"Slight withal may be the things which bring
Back on the heart the weight which it would fling
Aside for ever: it may be a sound,
A tone of music--summer's eve, or spring--
A flower--the wind--the ocean."
Byron.
And so things went on for a day or two. As regards Arthur, that is to
say. As regarded the anxious little party at Faxleham Cottage, Mr
Morison took immediate steps. He went down there the following day to
give them news of Lettice, and to arrange for their all coming to spend
Christmas with him and his wife. Lettice would gladly have accompanied
him, but the morning had found her completely knocked up, and in her now
thoroughly awakened fear of her own self-will, she gave in without a
murmur to her uncle and aunt's decision that she must stay where she
was. Nor was she the only one to exercise self-denial. Mr and Mrs
Morison, quite against their custom, determined to stay in London for
Christmas, so that they should be nearer at hand for any news of Arthur,
or to take further steps, should such be necessary.
Lettice was overwhelmed with gratitude. She was satisfied, too, that
all that could be done was being done. She was gentle to a fault. But
her punishment was of the severest.
"If they--if you--reproached me," she said to Nina, weeping in her arms,
the evening of their arrival, "I could, I think, better bear it. But to
have nothing but kindness, nothing but constant proofs of affection that
I don't deserve. Oh, Nina, it humiliates me."
"But it _should_ not," said Nina. "For one thing, Lettice, do you not
owe it to our uncle and aunt to try to seem a little less wretched? Is
it not selfish to think of nothing but our anxiety? Are you not in
danger, perhaps, of exaggerating things now the other way--blaming
yourself _too_ much, and making those about you unhappy from your very
sorrow for having done so in the past?"
A very short time ago Nina would not have dared to speak thus to her
sister, and even now she felt that Lettice shrank back a little from
her, as she listened.
"It may be so," she said wearily, and with a shade of bitterness in her
tone. "No doubt I am bad and wrong every way. I can't think what God
lets me live for."
"Oh, Lettice!" said Nina with deep reproach. And the fit of petulance
was over in a moment. "I know I shouldn't speak so. Forgive me again,
Nina. I will try."
"And you know we have some reason for cheerfulness. Think how glad we
should be of that other letter of Arthur's, showing at least that he is
well, and certainly not off to America as yet."
For the second letter, which has been referred to, had been received
from Arthur. It told them of his well-being, but gave no trace of his
whereabouts--the faithful Dawson, through ways and means best known to
himself, managing to post each letter sent him to forward, in a
different part of London. So that for the moment, beyond putting
advertisements in some of the leading papers, there seemed nothing else
to do. For Arthur's sake, when he _should_ return, his uncle was
determined to avoid all possible hue and cry, and so long as they knew
that he was safe and well, his sisters thoroughly joined in this
feeling. Still, it was weary work waiting.
"I feel sure we shall have another letter this week," continued Nina.
"He is certain to write to us at or about Christmas."
"Yes, I think he will," agreed Lettice. "I have no doubt he will keep
on writing regularly. But what good does that do? It relieves, so far,
our anxiety, but so long as we cannot communicate with him, what hope
have we of his returning? How can we make him understand how we long
for him? That he would be in no way reproached, and would be as free as
air to choose the future he best likes."
"I don't know how it will come," said Nina, "but I feel sure some way
will offer itself. For one thing, I think after a while he will long
for news of us, and will propose some way for us to write to him. Uncle
Ingram has written it all to Aunt Gertrude's brother, Mr Winthrop. He
lives somewhere in the north, not so very far from Liverpool, and Uncle
Ingram is sure he would go there if we like, and look about--where the
docks are, you know. Arthur may be in Liverpool, and may sometimes go
about them, if he has any idea of America still."
"But he, Mr Winthrop, he does not even know Arthur by sight," objected
Lettice.
"No, but--Aunt Gertrude has an idea, she was speaking of it this
evening--Philip Dexter is at the Winthrops' for Christmas. Aunt
Gertrude was saying if _he_ went with Mr Winthrop."
