TWO LETTERS
"Oh, righteous doom, that they who make
Pleasure their only end,
Ordering the whole life for its sake,
Miss that whereto they tend;"
"While they who bid stern Duty lead,
Content to follow—they,
Of duty only taking heed
Find pleasure by the way."—Trench.
JEAN always looked back to that spring in after years, as a very happy
bit of her life. She saw a good deal of Mrs. Fergusson, and then her
son took her home, and Mrs. Gordon and Sunnie followed soon afterwards.
Jean did not often meet the doctor. He had a good many engagements
in town, and was generally away when she visited Sunnie. But the day
before he went back to Scotland, she met him there, and when she left
the house, he walked a part of the way home with her. She asked him
then a question that had been continually in her thoughts.
"Will Sunnie's complete recovery of health change her nature?"
"Why should it?" he asked.
"I don't know," said Jean. "To me, she has been a child so different
to all others, that I should hate to see her lose all her quaint
individuality. She may, from constant association with other children,
rub off the bloom. I can't express myself properly, but her invalid
life has given her what an ordinary child's life could never give. And
I don't want her changed."
"I think I know what you mean, but it would be rather selfish of us to
want to keep her as she is, for our own gratification. It will be a
much healthier life, physically and mentally, and I do not see why her
spiritual life should suffer. I am not afraid of it." Then he added—
"I went to see her portrait the other day."
"Did you?" said Jean. "I sometimes wonder if I shall paint any one else
with such pleasure, as I did that."
"You had a good subject," said the doctor. Then looking at her a little
keenly, he asked: "Has this success of yours wedded you more than ever
to your art? You did not appear to me to be entirely enamoured of it in
Scotland?"
"No, I went to paint Sunnie's picture rather against my inclination."
"You are happier now?"
"Yes," said Jean, looking straight in front of her, "but it isn't my
art that is making me happier."
There was silence; then she added a little hurriedly—
"Long ago, when first I knew him, Colonel Douglas gave me this advice.
He said, 'Seek the best thing first.' I sought fame, for I thought then
it was the best thing. Now I know better."
Another silence. Dr. Fergusson did not break it, neither did Jean. When
she reached her lodgings, she held out her hand.
He took it, and kept it in his for a moment. "Then we are
fellow-travellers now," he said, looking down upon her with a smile.
Jean could not speak, and rather abruptly, he left her.
It was a warm day in June. Jean came in to tea, feeling tired and
dusty. She found two letters on the table, and sitting down by the open
window, she read the one that interested her most. It was from Mrs.
Fergusson.
"MY DEAR JEAN,—Will you give me the pleasure of a short visit now
that summer is here? I am sure you must be longing to get away from
London dust and noise, and my old garden is looking very sweet in its
young green at present. It was very pleasant to see as much of you as
I did when I was in town, but our slight acquaintance has only made me
wish to see you more, and I am hoping you may reciprocate this wish."
"My son unites with me in kind remembrances."
"Yours affectionately,"
"JANET FERGUSSON."
"Let me know what date would suit you to come."
Jean drew a long breath of delight and longing. It seemed to her that
at last, the wish of her heart was going to be gratified.
Mrs. Fergusson had a marvellous attraction for her, and though her note
was not a long or gushing one, it showed her that she was wanted.
She sat looking out in the busy street, with a light in her eyes and
joy in her heart. She saw again the sweet old Scotch house, and the
graceful, clever woman who presided over it. She pictured the evenings
that Chris had described to her so well, and could hardly believe that
it was her good fortune now to be the favoured guest. Perhaps with the
anticipation of walks and talks with her old friend, the idea of a
renewed and closer intimacy with her "fellow-traveller" intermingled.
"Oh!" she sighed at last in deep content, "I can hardly believe it is
true!"
After a little, she roused herself from her daydreams and proceeded
to pour out for herself a cup of tea. It was then she noticed her
other letter, and she smiled as she recognised Charlie Oxton's bold
calligraphy.
She opened it.
"MY DEAR COZ,—Your grandpater has had a slight seizure of some sort;
we have been at sixes and sevens, and the whole household has gone
to pot!"
"John is the only one who keeps his wits and his legs. The young maid
who was always fighting Mary has decamped, Mary is ill in bed—influenza
and temper have overcome her. Rawlings is down with rheumatics. I'm
in and out, up and down, bossing the show, but it's beyond my powers
to cook and nurse, and dust and sweep, and the governor is conscious
enough to express his determination to have no nurse or strange woman
inside his house."
