TRYING CONSEQUENCES.
MRS. TAYLOR and her son kindly interested themselves in choosing
suitable lodgings for Matthew Hill and his little boy, when, all
arrangements being made, the house given up, the furniture sold, his
services permanently engaged by his new employers, Mr. Hill wished to
settle in their neighbourhood.
A respectable widow with one little grand-daughter formed the
household, and cheerfully undertook the charge of the boy in his
father's absence. Then a school was fixed upon, and between school
duties, visits to Mrs. Taylor, and games of play with the little pet
grandchild, poor Josy found plenty to do and to enjoy. The sadness soon
left his bright little face, good cheer and exercise soon strengthened
his body, and Josy became as much admired and courted as any father's
heart could wish.
But it was by very slow degrees that Matthew himself was recovering
either in body or mind from the effects of the deep sorrows he had
passed through. His happiest times were spent with Robert and his
family at their peaceful fireside, where sympathy, and kindness, and
cheerful conversation were sure to be had, and he and Josy as regularly
shared it on a Sunday as the happy day came round.
Matthew felt the sweetness and healthfulness of the atmosphere, and his
child profited by the teachings of the young members of the family as
they read and talked with him over their books and pictures.
Mrs. Hayes had returned to her country home, but this time she seemed
to have left a larger piece of her heart than usual behind her, and if
spared, she promised to visit William and Susan again after a shorter
interval.
She did not leave, however, before an event occurred which interested
all the party very warmly, and she was prevailed on to wait for it.
There was a crowded church, and pathways strewed with flowers and
hedged with garlanded school children, bands of workmen with white
favours, dinners and teas and wedding-cakes, and other significant
doings. It was the marriage of Mr. Archibald Dixon and Miss Eaton.
When the young couple came out from the church, Mr. Archy looked round
for Robert Taylor. He stood by his father, at the head of the whole
body of the men engaged in their extensive and flourishing works. A
tremendous cheer burst forth as the young couple appeared, every hat
was raised, and the white favours flourished in the air, while the
foreman and his son stepped forward, the one bearing a beautiful little
address, and the other an elegant Bible, in their hands.
[Illustration: MR. ARCHIBALD'S MARRIAGE.]
"From your workmen, sir," said William Taylor, briefly.
The young pair were deeply touched, and could not speak their thanks.
Mr. Dixon, senior, advanced to the rescue, though scarcely less
overcome.
"We will all come and thank you in the tent," said he. "Pardon us now;
you have overpowered us with this beautiful surprise. God bless you
all, my men."
The bride recovered her voice by a great effort, sufficiently to say to
Robert as she put out her hand, "We must be friends, Mr. Taylor, for my
own sake as well as Archy's."
And then bride and bridegroom, Bible and address, drove away together
to the hall, where all sorts of hospitalities and rejoicings were
prepared for guests of all ranks and ages.
After this, people and things seemed to subside quietly into their
places, and nearly two years passed peacefully away. Even two years
will leave marks, and some left by these were noteworthy.
Mr. and Mrs. Dixon, senior, feeling that working days should be over
for them, so far as the cares and exertions of business were concerned,
left home with their daughter for a long foreign tour, and the services
of Emily Taylor not being required for the young people, she was to
spend a long holiday among her friends, doing only some needlework at
her own convenience and pleasure.
It was joy to them all to have her at home, and when her young brother
and sister clung fondly to her, little Josy would stand before them,
and wish dear Milly had three arms instead of only two, that he might
get a place like theirs.
"Come, Josy, put your arms round my neck and hold fast till these saucy
rogues choose to give way," cried Milly, laughing and shaking the big
ones off.
Josy did as he was bid, and held on pretty firmly, while all made a
romp of it, and amidst shouts of laughter and fun, Milly was near being
carried round the room as their queen.
"There, that's enough," said she, merrily; "mother will think we are
all run wild. We'll have another game some other day."
"She's the very nicest playfellow in the world," shouted Josy; "and I
love her more than anybody, except my father."
Robert Taylor and Matthew stood behind; they had just come in and heard
the speech. Milly coloured very much, sprang up, and hurried away to
smoothe her ruffled hair.
On no one more visibly than on Matthew Hill had those two years left
their mark. He was now beginning to look like his former self, ere
sin and sickness had robbed his cheek of its bloom and his form of
its strength. The traces of both had vanished, the sadness was now
departing also, and a peaceful heart and conscience, quiet living, kind
friends, intelligent study, and regular industry, had combined to do
wonders for the homeless man—for homeless he still was, according to
his own notions of home. But he forgot even that in Robert's home.
On this special evening, every one remarked the immense improvement,
and everybody enjoyed his society almost as much as his affectionate
little son seemed to do.
This lasted for two or three weeks after Milly's return, and Matthew
had certainly become quite a different person from the dejected,
crushed being who came among them in, mourning and woe.
But he was restless and anxious too, and to his own surprise an
opportunity hurried him on to risk a whole life's happiness on a little
passing moment.
Robert, Matthew, and Emily were coming out of church, and as Milly
usually walked home with her brother, the rest of her family were some
distance off.
Mr. Archibald called Robert back to speak to him about the Sunday
school. Robert disappeared, merely saying he should soon overtake them,
so Matthew and Emily walked side by side.
It was vain to try and talk about indifferent things, and so with a
beating heart, Matthew ventured to remind his companion of little
Josy's expression of his love for her, which he had overheard, and
asked permission to offer her an affection which could have no
exception in all the world.
Emily was startled and distressed.
"Do not answer me now," said Matthew; "say only you will think of it."
"No, no, Mr. Hill," said Milly, much agitated; "I must answer you now.
It is impossible; please think no more of it, of me. Oh, why did you
ever do it? Indeed, I am so sorry, so grieved to—to—distress you."
