NOT CAST DOWN
"HERE, sir, please." Into the study Colin was welcomed—by the Rector
with a smiling face, by Mrs. Landor with outstretched hand and look of
welcome. In all the years he had known that sweet serene woman, he had
never seen her so bright. Calm she had usually been, but seldom bright.
Was this forced, unnatural, the result of over-strain?
"Come in, pray come in, Mr. Mackenzie. Come in and sit down. If you
don't mind an economical cup of tea. My husband and I are practising
at once for the future. No use to put off, is it? You see, we cannot
possibly afford any longer the most expensive Souchong, so I picked
up a pound of one-and-sixpenny tea as I came along; and we have made
it with half the usual quantity. It 'really' isn't bad. Like Dickens'
Marchioness, one only has to exercise one's imagination a little. And,
after all, the most important ingredient is real boiling water."
Colin received his cup from those slender hands, and had some
difficulty in swallowing the first mouthful.
"Some cake, or bread and butter? I did not tell your wife about our
affairs because I thought it would take too long, as she had a good
deal to say first. So you must explain it all to her, and say that
it is nothing for her to fret about. Is it, dear?" lovingly to her
husband. "The less one has to carry in life, the more lightly one ought
to be able to go!"
Colin might appropriately have delivered his message here, but he was
in no state of mind to remember it.
"Most people think the burden of anxiety a great deal heavier than the
burden of wealth," he could not help saying.
"If one must be anxious," she said, smiling a little.
"For my part, I am sure of one thing," observed Mr. Landor placidly,
"and that is that it is worth a great deal to know what sort of a wife
one has. I thought I did know before—pretty well—but it seems I didn't!"
"Why, the whole matter is so simple." Mrs. Landor was too much
interested in her view of the question to notice at the moment what he
said. "So very simple and plain. All these years God has chosen to give
us money in plenty, to use for Him; and I do think we have tried to use
it rightly. And now He has chosen to take it away. Hasn't He a perfect
right to do as He will? It is His, not ours. I do think it would be so
utterly ungrateful of us to grumble."
"I am afraid if I had lost everything—"
"Ah, everything!" she echoed with a quick breath. "But it is not that.
Not everything! My husband is left to me still. And our health. It is
not like Job."
"If health broke down, or if the call came to me to go, you would say
the same still, my dear," interposed the Rector. "I know you would,
because it would still be His will."
Mrs. Landor smiled again, though tears were in her eyes.
"Few would feel as you do, in your position," said Colin.
"Perhaps because they have been accustomed to look upon the money as
strictly their own. I do not think we have ever done that." She spoke
in a thoughtful tone, as if considering the question.
"It is harder for her than for me," the old Rector said softly, looking
towards Colin. "I was poor for years before I married, and she does not
know what it is to be poor."
"So every one tells me. But is not the unknown sometimes more alarming
than what one does know? Well, we are to have a new experience
together—you and I! It will be a new kind of life entirely. We shall
have to make every single penny go as far as it possibly can, instead
of never troubling one's head about the matter. I am bent on proving
that, at least, luxury has not spoiled me, Mr. Mackenzie. Don't think
I am putting on a cheerfulness which I do not really feel. Perhaps,
as my husband says, I don't know what it all means as yet. But what
I 'cannot' understand is the sense of doubt and terror in looking
forward, which I seem to be expected to feel. Of course there is
uncertainty. We have not the least idea how we are to manage. Expenses
must be cut down to the utmost; and even then it is a mystery in what
way we can get along. Only—we shall get along! We simply have to wait
till the 'how' becomes clear."
"I suppose something always turns up somehow," remarked Colin, in a
reflection of his wife's favourite tone.
"Is that enough for you? It would not be for me. 'Something turning up
somehow' sounds dreary. With me it is the direct and positive care of
a Father for His child; not a mere turning up of something, one hardly
knows how. Of course, one is left in the dark now and then—if only to
give one the opportunity of trusting Him!—and of course we have to do
the very utmost that we can do towards helping ourselves. But when we
can do no more, and still it is not sufficient, then comes the waiting,
because it is just there that God steps in."
"If everybody felt as sure."
"Does 'everybody' know God well enough?" she asked with a curious keen
smile. "Even on earth one must know a person before one can repose
trust in him; and for the absolute repose of perfect trust, very full
knowledge of his character is needful. Not quite everybody knows God so
well as that!"
