AN ELOPEMENT.
"NOW, Milly, my dear," said Mrs. Hayes, when the train stopped at a
certain junction, on the return, "I'm getting out here, and you will
go on home alone. Take care of my luggage; I've got all I want in my
little bag, which stays with me. Tell them I'm coming after you soon,
and don't be uneasy. If I don't appear, my will is made, and all
straight and right."
"No, indeed, aunt," exclaimed Milly, attempting to jump from the
carriage, "it's all crooked and wrong to leave you here. If you stay,
so will I."
"Silly child, sit still," cried Mrs. Hayes; "do you think I don't know
what I'm doing? It is to be as I say; good-by for a little bit."
"Sit still, please, miss; train's off!" cried the guard, seeing Emily
about to step down, notwithstanding her aunt's words.
The whistle sounded, the train started, while Emily sat looking in
alarm and astonishment from the carriage window, and the self-reliant
old lady stood nodding and smiling on the platform.
"What wilful imprudence!" exclaimed William Taylor, when, amidst the
consternation of the family, his daughter told her extraordinary story
of dear Aunt Hayes's elopement.
"To think of her rambling about the country alone, and at her age!"
said Robert, anxiously. "What can we do?"
"Nothing but wait patiently," said Susan. "Strange as it is, I am bound
to say that I never knew Aunt Hayes do a thing that could grieve or
trouble anybody without some reason that was to do good, and make all
right in the end; we must trust God to take care of her, and wait until
she comes or writes to us."
And there seemed nothing else to be done, for no one had the slightest
idea of where she could be going, or what she meant to do.
Perhaps the landlord of the "The Crown," at —, felt a little curious
and interested when a hearty, brisk old woman, well-dressed, with a
great bag on her arm and an umbrella in her hand, stepped in, and asked
if she could be accommodated for a night or two.
The landlady came forward, showed a little sitting-room and a bedroom
over it, ready in half an hour.
"It will do very well. Now some tea to refresh and rest me, and then
your company, if you please, for a little while."
All being complied with, the landlord and his wife were relieved from
their stretch of curiosity by the blunt, straightforward old lady,
whose plan was laid with the wisdom of the serpent, to get at two sides
of her subject, knowing that men and women take somewhat opposite views
of the same thing sometimes.
"Do you happen to know a man named Matthew Hill?" said the old lady.
"Matthew Hill? To be sure we do, ma'am."
"Has he any score here against his name?"
"Oh no, ma'am, nor ever had; he always paid for what he got," said the
landlord.
"One can't say that much for his wife, though, you know," said the
landlady. "There's something down against her to this day."
"Why didn't you send the bill to her husband?" asked the visitor.
"Well, you see, ma'am, it was a sad business, all that about Mr. and
Mrs. Hill; a nicer, better-hearted young fellow never walked than he
was, but somehow his wife—"
"He didn't ought to have run away from them, though," put in the
landlady, strongly.
"Well, no, in course not, but let me tell the lady. Poor fellow, many's
the time he's come in here and sat down with a great sigh fit to burst
his heart, and though he said nothing, I knew what it was; for his
missis, though she were a smart girl enough, had a horrid temper of her
own, and used to say ugly things and try to sneer him down like; and
who'll stand that, I'd like to know, when there's a comfortable seat
in the bar-parlour, without any crabbed tempers to bother a man's mind
when he's tired? So poor Hill came and sat here now and then, and he
did take a glass or so, and once or twice it was too much for him."
"What sent him to the hospital?" asked the visitor.
"Just nothing but her tempers. He got a drop too much, as the saying
is, one wet night. I remember it very well; he came in with a miserable
face, and said the missis was all upset with a brick that came down
the chimney, and there wasn't a place to stand or sit in, nor no way
to please or help her. And two or three fellows were here talking and
drinking and singing, and Matthew, he stayed late, and she let him lie
soaked in wet clothes on the floor all night, and then she wouldn't
tend him nor nothing. But there's a good lady near by who can tell you
more about that than we can."
"It was rheumatic fever," said the landlady, "and Mrs. Oakland, she
meddled, they did say, and sent him to the infirmary, and he never came
home any more, though he did send money to keep them all comfortable.
Then, poor thing, she went wrong, and got drink, and at last killed
herself with it."
"Ay, and killed two of her children with neglect first, though,"
interrupted the landlord. "And, wife, don't forget how he came back
and nursed her through a long illness, and wouldn't let her go to the
asylum, poor fellow. I was right sorry for him, so I was, and I never
had the heart to send him any bill of what his wife had run up here.
She was a vixen if ever there was such a thing, begging the lady's
pardon," concluded the landlord.
Here was general report, but something more of the inner life was
needful.
And at breakfast-time the next morning, Mr. and Mrs. Field were
surprised by a visit from the same old lady, escorted by the landlady
of "The Crown" to their door.
