable state, Isa feared that a visitor might annoy him, especially
on a Saturday morning, which was always given to accounts. Edith, with
instinctive delicacy, removed any difficulty on the part of her cousin,
by saying that she would not this time remain to pay her visit, but drive
on beyond Wild waste to return the call of some neighbouring family.
“While I am at Wildwaste, however, I should like just to look into the
little school,” said Edith, as she and her cousin were driving from
Castle Lestrange.
“I have been into it two or three times,” observed Isa,—“I mean into the
room in which Mrs. Collins teaches the girls; I have never yet ventured
amongst the boys—the young savages who look so ragged and wild.”
“Oh! they are polished gentlemen compared to what they were when Mr.
Arthur first took them in hand; so Mrs. Holdich has told me,” laughed
Edith. “They were like a pack of wild dogs, delighting to torment and
worry every creature unfortunate enough to come within their reach, from
poor little unfledged sparrows to Mrs. Stone’s son, whom they actually
hunted into fits!”
“And Mr. Arthur found some one to bring them into a little better order.”
“Nay, he set about taming them himself; he used to go every morning to
play schoolmaster; the ragged little urchins thought it a grand thing to
be taught by a gentleman like him. How good does constantly come out of
what we call evil!” cried Edith. “Papa did so much dislike letting the
dear old Castle to strangers; but if he had not done so, Wildwaste would
never have had the blessing of an Arthur Madden.”
“He must have had a kind, generous spirit,” observed Isa rather dreamily,
for every reference to the Madden family sent her thoughts back strangely
to the past.
“A brave, noble spirit,” cried Edith; “for I have heard that he stood
so alone in his labours; instead of his family encouraging and helping
him, he was laughed at and opposed—at least by his elder brother and
sister. They would, I fancy, as soon have thought of going steadily to
work as ‘hands’ in that great soap-manufactory, amongst all the smoke
and horrible scent, as of teaching dirty, ragged little ‘roughs’ their
A B C in a shed! I cannot imagine Cora Madden touching one of the
Wildwaste children with the point of her parasol; and from what one hears
of her brother Lionel—but I am getting into evil-speaking,” said Edith
interrupting herself. “There is the pretty little school-house, which
it must have been such a pleasure to design and build. Papa says that
when Arthur Madden returns to England he will certainly ask him to pay
a visit to the Castle, for such public spirit ought to be countenanced.
But I dare say that Mr. Madden wants no praise—no honour from man—that
he serves his heavenly Master in the spirit expressed in my favourite
verses;” and in her soft, almost childish accents, Edith repeated Bonar’s
beautiful lines,—
“Up and away like the dew of the morning,
Soaring from earth to its home in the sun;
So let me steal away gently and lovingly,
Only remembered by what I have done.
“My name, and my place, and my tomb all forgotten,
The brief race of life well and patiently run;
So let me pass away peacefully, silently,
Only remembered by what I have done.”
Before Edith had concluded the verses, the carriage had stopped at the
entrance to the little school-house, on the side appropriated to the
girls.
“The hive seems to be empty,” observed Isa, as she alighted. “I thought
that work was always going on at this hour, but I hear no hum of voices
from within.”
A feeble wail was the only audible sound. After tapping gently at
the door, Isa entered, followed by her cousin, into the neat little
school-room, which usually presented a scene of cheerful industry. Its
only occupants were, however, the schoolmistress and the babe which
she rocked in her arms. The poor woman looked haggard and pale from a
sleepless night, her face bore the stamp of anxious care, and vainly she
attempted to soothe the little sufferer, that seemed from its wasted
appearance not to have many more days to live. Mrs. Collins rose on the
entrance of the ladies, still continuing to rock her sick babe.
“Pray do not rise, Mrs. Collins; I fear that your dear child is very
poorly,” said Isa, looking with gentle sympathy on the suffering infant.