"No, indeed!" Colin spoke in a conscience-stricken voice.
"And yet—one may. It is His wish for us all. And when one does know
Him, even a little, all is altered by it. Without any boasting, but
just as a matter of common reasonableness, I am absolutely sure that
He will take care of us. Absolutely sure! That He should fail us in
our need is, I know, a thing impossible. Then what nonsense it would
be to fret and worry. Why should we feel anxious, any more than your
Flo does? She knows you will provide for her, to the extent of your
power—knows it with a perfectly undoubting trust in your love. Your
powers are limited, and you might fail in providing for her, not
through lack of love, but through poverty of means.
"My Father's powers are without limit; and His love is boundless. Would
it not be the height of absurdity for us to keep worrying about the
future, when we 'know' that He will supply all our needs? All our real
needs. We may have to do without a good many things that we are used
to, but what then? It may be something of a trial. Just a little of
life's discipline, and no more! Don't you see?"—with a smile which had
become positively radiant.
It had a quiet reflection in her husband's face.
Colin listened, like one dumbfoundered. Another manner of trust, this,
from any exercised by himself!
* * * * *
Was Euphrasia "not at all an interesting invalid?" Howard Johnston,
recalling his mother's words, began to doubt their truth—not so
much with respect to himself, as with respect to his cousin, the
doctor. Howard still held that Euphrasia was a "sensible" girl, and
he liked her for being sensible. That was all. He felt nothing more
than a general approval, a general wish to be polite and kind to an
unfortunate guest. But apparently that was by no means all, so far as
Robert Wells was concerned.
So much the better, thought Howard. Everybody had long said that Mr.
Wells ought to marry; and he had shown himself reprehensibly slow in
following this wise advice. His position as a medical man was good, and
it promised to be better, and his patients liked him: but year after
year he remained wifeless. Possibly he had once wanted a wife whom he
could not get, and the failure might have left him indisposed to try
again.
He could quite well afford to marry. If he chose to fall in love with
the penniless daughter of the Manager of a country Branch Bank, there
was no reason whatever why he should not ask her to be his wife. He
was not entirely dependent upon his profession, and he had no near
relatives dependent upon him. This was Howard's view of the matter.
And he watched the doctor's growing absorption in Euphrasia Mackenzie
with amused interest, saying nothing to anybody. Had he suggested
such a notion to his mother, she would doubtless have exerted all her
faculties to put a spoke in the wheel.
The dullest period of Euphrasia's imprisonment was now over. Long hours
of enforced thought had been good for her, as many things are good for
us, not at the time enjoyable; and all her life she would be the better
in character for that trying experience. Now, however, she was kept
well supplied with books, and she was able to enjoy them. The knee had
steadily improved, although she was still forbidden to walk more than a
few steps, and the doctor had thus far declined to hear any mention of
a journey. Euphrasia saw signs of growing impatience in her "friend,"
and even Mrs. Johnston's politeness failed to conceal entirely a
measure of the same.
One budget of letters had arrived from home, nearly a week old when
despatched, as notified by an outside inscription; and further letters
failed again to come. But at least she knew that nothing was seriously
wrong with her father.
The services of a certain fine gentleman belowstairs were not required
for the wheeling of Euphrasia's couch from room to room, since the
doctor himself always undertook that office during his morning visit.
And in the afternoon, earlier or later, Howard was unusually to the
fore.
Euphrasia was not permitted to protest. It was "only a pleasure" with
them both.
Were these daily visits from the doctor an absolute necessity?
Euphrasia had her doubts on that score. He looked at the knee every
day, and asked questions, but little could be done beyond ordering
continued rest. He almost invariably stayed for a chat, sometimes as
long as twenty minutes or half-an-hour; and Euphrasia would have felt
very dull without these cheery visits. She had learnt quite to look
forward to them through the twenty-four hours. If only they would not
all have to be paid for! There was the rub. Euphrasia's heart sometimes
went down to a low level, at the thought of the future "bill" in
connection with the state of home finances.
Was it truly needful that he should examine the knee so often? If not,
kind though his attentions might be, Euphrasia could not feel that
she would be right to let things continue thus. She debated much with
herself, and several times resolved to put out a most delicate feeler
of one kind or another, to discover whether, perhaps, twice a week
might not be sufficient. But Euphrasia was not gifted in the art of
putting out delicate feelers, and when it came to the point, she always
failed to say anything at all. He was so pleasant, and it would be so
"horrid" to hurt his feelings.