Similar questions were put, but Benjamin and Ellen were not so
communicative as the innkeeper had been.
"I am not authorised, madam," said Benjamin, respectfully, "to speak of
my friend's private and family affairs to strangers."
"To whose disadvantage would they tell?" asked the visitor.
"Not to Matthew's, according to my thinking," said Mr. Field; "and I
believe my wife agrees with me."
Ellen cordially assented.
The old lady placed her hand on the head of their eldest girl.
"Listen," said she; "if you had a daughter whom Matthew desired for his
wife, would you, Christian parents as I have heard you are, give her to
him without fear for her happiness?"
"Yes, we would," said both. "God has dealt with him heart and soul, and
we could trust His work; but nothing else—no pledges, no resolutions,
no promises—will bind so as to put away all fear of a relapse. God only
can cure that leprosy."
Then good Mrs. Hayes and Mr. Field understood one another, and mutual
confidences followed, and the whole sad story from beginning to end was
told with feeling by husband and wife.
Still, something of the earlier habits and characters might be learned;
and behold Mrs. Hayes and Mrs. Oakland in close confidential talk.
Here the real temper of the wife was but too well-known, and the first
fall of the husband was traced out. Mrs. Oakland, too, had visited the
family throughout their troubles, and witnessed his true penitence and
anguish during Jane's last illness.
"Yes," concluded she, "I would trust Matthew now; his was genuine
conversion by the Spirit of God, I do believe. Mrs. Hayes, if I might
see the young woman to whom he has become attached, perhaps I could
meet all her objections, and show her that one so hardly and so deeply
tried is worthy of her love now."
"Did you ever see him intoxicated?" asked Mrs. Hayes.
"No, never. But the first time it ever happened was when went to buy a
horse for some friend at a fair. He was young, thoughtless, and perhaps
a little self-sufficient, and over the bargain the dealers made him
drink. He came home ill, and being in my district, and known to my
family from a boy, I felt great interest in him, and he always listened
to my advice. He afterwards went on steadily and well, and was highly
valued as a most skilful workman, and I own I was grieved and vexed
that he fixed his affections on my servant. I feared she would not make
him happy, but I did my best to help her, and warn her of her dangers.
The state of things became worse than I had feared, and—you know all
that followed."
"Lady," said Mrs. Hayes, "if it should ever be wished, do you still
feel sufficient interest in Matthew Hill to take a journey in his
behalf, and say to a young woman whose affection would be a greater
blessing to him than I have power to tell, what you have said to me?"
"Indeed I would do it if you ask me, or even unasked. Few things could
give me greater pleasure than to see him once more blessed with a
happy home. He is quite a young man still, not more than thirty, and
the prospect is dreary for him and his boy without home interests and
affections."
"So it is, dear lady; but then, he allowed the faults of another to
become causes of his own; and though man takes up with such excuses,
our Lord does not. It's the old story from the beginning, and right
principle and manly feeling are against it. Yes, Matthew should suffer,
only if we can shorten his trial, we will."
At the end of the third day from her disappearance Mrs. Hayes, hale and
hearty, walked into her nephew's house to tea.
But not for the younger inquisitors was the history of her adventures,
and they had to be content with their curiosity.
But to Mr. and Mrs. Taylor, and Robert and Emily, she told by the
fireside that evening how she had been interested in the character
and history of a person she had heard of, and had been to visit his
friends. Then she began with the horse-dealers at the fair, and traced
Matthew Hill through all his troubles and sufferings down to the
present time, naming no names, but soon understood by her hearers.
Then Milly stole out of the room, and was seen no more until Mrs. Hayes
went to bed, when, her fair face laid upon the old lady's shoulder, she
whispered her thanks for all she had done, and entreated very earnestly
that the subject might now rest, and be no more mentioned in the family.
"You are not satisfied yet, darling?"
"No, not yet," said Emily.
So the subject was not named again, and Emily became bright and
cheerful as usual, and Matthew Hill having fully satisfied himself that
he should never again enjoy a home of his own, and might as well bask
in the sunshine of his friend's happiness while he could, gradually
resumed his visits, seeing no reason to debar himself the society of
the only woman who could make home for him anywhere while she was
entirely free from preferences for any other. When that time came, he
thought would be soon enough to retreat into solitude.
He had too true a sense of his own dignity to become a hanger-on, or
a persecutor of the gentle girl, and his attention to her was merely
that of a respectful friend. Josy, however, made no scruple of constant
demonstration of the most loving devotion, and Emily became his
instructress in many useful pleasant ways during her residence at home.
Mrs. Hayes looked on quietly. Her darling Milly was quite herself again
in health and spirits, and if really and truly she had cast her lot
for that gratifying obituary at the hand of some member of Mr. Dixon's
family, why, who should hinder her? Doubtless all would be well; and
Milly must be useful and beloved wherever and with whomsoever she
walked the pilgrimage of life.
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