HOW "CARE" MAY BE CARRIED
"SO here is the fruit of your month's absence, little Eyebright! To
come back 'an engaged young person!' And not a hint of it to any of us
beforehand!" Mrs. Landor spoke in her cheeriest tones, not in the least
like one bearing a heavy burden.
This was the earliest meeting of the two. Robert Wells had so far
altered his plans as to go direct to West Norton for three nights,
sleeping at the Inn, but spending two long days with the Mackenzies.
Mrs. Mackenzie would not soon forget that startling moment when her
husband had first walked in, with an excited whisper—"Euphrasia and
Mr. Wells, my dear! A most nice young fellow! And he wants our little
Eyebright!"
The manner of the "wanting" was left to conjecture, but Mrs. Mackenzie
hardly needed to ask an explanation of the term. Her answer was a
dismayed exclamation—"But, Colin! Why, Colin! Nobody knows anything in
the world about him!"
Robert Wells was, however, a man to be rapidly known when he chose to
open himself out; and on this occasion, he naturally did choose. All
went well for his wishes; everybody was charmed with him. And before he
left the place, full consent to the engagement had been accorded.
Euphrasia "could hardly believe in her own happiness," as the saying
goes. In point of fact, she did believe in it very thoroughly, and felt
supremely joyous. Her whole being expanded; and the face which most
people counted plain had never been so nearly pretty.
Mr. Mackenzie thought it more than pretty, with so tender a gleam in
the gray eyes; and what Robert Wells thought is hardly worth while to
enquire.
She had to remain indoors, to rest the knee after its journey. And
nothing would content Mr. Mackenzie short of conducting his future
son-in-law round the place, to visit their most intimate friends.
Euphrasia might have murmured at being necessarily left behind, but she
was far too happy for her serenity to be so easily upset. She was only
delighted with her father's satisfaction in Robert.
Now the doctor was gone, but only for a time. He would soon run over
again, for a peep at his "Eyebright!" He had adopted with readiness
the home pet name. And in no long time, the wedding would have to be
discussed, Robert having intimated pretty plainly that so far as his
voice in the matter was concerned, he was in no mind for a long delay.
Meanwhile, he had invited Colin Mackenzie to spend two or three weeks
with him in Clifton by way of needed change, and for the purpose of
their becoming more fully acquainted.
When he had vanished, and not before, Mrs. Landor appeared, for a good
chat with Euphrasia.
"I want the child to tell me all about it," she said.
And they were left alone together.
"So here is the fruit of your month's absence, little Eyebright!" she
repeated. "And not a word to any of us beforehand!"
"How could I?" asked Euphrasia, blushing. "I didn't know—really. I only
knew—just that I liked him very much. And he only spoke in the very
last moment."
"Three seconds before the train got in! Yes, I heard. A most original
mode of proceeding! If your answer had been a 'No,' he could have
decamped instantaneously, and never been heard of more!"
"He went to see you." Euphrasia spoke wistfully.
"He did; and I liked him—so far as one can tell in a quarter of an
hour. I am not often mistaken in first impressions. Perhaps I might
even like him very much indeed, if I knew him very well indeed."
"It seems almost too much happiness to be true!"
"Ah,—I wouldn't say that. It springs from a false idea. Nothing is ever
too great happiness to be true. We are made for happiness. God loves us
so well that He would fain have us always happy. Only we do not always
use the happiness rightly, and so we cannot always be trusted with an
abundant supply of it."
"I hope I shall use this rightly. Oh, I hope I shall. Robert is so good
and kind."
"That is right. You ought to feel so. Now tell me all about him, child."
Euphrasia obeyed to the best of her power, and at least she succeeded
in showing the completeness of her own trust in Robert Wells.
"But doesn't it seem—" she asked, "doesn't it almost seem as if I were
rewarded for being naughty? I did not half think that I was right to go
to Clifton at all; and yet I went. Was that right? And yet, if I had
not gone, I should never have known Robert!"
"You cannot say that. He and you might have met elsewhere."
"But still—"
"Do you remember that verse in the Prayer Book version of the
Psalms—'He will not be always chiding'? I would not, if I were you,
get into a way of expecting God to be 'always chiding.' He does not
chide except when it is really needful. If you did what was wrong,
then probably you have had your punishment—your required discipline—in
the accident and the dull days following, not to speak of the
disappointment in your friend, from whom you had expected so much. Some
of that time was rather hard to bear, was it not? And perhaps you did
bear it patiently; and then in love and kindness, this joy was brought
to you, out of your very discipline. One sees that sort of thing so
often with those who love and trust Him!"