It was a good idea, though very distasteful to Lettice. She would have
done anything to prevent Philip's hearing of their trouble about Arthur,
for she had a fear that he would in some way blame her for it. But she
checked herself.
"I must bear what I have brought on myself," she reflected. "I would
give anything never to see Philip again, for he can never either like or
respect me. He will not believe I even meant to speak the truth. But
if he cares for Nina, and she for him, I have less right than ever to
interfere. There is only one comfort--Godfrey Auriol never can know
anything about _that_, and I'm certainly not bound to confess to _hint_.
Indeed, it would be indelicate to Nina to do so."
It was a relief to her that he was still in Scotland, and not to be back
for Christmas. Her pride rose rampant at the thought of seeing him
again, and at the triumph over her which she imagined he would feel.
But she comforted herself somewhat with the reflection that for the
future she need see very little of him, much less than heretofore, as
her uncle, now really in his right position as their guardian, would be
the one they would naturally consult.
And thus they spent Christmas Day. Some among them so thankful for the
unexpected lifting of the clouds that they could not but be hopeful for
the future--poor Lettice, though grateful and humble, yet feeling that
it was the saddest Christmas she had ever spent.
Though Christmas Eve had brought some unexpected news, which seemed to
throw a little light on the matter of which all their hearts were full.
This was a letter from Mr Winthrop, in answer to the one telling him of
Arthur Morison's disappearance, and asking his advice or help if he saw
any way of giving either. He had at once caught up the idea that "the
gentleman tramp" and Arthur were one and the same, and wrote giving all
details of the two or three days during which he took refuge at the
rectory, of his personal appearance, what he had said and refused to
say, and everything there was to tell.
"When Philip comes--we expect him to-morrow," he wrote--"I will get him
to go with me to Liverpool. There I shall at once see Simcox, for whom
I gave Arthur, if it was he, a letter, and I have very little doubt but
that we shall there hear of him. He was so _completely_ ignorant of my
being in any way connected with his family, that he will have had no
fear as to availing himself of my introduction."
For the good rector had no knowledge of the conversation between the
boys and Arthur when they accompanied him "a bit of the way" on his
road. And Tom and Ralph were far too careless and unobservant to have
noticed the start with which the young man had heard them speak of their
"Uncle Ingram," or the questions he had put to them.
And Arthur himself, for whom so many hearts were aching and anxious, how
did he spend this strange Christmas far from all he cared for, in such
an entirely different atmosphere from any he had ever known?
Nothing could have been kinder, considering the circumstances in which
he had come among them, than the way he was received and treated by the
old farmer's family. Till Christmas was over he was to be a guest and
nothing more.
"There's a time for all things," said James, who was jovially inclined--
rather too much so sometimes for his Eliza's tastes. "Let business lay
by till Christmas is over, any way, and then we'll see about it;" and he
was profoundly distressed that no persuasions would make "John" drink a
glass of wine, or even taste the bowl of punch with which they wound up,
though in no unseemly fashion, the yearly festivities; while Eliza, on
the other hand, was inclined to look upon it as a sign of his gentility.
The Christmas dinner was a dinner and no mistake. It began as soon as
they had all got home from church in the morning; for James was a
churchwarden, and would have been greatly scandalised had any one of the
family played truant. So Eliza and her mother had to smother their
anxieties as to the goose and the roast beef, the plum-pudding and
mince-pies, in their housewifely bosoms, and their self-control was
rewarded by finding all had prospered under the care of the little
maid-of-all-work, in their absence.