"Oh, it is right. I know it is right. I was very foolish to think of
it, but I could not help it. Say you excuse and forgive me; and oh, do
not cast off my child, who loves you so dearly."
"No, never," said Milly, firmly.
"God bless you," said Matthew, and he left her as soon as they reached
her father's door.
And so ended his dream, so crumbled his castle, which he had been
lighting up with the love and blessedness of home. And the sadness
again crept over his face, and he felt that he had been undeserving of
the blessing he sought.
Poor Emily, in a state of troubled agitation, went to her room, knelt
down at her bedside, and shed abundance of tears.
When it was found that Matthew came no more to the house, Robert took
alarm, and found him sitting with his Bible alone in his lodging.
Matthew was too transparent and honest to keep back the truth, and he
told Robert what he had done, and the result.
"I know it was weak and presumptuous," said he; "I have no right to
expect ever to be trusted again; and now I shall never ask it of
another. You won't ask me to come at present, but by-and-by God will
help me, and I shall be myself again—a better self, I hope, for the
great humbling and bitter disappointment."
Robert was strongly moved. But for one thing, he had never known any
man he would so gladly see united to his sister; and that one thing had
doubtless influenced Milly also.
"Well, Susan," said Mr. Taylor, merrily, one evening, "Mr. Archibald
has taken it into his head that I must have a holiday. We are a little
slack just now for a while, and so, as it would be no holiday to me
without you, what do you say to a trip to see Aunt Hayes? Suppose we
surprise her?"
"With all my heart," said his wife; "and I propose that we double our
welcome by taking Milly." The mother had watched her child, and she saw
that something had touched the brightness and beauty of life to her;
she thought it must be more than the rejection of even a good man's
regard.
"Would you like to go, Milly?"
"Oh, yes, mother," she eagerly replied, "so very much; of all things
it is just what I wished." And she thought how Mr. Hill could come and
spend his evenings with Robert again, and it would be so pleasant for
them both.
So leaving the younger ones to manage Robert and the house, Mr. and
Mrs. Taylor and Milly set off on their journey.
Aunt Hayes's sharp eyes soon detected a change in her darling, and she
could not rest until she got to the cause of it.
Susan told her what had occurred, and at the end of her visit agreed to
leave Milly on condition that she would bring her home and stay a long
time with them.
"Come here, darling," said Aunt Hayes, "and tell me something I want
to know." And putting her arm round her niece, and resting her head on
her shoulder, she went on, "We two love each other, and if something
is wrong with one the other feels it too, even though she doesn't know
what it is. Isn't it so?"
"Yes, dear aunt; but indeed there's nothing wrong with me?"
"Are you quite sure you have done right before God, dear Milly?"
"I think—I hope so," said Milly, in surprise.
"Tell me what you expect and wish for in a husband, Milly?"
"Nothing at all," said Milly, quickly. "I shall stay in service, aunty,
and some day, years hence, you know, there will be a little notice in
the paper, 'Died, after thirty or forty years of faithful service,
Emily Taylor, the valued friend and servant of the family of A. Dixon,
Esq.' Won't that be nice? One likes to see such things now and then."
"Very nice, if nothing better can be had," said Aunt Hayes, dryly.
"What can be better?" said Milly. "I honour such servants."
"So do I, always granting that wise, good reasons have made them
decline higher responsibilities and more important duties."
A dead silence. Then Mrs. Hayes began again, "Milly, my darling, when
an honourable man, a true Christian man, offers the treasure of an
honest, loving heart, should not the woman who rejects it be able to
give a reason for so doing?"
"Yes, of course, aunt."
"Suppose, added to the Christian character, there are sufficient means
to justify the offer, very pleasant manners, a manly, handsome person,
an intelligent mind; in short, just such a person as—Who, Milly?"
"As Mr. Hill," said Emily. "I grant it all, aunt."
"And you cannot love such an one, Milly?"
"I did not say that," murmured Emily, in her aunt's ear. "I could love
him, but I dare not, and I will not," and she pressed the kind arm that
held her in token of a strong resolve.
"We are getting at it," thought the old lady; "I suspected how it was."
"You dare not, you will not, my child; and why?"
"Because—oh, aunt, must I say it?" And Emily raised her head from her
aunt's bosom, her eyes bright, her cheek flushed, her lips quivering
with strong feeling—"because I must thoroughly and entirely respect my
husband, and no one must have reason to do otherwise. I cannot feel
this of Mr. Hill. There are those who have seen him disgraced by—by—oh,
how dreadful to think of such a thing about 'him'—by drink! He told
Robert all about it, and Robert told us, because when he first came
and was ill, he desired that no one should think better of him than he
deserved. And he said he had forsaken his wife and children, and had
been very ill in some hospital through drunkenness. Aunt, if he were
as good as an angel now, I could not marry a man who has so debased
himself."
Aunt Hayes clasped the dear speaker closer, with a fonder love than
ever. But she said nothing. What could she say?
When Mrs. Hayes had nothing to say to any human ear on a point of
interest and importance, she always spoke to God. So there was another
long silence, and poor Milly gathered strength and confidence in those
kind arms.
"One question, Milly, and we will speak no more of this. Does your
father, does Robert, know anything of the circumstances of Mr. Hill's
past life from any one but himself?"
"No, I believe not, aunt, though he gave Robert the names of some
people who knew him, in case Robert chose to inquire about him. Some
lady named Oakland, and a Mr. Benjamin Field—a reformed drunkard too.
What an associate!" And Milly felt a little shudder pass over her.
"Child, learn charity," said Mrs. Hayes. "The grace of God can change
a drunkard into a prince with God, a 'joint heir with Christ.' Nothing
else can, and what are we that dare to speak unforgivingly of those He
has taken to His bosom and throne?"
[Illustration]