"In our dire extremity, I thought of you, and asked the governor,
if he'd like to see you. He cocked his eyebrows, pulled down his mouth,
and grunted assent, which shows how very meek and mild and docile
he has become! Will you take pity on us? My hay is just being cut,
and my farm going to the dogs for want of my personal supervision.
Wire reply."
"Yours in a fix,"
"CHARLIE."
Jean's face underwent several changes as she read this.
"It is cruel to come now!" was her first comment. And then raged a
conflict in her soul.
"Why should I go to him?" she thought. "He cast me out, he made my
life a misery to me, and he expects me to return to my bondage with a
thankful, grateful spirit! Charlie seems to think nothing of my wishes
and my feelings. Two helpless men they are, and their one desire is to
get a woman to put things straight. Any woman could do it! Why should I
victimise myself? Why should I give up the greatest pleasure that has
come to me since I have been in London? If I don't go to Scotland now,
I have a feeling I never shall. I know how many visitors Mrs. Fergusson
has coming and going, she will forget all about me, she has so many
interests, and I want to—oh, I do want to go! Why should both these
letters come at once?"
She got up and paced her room.
The old Jean would have had no difficulty in coming to a decision,
but the Jean who had taken service under the Master who never pleased
Himself, could not waive aside other people's needs so easily.
"Oh," she cried impulsively, "it is too much to expect of me. I am
not an old, matured, self-denying Christian. I cannot give up such a
pleasure, to go and look after grandfather when he hates me and has
turned me out of the house. I should be too good to live if I did it!"
Then she sat down, and with her elbows on her tea-table and her chin in
her hands, she went on wrestling with the subject.
It was a long time before she moved her position, but when she did, it
was to get upon her knees.
"Oh, God, it is Thy will I ought to be doing, not my own. Forgive me
for thinking about myself so much. Help me to do what I know must be
Thy will, and make me content and willing to do it."
The victory was won; and not giving herself time to ponder over her
decision, she went straight off to the post-office and despatched a
telegram—
"Coming by first train to-morrow."
"JEAN."
It did not take long to make her arrangements, though it kept her busy
for the rest of the evening. And very early the next morning, she
started with a brave heart and cheerful face for her old home. She had
written to Mrs. Fergusson explaining her circumstances. As she was
being carried along in the train, she was tempted to begin pitying
herself, but she quenched it.
"If Chris or Barbara had been in my place, they would have come as a
matter of course, without any struggle or self-commiseration. I wonder
whether I shall ever reach their stage—to think of other people, always
and naturally, before myself! It must be difficult!"
When she reached the old familiar station and found no Charlie there to
greet her, her heart sank.
She got into an open fly and drove along the flat marshes, smelling
the salt scent of the sea, and wondering if the past four years had
only been an interlude, and as she had lived for so many years in this
dreary bit of country, so now she was going to continue to do the same
for the rest of her life.
"I feel my independence and liberty fast oozing away!" she said to
herself, and then she smiled at the thought. When she at last reached
her grandfather's house, she found it unchanged—a little shabbier and
drearier, that was all. She paid and dismissed her driver, for the
hall door was open, and no one seemed about. Then she carried her
small portmanteau into the hall, and met Charlie and the doctor coming
downstairs. Charlie looked worried, his immaculate head of hair was
ruffled, but as he saw Jean a broad smile of relief came over his face.
"Here she is, Doctor! You're a trump, Jean! Come right in, have a good
square meal, and then you'll be able to tackle us all. All right, my
good fellow, you go on; we shall weather through now without your
nurse."
He dismissed the doctor in an airy fashion, then tucked Jean's arm in
his, and marched her off to the kitchen, where Mary was sitting before
the fire enveloped in shawls, and groaning audibly.
"Now you'll have to buck up, old lady," he said, taking hold of her by
the shoulder. "Here's your mistress. A nice state of things she will
find! Give her some food at once. Here! I'll forage in the larder. It's
no use waiting for John. He's attending to his master, and heaven only
knows when he'll be set at liberty."
He bustled off, and Mary, trying to rise, began to cry weakly.
"Oh, Miss Jean, 'tis terrible to find me like this, but I've just
crawled out of bed, and the sink is piled with dirty dishes, and the
floor hasn't been swept for a week, and there isn't even a drop o' hot
water. Me that never let the kettle get cold from one year's end to
another! Ever since Elsie left, there's been trouble on trouble, the
master hasn't seemed to care how things go, and I'm that ashamed of
your seein' the house so topsy-turvey, that I could sink to the door
for shame!"