On Christmas evening, when all the good cheer had been done justice to,
and the draper and his family, with a few friends who had come in to
taste the punch, were comfortably ensconced round the fire, Arthur
managed to steal up to his room, to sit there quietly for a few minutes'
thought. It was a small room, with a sloping roof and a dormer window,
through which he could see the twinkling lights of the little town
below, and the purer radiance of the innumerable stars above. For it
was a most beautiful winter night. Not a cloud obscured the sky, but it
was bitterly cold. Arthur got down his great-coat from the peg where it
was hanging, and wrapped it round him, for he felt still colder from the
contrast with the warmth of the room downstairs. And then he sat gazing
out of the little window, feeling as absolutely cut off from all he had
known and cared for, as if the sea already rolled between them! Some of
the excitement which had led to the step he had taken had worn off. He
no longer felt quite so sure that it had been the best and most
unselfish thing to do, and there were times even, when he began to fancy
that perhaps he, as well as Lettice, had exaggerated the consequences of
his failure. But with this reflection, in his calmer state of mind,
came another. Was not the present state of things, had not all his
troubles been brought about by his want of moral courage? It was all
very well to call it his consideration for Lettice's feelings; he was
far too right-judging not to know that consideration of that kind
carried too far, becomes insincerity, and foolish, wrong self-sacrifice.
He knew, too, at the bottom of his heart, that for all the stress
Lettice had laid on his dead father's and mother's wishes, they would
have been the last to have urged upon him a profession which he had no
taste for.
"They might have been _disappointed_," he said to himself, "but I can't
think that they would have been angry. Not at least, if I had been
frank with them." And words of his father's, which he had been too
young at the time fully to understand, came back to his mind. "Don't be
in too great a hurry, my boy. I have suffered too much from other
people deciding my course in life for me before I was old enough to know
my own mind. I _hope_ you will be a soldier, but don't be in a hurry."
Why had this never come back to his memory before? He remembered it now
so clearly. They were standing, his father and he, by a window--where
was it?--somewhere from whence a wide expanse of sky was visible, and it
must have been at night. "Yes, the stars were sparkling brightly, it
was cold and clear." It must have been the association of these outward
circumstances as well as the direction of his thoughts, that had revived
the remembrance. But Arthur sighed deeply as he went on to reflect that
it was now too late, the die was cast, he must go on with what he had
begun, desolate and dreary though it now looked to him. The best he
could hope for was by working hard and faithfully in this situation
which had so unexpectedly offered itself, to earn enough money, joined
to what he had, to take him to America, where, with a good
recommendation, he might, it seemed to him, have a chance of something
better. But even then, how many years must pass before he could hope to
do more than maintain himself? He might, probably would, be a
middle-aged man before he could begin to do anything towards repaying
what his uncle had done. And all these years, to have no tidings of his
sisters and brother!--for he had recognised that only by cutting himself
thus adrift, could he go on with what he had begun. It was too terrible
to think of. And he set to work, as Nina had foreseen, to plan how he
could manage to hear of them without revealing where he was.
"I don't want them to write to me, for Nina and the little ones would be
entreating me to come back, and I could not bear it. And, Lettice, even
though it is in a sense her doing, is sure not to see it as I do. _She_
would want me to try again to pass;" and Arthur shivered at the thought.
"No, I dare not ask them to write to me. What can I do? How can I
hear of them?"
He had not let Christmas Day pass without writing to them. It was
strange to think that in a day or two they would have his letter, and
know that he was safe and well, while he could hear nothing of them.
The idea began to haunt him, so that at last he got up, took off his
coat, and went downstairs again to the chatter and warmth of the
draper's best parlour.
How different to the Christmases he could remember! How different from
last Christmas at Esparto! How different to the Christmas evening they
would, so he imagined, be spending at Faxleham Cottage! Instead of the
simple refinement, the low voices of his sisters, here were Eliza and
her friends decked out in brilliant colours, laughing loudly at the
jokes of their husbands and brothers, and little able to understand the
new-comer's not joining in the fun. He was very "genteel," no doubt,
the young ladies of the company agreed, but rather "stuck-up," they
should say, "for a young man as had his way to make in the world." And
Arthur, overhearing some of these remarks, wished that the fates had
thrown him into the household of the old farmer and his wife rather than
into that of their daughter. For, in their perfect simplicity and
unpretentiousness, there was nothing to grate on him, and, as they sat
rather apart from the rest, dutifully admiring all that was said and
done, though perhaps wishing themselves back in their own quiet
farmhouse, he felt that when they went away the next day things would
seem still more uncongenial.
