A LONELY GIRL
ONE day Anstice took one of her long rambles over the Fells. Rain had
kept her in the house for over a week. She felt that mentally and
physically she needed a change of environment. Holidays were coming
soon, and then she knew that she would be much less free to absent
herself for hours from her household.
The clear air and fresh mountain breezes braced and refreshed her.
Hercules accompanied her, and with him as companion, she never felt
lonely. She wanted to reach a certain remote lake which she had been
told was very picturesque, so she started early in the morning and took
a packet of sandwiches with her. She had to get across to the other
side of the lake before she started up the Fells. Stephen rowed her
across in the boat, and promised to come over again to row her back
about three o'clock in the afternoon.
It was a grey day, but the glass was high, and Anstice preferred a cool
day to a sunny one. Now as she trod the soft, springy turf and mounted
higher and higher, she felt as if all her difficulties and household
cares had flown away. Curlews wheeled about above her head, but save
for the bleating of the sheep across the Fells, no other sounds
disturbed her. She crossed a high ridge, then descended into a valley.
Her path wound in and out at the bottom, under the shadow of high crags
above her, and as she went on and on, it seemed to get wilder and more
desolate. Once or twice, pedestrians crossed her path. Two youths with
knapsacks on their backs directed her towards the lake of which she
was in quest. The Fells on each side of her seemed to be gradually
narrowing the valley, and then a sudden turn brought her in sight of
her goal.
There the water lay, surrounded by green walls of wooded heights;
behind were the purple mountains. A small white farm-house on one side
and two cottages on the other were all the signs of human habitation.
Then as she went on down a green lane arched over by hanging trees, she
came upon a tiny grey rough-stoned house, and about ten minutes farther
on, a minute stone church, nestling amid splendid old yews. She had
heard of the quaint mediæval church, so went inside. The plain dark oak
roof and walls, and the massive oak beams supporting the roof—trunks
of large trees rough-hewn into shape, and the cushioned seats circling
round the altar rails, all delighted her artist's soul.
She wondered how many of the scattered homesteads on the Fells and in
the valley congregated within it on Sundays.
Then she returned to the lake, and sitting down on a green bank,
determined to have a good rest before she returned home. She ate her
sandwiches and gazed about her. The extreme solitude of the place
struck her afresh, and then suddenly she was aware of some one in her
proximity. A young girl was sitting amongst the bracken a short way
from her, with her back against an old gnarled oak. Anstice afterwards
wondered what had made her speak to her. But an impulse for which she
could not account made her rise and walk over to her.
"Excuse me, but do you know where I could get a glass of milk?"
The girl started and jumped up. She was a slim, dark-haired maiden,
with fresh colouring, but with refined and delicate features. Her
shabby gown and rather untidy hair made Anstice at first take her for
some farmer's daughter, but directly she spoke, Anstice discovered her
mistake.
"I think I can give you some milk, if you will follow me. The farm is
the other side of the lake, but it is only a quarter of an hour's walk
round the head of it."
She led the way to the small stone house near the church.
"This is the vicarage. My uncle is the vicar. Will you come in?"
"It's very good of you, but I did not mean to trouble you like this."
The vicarage inside was dark, and to Anstice seemed depressing. The
small sitting-room into which she was ushered was almost monastically
furnished. A narrow oaken refectory table was in the centre, and three
or four straight-backed chairs were against the wall. A sideboard and
two bookshelves in a recess were all the furniture that was in it. The
walls were grey, the matting underfoot was a dingy brown. A churchman's
almanac was hung against the wall, and one sacred picture depicting the
Crucifixion was over the fireplace. The girl had left the room, but
soon returned with a glass of milk upon a tray, and a slice of plain
currant cake.
"How kind of you! What a beautiful spot you live in!"
The girl gave a short bitter laugh, and her thick dark brows contracted
fiercely.
"Beautiful! It's prison to me! I hate it. I was wishing just now I
could slip into the lake and get away from it for ever."
Anstice was startled.
"I don't know which I dislike most," the girl went on impetuously, "the
lake, or the mountains, or this house. Visitors come and spout poetry,
and rave about the beauty of it all. I wish they knew what it was to
live here year in and year out, away from civilization, at the back of
beyond."