"Nonsense, Mary; I think you had better go back to bed. You arn't fit
to be up. I'll see that things come straight. I shall have a woman from
the village to help me."
Before Jean went to bed that night, she had worked wonders. The
knowledge she had gained at Kingsford Farm when Chris was away, stood
her in good stead now, and Charlie was lost in admiration.
She did not see her grandfather that evening. She went down to the
village and engaged a capable woman to come the next day and take
Mary's place in the kitchen. She cleaned out the kitchen and made
Charlie work with her.
"You must help me to-night, and after to-morrow, we shall be straight.
Why have you let things get so bad?"
"Why? Because those old fools, Mary and John, have fought half the
village, and told me that there was no one fit to black my shoes for
four miles round! They've refused to have outside help, and your
grandpater has backed them up. Truth is, Mary is too old for the job;
she ought to be in an almshouse."
"She is ill with worry," said Jean. "I believe she has a lot of work in
her yet."
"Oh, it will be all right now you're here! As I told the governor, you
never ought to have left him!"
"I was the best judge of that," said Jean a little stiffly.
"Don't sit up so! He ought to have given you a studio, and taken a
pride in your performances. Take my word for it, my dear girl, it's a
bad policy to have no relations at your back. I'm jolly glad you're
home again in your rightful place."
"But," said Jean, with a blank look at him, "I am not going to stay
here."
He gave her a wink.
"Don't you fret yourself! We'll settle it up in a very satisfactory way
for all parties concerned!"
Jean said no more.
Charlie would not see her side, and she was too tired to argue the
point with him.
The next morning, she interviewed her grandfather, and was shocked
to see his weakness and general feebleness; but he did not seem very
amicably disposed towards her.
"It's that boy's doing," he murmured. "He is so masterful. There was no
need for you to come back, but if you make yourself useful, you may as
well stay till I'm about again!"
Jean smiled, a little sore at heart. But she had no time to think about
herself, there was too much to do, and she set to work as cheerfully as
she could.
Old Mr. Desmond was astonished at the quick, deft way in which she made
him comfortable, and put his room to rights. She proved as good a nurse
to him, as she had been to Miss Lorraine. In a few days, the household
was again a quiet, orderly one. Two young maids were engaged, and Jean
superintended everything herself.
When Mary recovered, she was sent away for a holiday, and she returned
with renewed strength and vigour to take up the reins in the kitchen.
Then Jean had a little more leisure; she was able to roam out into the
garden, to take walks with her cousin, and then it was that he informed
her, he was going abroad again.
"I sha'n't be long—about three months—but I've got some land out there
that wants looking after. I ought to have gone before, only I really
didn't like leaving the old man; he's been very good to me! He's rather
rum, isn't he? Told me this morning that as long as you kept in your
proper place, he would keep you here. That's a woman's sphere, cooking,
dusting, and looking after the house generally! And he thinks you're
pretty good at it, do you know! I, of course, agreed with him." He
looked at her with such twinkling humour in his eyes that Jean could
not be angry.
"Directly he gets better, I shall go," she said promptly. "But
sometimes I am anxious, Charlie. What does the doctor think?"
"Oh, he's a fool! The governor is getting old, and he had a pretty
heavy stroke, but there's life in him for a good while yet. I told him
I was off, and the arrangement is that you stay with him till I come
back."
"But," remonstrated Jean in genuine dismay, "I really cannot. Three
whole months! He doesn't really want me. I believe he thinks he is
doing me a kindness in having me here, and I feel quite the other way.
I must get back to my work in London."
"Rot! You can work, as you call it, here. I'll put that straight, and
it wouldn't hurt to let your paints hang over for a bit. There's plenty
else to occupy you!"
"Between you and grandfather," said Jean, with some spirit, "I feel I
have no mind or individuality of my own at all!"
Charlie gave one of his hearty laughs.
"You're one of the best young women going!" he asserted. "But you're
mistaking your vocation. You are born to rule a house, and make us poor
men comfortable. You've a knack at it that dozens of married women
would give their eyes to have! And the governor and I know when we're
well off."
Jean felt powerless to plead her own cause with Charlie, and so before
she half realised it, he had taken his departure, and she had pledged
herself to stay with her grandfather till he came back.