"I wish I knew anything about farming," he said to his old friend, when
he was sitting quietly by him; "I'd have asked you to take me on your
farm."
"And I'd have been glad to do it, my lad," said the old man, whose
liking for the young stranger had steadily increased, and whose thoughts
this Christmas evening were softened by the remembrance of the son whom
he fancied he "favoured;" "but thou'rt not made for farming. It takes a
tougher sort than thee. And, what's more, as it's making money thou'st
got in thy head, don't go for to fancy as people make fortunes nowadays
by farming. Better stick to James. He's a bit short-like at first; but
if you get into one another's ways, you'll find him a good master."
The next day the draper had a long talk with his guest. He explained to
him some part of the work, and told him he would by degrees teach him
the whole.
"But, first," he said, "I must tell you that before I show you the whole
of my business, or even as much of it as you should know, which would
take some time, and give me a good deal of trouble, as, of course, it's
all perfectly new to you, I should like to have some sort of security."
Here Arthur interrupted him. "I can get some money," he said. "Did Mr
Felshaw,"--Mr Felshaw was the old farmer--"did he not tell you? I have
some money I can give you as surety for my honesty;" and his face got
red as he said it.
"No, no," James replied. "It's not security of that kind I mean. I'm
not afraid of your honesty, somehow. I'd rather risk it. I think I
know an honest face when I see one. What I was going to say was that
I'd like some security that you'd stay, not be throwing it up at the end
of a three months or so, and saying as how you were tired of it, or
maybe,"--and here the draper hesitated a little--"it's not likely now,
is it, that any of your fine friends might be coming after you, and
saying as you weren't to stay? You're not of age yet by a long way, I
should say."
"No," said Arthur; "I'm not quite eighteen."
"That's three years off still, then," said James. "But," continued
Arthur, "my friends are not likely to interfere, as they don't know
where I am."
James raised his eyebrows.
"Are they likely to try to find out?" he said. "It's not difficult to
track any one nowadays. But you've no father and mother living Mr
Felshaw told me."
"No," said Arthur; and then he hesitated. "My friends have not tried to
find me yet," he said.
"But," continued James, "before you engage yourself to me, for a year
say, mightn't it be best to have it all clear and straightforward, and
see as no one who has any right to interfere is likely to do so?
Couldn't you write and ask?" Arthur shook his head.
"I don't want to give them any trouble about me," he said. "I've done
nothing wrong; but I've had a great deal of trouble and difficulty, and
I want to show that I can manage for myself."
"Well, well," said James, "think it over, my lad. You can just go on
for a while quietly, doing what you can. And then, when you have tried
it a bit, and we see how we suit each other, if so be as you feel
disposed to engage yourself for a year, I'll put you in the way of
things. You can employ yourself this morning in measuring off these
bales of merino and alpaca, and marking the lengths of each. I'll be in
the front shop, and, if I want you, I'll call you, just for you to begin
to get used to it like."
"Thank you very much indeed," said Arthur. "I'll think it over, and
give you an answer as soon as I can."
For even to his inexperience it was clear that he was being treated with
unusual kindness and consideration. He did not overhear what James said
to his wife that evening.
"You take my word for it, he'll not be with us long," he said. "He's
not in his place, and he'll never take to it. He blushed up scarlet
every time I called him, even though it was only old mother Green
wanting grey flannel for a best jacket, or Miss Snippers' apprentice for
some hooks and needles. If it had been any of the quality, I believe
he'd have turned tail altogether. You'll see his friends'll be fetching
him away. But if he likes to stay for a bit, he's welcome. I like a
lad with a spirit of his own."
"And there's no doubt he has a very genteel appearance," observed Eliza
complacently.