"Tell me about yourself," said Anstice gently. "Shall we come outside
again? Have you the time to spare?"
"I have time," the girl responded. "I have nothing to do. I sit outside
in the summer-time and watch the visitors come and go. I used to offer
to show them the church, but some of them spoke to me so rudely and
seemed to think I was dogging their steps to get tipped, that I gave it
up. Yes, let us come out, this house is too awful!"
"It seems a dear, quaint little dwelling," said Anstice, hardly
knowing what to say; "and as for your church, the age of it alone is
entrancing. It is like a nest of tranquillity amongst the trees."
"I believe it's one of the smallest churches in England," said the girl
indifferently, "and the vicarage suits it. There isn't room to swing a
cat in it! But it's big enough for my uncle. He lives in his study all
day."
"And do you live alone with him? It must be dreary for you in the
winter."
"I came here when I was seventeen, with my mother. My father was killed
in the War just before Armistice Day, and we had very little money, and
she was delicate and did not like the London fogs. I was at school at
St. Paul's; I meant to teach, but my mother needed me, and I could not
leave her. She was all I had, and we loved each other. She liked the
quiet and peace of this, but she only lived two years after we came,
and then I felt desperate, but I did not like leaving uncle. He is old
and not very strong and very absent-minded."
"And now he relies upon me for everything, but it is stagnation! I
don't know why I'm telling all this to a stranger. It's your face
which encourages me. I never talk to people of my own class. I'm sick
of the tourists. And I know no one—only the farmers and a few of the
cottagers, and I've used them up long ago. I'm getting desperate, for
the summer soon goes, and the rain begins, and the mist and the gales
and I'm stifled! Shut into that little hole of a vicarage, without any
hope or chance of escape!"
They were walking towards the lake as they talked, and the girl waved
her hand towards the mountains that seemed to tower above them.
"Those are my enemies," she said; "I have learnt to hate them. They're
grim sentinels between me and the world. They're crushing the life out
of me. I rebelled at first, but I am past caring now."
"But this is all wrong," said Anstice; "if you feel like this, surely
your uncle won't wish to keep you?"
"I am his housekeeper. We have only a rough girl to do the charing.
Mother made me promise not to leave him. I think she did not know how
utterly lonely it would be for me without her. He was her only brother.
As long as he lives, I must live here with him. It's a gloomy, eerie
place, this head of the lake! Only the yews seem to flourish, and
they're trees of death, that's what I call them. Let me grumble on, it
does me good. You will go your way and forget all about me."
"No, I can't do that," said Anstice firmly; "we have been drawn
together for some good purpose. Are you a good walker?"
"Yes, I have to be. We keep no car—no trap, not even a boat. Uncle
Edgar is quite content to trot round to his parishioners on his
own feet. He is writing some theological book which will never be
published, but it keeps him busy and content."
"Then you will have to walk over to me at Butterdale Manor. You must
come early to lunch, and have a good rest and talk. Not to-morrow, for
I shall have to go out to tea, but the next day. Will that suit you?"
The girl stood still, and regarded her with astonishment.
"But we don't even know each other's names," she said. "And you can't
want to continue this scraped up acquaintance."
"My name is Anstice Holme," said Anstice, smiling at her. "My husband
is away just now, and I and the children are alone. I do want to know
you and be your friend, if you will let me. You are too young to be so
unhappy and so bitter."
"I have had cause," the girl answered. "Perhaps I will tell you one
day. My name is Louise Repton. I should of course like to come and see
you. I would walk twenty miles to have another talk like this. The
very pouring out of my troubles has done me good. I expect you will be
disgusted at my want of reticence, but you came across me at one of my
worst times, and I have just let myself go! It has all been I—I—I! But
I have no larger circle than my own to think of!"
Then she added eagerly:
"Could you not come back and have tea with me? Don't leave me just yet."
"But I am afraid I must. It is a long walk back, and my chicks would
wonder where I was. We will resume our talk the day after to-morrow,
and see if we cannot snatch a few golden gleams out of your monotonous
life. Good-bye."
She laid her hand affectionately on the girl's shoulder.