So she decided finally that the utmost she could do was to hasten
her departure. Now that her month was almost ended, matters might be
pressed to a point. It had been a long month, very long—except the
last few days. She would be glad to get away—yes, certainly, very glad
indeed to feel herself no longer an unwelcome burden on her friend's
hospitality. Yes, certainly, very glad, repeated Euphrasia with
emphasis, just because she was aware of an opposite sensation below.
One strong regret was asserting itself, and would not be put down; one
real pain, in the thought of parting from Mr. Wells. He had not been
only the doctor to her: he had been a friend in a season of trouble.
Looking back upon the past month, she saw his figure more prominently
than any other. The prominence of any figure in one's surroundings
depends, after all, mainly upon one's own interest in that figure.
Would she ever see him again? Would she never see him again? The
question was unwelcome, and it haunted her. Never again, through all
her life! A second visit to the Johnston lay beyond all bounds of
probability. She had no other friends in Clifton. West Norton was an
unlikely place for anybody to visit; and in their little home, they
seldom entertained friends from a distance. Why should he and she ever
meet again? He had done his duty as doctor, perhaps a good deal more
than his bare duty because he was kind-hearted, and because she had
been lonely and uncomfortable. And she was merely his patient, a "case"
to be dismissed when done with, and thought about no more.
Still, she had to leave, and her duty was to go so soon as she might.
The odd part of the matter was that, after all her earlier impatience,
now the time for departure was near, she did not want to go. She had
told herself that she would be glad, but in her heart she knew she
would not be glad. Notwithstanding all the unpleasantness of giving
trouble to comparative strangers, notwithstanding Letitia's coldness,
and Mrs. Johnston's hardly-veiled impatience, she would have given
much to feel herself compelled to stay another month. Euphrasia's very
consciousness of this reluctance made her the more determined to bring
about a decision.
"I think I ought to write home now, and tell them about my knee," she
said abruptly, after much previous consideration. "And fix the day for
going."
To which, Mr. Wells responded by a deliberate—"Ah!"
"This is Thursday. Could not I say Saturday?"
"You are in a great hurry to run away from us all."
"Oh, I should not like to stay a day longer than I must!" The words
came back to herself with an ungracious sound in them; and she saw the
doctor biting his moustache. "Please don't think I am not grateful;
I really am. I have been such a bother all this time, and you have
been so kind to me. But it wouldn't be right to put off any longer. I
ought to get home as soon as possible. And—" hurriedly, under a sudden
impulse to use her opportunity, knowing that Mrs. Johnston would be
back immediately—"and, if you don't mind, I think before I go, I ought
just to know how much—I mean, if you could tell me, so that I can tell
my father—and then he would send to you as soon as—if you don't mind—"
Euphrasia fell into a hopeless bungle, blushing more and more, while
Mr. Wells looked so intensely grave that she feared she must have said
exactly the wrong thing in her inexperience. "I think you know what I
mean," she faltered, but he made no sign of comprehension. "You have
been so often, and—and—of course—of course there must be—owing—" the
last word being hardly audible.
"Much too often, under the circumstances, if things were as you
suppose."
"But you know—but you must—but I could not—it would not be right,—"
"Nothing else could be right, or possible. My cousins ought to have
explained. Mrs. Johnston undertook to do so. I am one of the family;
and you must please to regard my visits in that light. Nothing else is
possible."
"I didn't know,—I mean, I couldn't, of course—" Euphrasia came to
another bungle, actually trembling. That he was pained at something
she could see; she did not exactly divine what. Why should he care at
all? "Please forgive me for asking you, but indeed I do not think it is
right."
"It is a matter of course. I am only sorry that you could suppose
anything else to be possible," said Mr. Wells coldly.
Mrs. Johnston's step could be heard returning. She always came up with
the doctor, and very often used the opportunity of being "up" to attend
to certain household matters in a neighbouring room, since nothing
would induce her nephew to be as quick about the knee as she desired.
But here she came, and no more could be said.
Robert Wells bade an abrupt good-bye this day, not remaining for his
usual chat.
Euphrasia felt bewildered. Had she seriously offended him?
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