"And I have not said one word about your trouble," Euphrasia presently
observed. "But indeed I have been thinking about you a great deal. I am
so very very sorry!"
"People waste far too much pity upon us. Life has plenty of happiness
still, without wealth. I don't say that the loss of money is not in
any sense a trial. Of course, it is meant to be that, but I 'do' say I
would not have things otherwise, if this is God's will for us!"
"Only it seems so hard—"
"Not hard! To some extent trying, but we have to expect trials. Things
may turn out better than we at present venture to hope. If not, we
shall be provided for,—one way or another. No one ever yet trusted God,
and found Him to fail. And we do trust Him."
She passed her hand softly over Euphrasia's, a smile on her face.
"I am not boasting. A child does not boast of trusting his mother's
love and care! He trusts because he knows what she is, because
he cannot help it! It is no matter for boasting, but only for
delight . . . Curious that I should have had for years a kind of
longing to be allowed more opportunity for trust. Where one loves much,
one likes to be able to show the love by action. And I have always
been so amply provided for—never the smallest chance of unsupplied
needs—never any loophole for wants being supplied straight from above.
Room enough for trust and dependence in spiritual matters, but not as
to everyday needs. It has always seemed to me that probably I couldn't
be trusted with that. I have often thought how beautiful it must be
to sit, like Elijah, waiting for the ravens, perfectly sure that they
could never fail to come. Of course, I do not mean, sitting idly, not
doing one's utmost; only when one's utmost is done, and the needs are
not supplied, 'then' to wait for Divine action."
"Ravens!"
"Modern ravens would not wear black feathers, child. They come just
as straight from God. But I have feared presumption in having such
thoughts, and I have not allowed myself to wish. Now that this has come
quite independently of anything we could do, it 'does' seem that to
wait on them for daily bread may be very sweet—always knowing that He
can never by any possibility fail His children."
"Ought everybody to feel so?"
"I do not think the same lessons are given to all. People are
differently constituted, for one matter, and they have to be put into
different classes in the Divine training-school. The same teaching is
not adapted for all characters—perhaps could not be learnt by all. But
such thoughts help me, till we can see our way. At present we cannot.
To live in a house the size of this Rectory, on £85 a year, with all
the Parish claims in addition, seems an utter impossibility. But then,
if we saw at once exactly how to manage, we should not need to trust
and wait."
"And you don't even feel anxious?"
"I think—not what you mean by 'anxious.' I 'see' the difficulties and
the uncertainties. But the coming guidance is so very sure, that one
cannot feel bowed down by it. Trust does not mean not realising. My
dear child, why should we be anxious? It will be all right one way or
another—whether we stay here, or go elsewhere."
* * * * *
One little drawback Euphrasia saw in her bright future, which otherwise
seemed cloudless, and that was the fact of a home near the Johnstons.
Could she have chosen, she would undoubtedly have preferred almost any
other place than Clifton. But choice did not exist. She waited, with
some trepidation, the first intimation of Robert having been to Royal
York Crescent. And when it came, her fears proved to have been needless.
Mrs. Johnston would beforehand have done all in her power to have
prevented so "imprudent a match," had she foreseen it. Now, however,
that the thing was inevitable, she was far too wise a woman of the
world to show ineffectual disgust. Her letter of congratulation to
Euphrasia, if not entirely sincere, was at least as to its phraseology
all that it ought to have been.
Three months' delay Mr. and Mrs. Mackenzie begged that they might have
a little taste of their eldest child at home, before she left them
altogether. And then the wedding came off.
On that very same day, tidings were received that Mrs. Landor's
property having sold unexpectedly well, and certain other matters
having reached a better consummation than had been feared, enough would
be saved from the wreck to ensure an income of over £250 per annum, in
addition to the Rector's small stipend.
"It will not be quite like waiting for the ravens now!" murmured
Euphrasia, as she clung to her friend in the very moment of
parting—when she was no longer Euphrasia Mackenzie, but Euphrasia Wells.
"I have often noticed in life," Mrs. Landor said placidly, "that when
some trouble is held out to us, if we say at once—'even so!'—then it is
taken away, or perhaps lessened . . . Always! No, not always; only now
and then! . . . Waiting for ravens! No, indeed. We shall be positively
rich, in comparison with what we have been expecting."
"You did not 'wish' for the other! You are not disappointed?"
"Disappointed to have greater ease! My dear child, what I want is not
to choose—to be willing either way. And now you are off! I have no
right to keep you here. Let me hear soon, Little Eyebright. And do not
be afraid to feel 'too happy!'"
THE END