The schoolmistress sank down again on her seat, and drew a heavy sigh as
she answered, “The doctor thinks I shall lose her: I did not close an
eye all last night: I really could not hold the school this morning: it
is the first time that ever I sent the children away, but Mrs. Bolder
has taken charge of even my own little boys—I could not bear the noise
for poor baby.” Mrs. Collins spoke apologetically, as one who fears that
she is neglecting a duty. Isa’s expression of sympathy encouraged her to
proceed: “I am afraid that I shall have to tell the girls not to come
to-morrow: my husband cannot undertake them as well as the boys, for
neither of the rooms would hold all together.”
[Illustration: THE VISIT TO WILDWASTE SCHOOL.]
“Have you to teach on Sundays as well as on week-days?” asked Edith.
“Only for an hour before morning service, and another in the afternoon,
Miss Lestrange. I’m sorry to give it up even for one Sunday, for few of
the children ever see the inside of a church; and but for the school, as
Mr. Bolder used to say, they would grow up like heathen.” Mrs. Collins
was still rocking the baby, that, to her great relief, was at length
dropping asleep in her arms.
“Shall I come to-morrow and take your class?” asked Isa. “I have had
little experience in tuition, but I could read to the girls, teach
them hymns, and question them out of the Bible, while you sit quietly
upstairs nursing your poor little child.”
The look of gratitude in the eyes of the anxious mother said more than
her words, as she eagerly accepted the young lady’s offer.
“And I will see if there is not something that I can send to do the dear
baby good,” said Edith, resolved to drive back and consult Mrs. Holdich
on the subject.
The cousins left the school-room with a pleasant consciousness that they
had lightened a heavy burden. To Isa, especially, the feeling was sweet.
What she had heard of the labours of Arthur Madden had raised the thought
in her mind, “Oh, that I could _go and do likewise_; that I too could
leave a blessing behind, and be ‘remembered by what I had done!’” At once
a door of usefulness was opened before her. Why should she not every
Sunday relieve the hard-worked schoolmistress, and let the weary mother
enjoy amidst her children what would then be a Sabbath indeed? Isa had
for a few weeks taught a Bible-class in London; she liked the work, it
gave interest to life, it took away the sense of weariness and emptiness
which will sometimes creep over the spirit even of the lovely and young.
Isa knew the task of tuition would be far lighter to her than it had
been to the young man whose example was before her: she would go where
she would be welcomed, amongst children already trained to some degree
of order: she would have no opposition or ridicule to fear; for Gaspar,
so long as she made no demands on her purse, was contented to let his
sister do very much as she pleased. That brief visit to the school-room
had to Isa changed greatly the aspect of life at Wildwaste. Her Sundays
at least would not be joyless; she was permitted to do the Lord’s work,
she might hope for His presence and blessing. She had made a sacrifice of
inclination by returning to Wildwaste, and she was beginning to see that
even in that dreary place God might give her rich cause for rejoicing.
“Yes; I shall be happier even here, trying to please my heavenly Master,
than at Castle Lestrange, with the feeling ever arising that I am seeking
to please self alone.”
It was this thought that made Isa Gritton bear patiently the dull
monotony of the home to which she had returned, and the wayward
fretfulness of him whose society now replaced that in which she had found
such delight. Though Gaspar’s temper was more than usually trying, not
once did a peevish tone betray irritation, not once did a frown furrow
Isa’s fair brow. For hours, on the evening after her return, Isa sat
reading aloud to her brother a work upon commercial statistics, in which
she herself took not a shadow of interest. Certainly her mind wandered
much from the book, and when at length she wearily closed it, Isa could
not have recalled a single sentence which it contained. But she had been
serving an invalid brother and not pleasing herself; and if this duty was
less attractive than that of feeding the Saviour’s lambs, it was equally
that which He had assigned her, and it was fulfilled for His sake.
Mankind applaud great acts of munificence, costly offerings presented
like those of Solomon in open day, in the sight of all; but by far the
greater number of the sacrifices which God accepts are made, as it were,
like Gideon’s, in the night-time, in the obscurity of domestic life,
where no praise is looked for from man. There is deep truth in the
well-known lines of Keble,—
“The trivial round, the common task,
Afford us all we ought to ask—
Room to deny ourselves, a road
To lead us daily nearer God.”
[Illustration]
[Illustration]