"Cheer up! After all, you have youth and health and strength, and
intellect. Those are all precious gifts. But I won't preach. Do you
think you will find your way across the Fells to Butterdale?"
"Yes, I have been there once. There was a grand Fête for church
schools, and my uncle and I both attended it. It was held at Helvellyn
Towers."
"At Mrs. Wykeham's. That is eight miles from us. We are on the lake
about five miles this side of Helvellyn Towers. You never walked there
surely?"
"No, we went in a char-à-banc. But I shall find my way all right."
They parted, and Anstice, with her faithful attendant Hercules, set off
homewards. She felt as if her steps had been directed to that lonely
little spot in the Fells where a young life was being crushed by the
isolation of her environment.
Anstice was a born helper of all the unhappy and helpless. From a
child, she had loved anything that was weak or sick, from animals
upwards. Her heart was big, and her sympathy unfailing. She mused upon
the difference of characters.
"What I was loving so, she was hating," she murmured to herself. "But
even I, fond as I am of the still, tranquil solitudes of these valleys
amongst the Fells, would get hipped and depressed, if I had to be shut
up in them through the long wet winters here, and youth and age living
together do not make for congeniality. I must concoct some plans for
her welfare."
She was rather tired when she reached home. Brenda exclaimed when she
told her where she had been.
"'Tis too far for you, ma'am, 'deed 'tis. And I always think that
Ramdale be a terrible gloomy place. I had a nephew who was courting
with a farmer's daughter over yon, and he said most o' the folk seemed
asleep, and only concerned wi' their own selves."
"That's not uncommon in busy towns, Brenda; we're all apt to get like
that."
She made quite a story of her wanderings to the children that evening.
Ruffie insisted upon being taken to the window to see the Fells over
which she had climbed. And then gazing ecstatically at the purple
mountains, he said softly:
"I should like, oh I should like to be lifted up to the top of one.
Perhaps when I'm a man I can go in an aeroplane. Dad said I might. I've
never, never been higher than the ground by the lake."
"We've climbed a part of Helvellyn once," said Georgie proudly; "Dad
took us in his car, and we were out the whole day."
"I don't see why," said Anstice slowly, "Ruffie should not go up into
the Fells one day. I shall try and think of a way."
Ruffie's eyes sparkled.
"You can do anything, Steppie; you're like a magic fairy. You see, I'm
too big to be carried a long way now. People get tired."
But his wistful voice remained in Anstice's mind, and the very next
morning she was writing to a certain firm in town, asking them to send
her down two large wicker panthers suitable for a pony to carry young
children in.
Louise turned up in two days' time about half an hour before lunch.
Anstice took her into the drawing-room, which was now a most charming
spot. The conservatory was full of flowers, and a small aviary at
one side of it was the children's constant joy. A pair of doves, two
lovebirds, four canaries, and various small foreign birds were at
present the happy family in it.
Louise drew a long breath as she stood in the middle of the room.
"This is a perfect Paradise," she said. "If I had such a room to live
in, I suppose I should not be so susceptible to the outside scenery."
"I have had a considerable amount of effort and work over this," said
Anstice. "I do believe in having a bright atmosphere inside a house
wherever you are, especially with children. But you could do a good
deal with your vicarage if you chose. Are you fond of flowers?"
"I suppose I am not. I never have any in the house. They are too much
bother. I have just let everything go. I am glad you did not see the
other room where I sit. It has a piano, a round table and three chairs.
There are three pictures on the walls which are colour-washed like
those in the dining-room. I have about half a dozen books, and my
work-basket. My uncle has never had any money to spend on knick-knacks
or comforts. He would be happy in a monk's cell, and I have given up
asking for things that I know the house requires."
"I have a lot of suggestions to make to you, but we will wait till
after lunch."
Louise felt as if she were in a dream. The dainty lunch, the little
girls' chatter at it, and Anstice's happy charm in making all feel
pleased with themselves, made her long to stay in such an atmosphere
for ever.
When the meal was over, Anstice took her to her private sitting-room.
It had been a very dull apartment before Anstice had taken it in
hand. Now it was perfectly charming, with its fresh chintzes and soft
cream-papered walls. Flowers and potpourri pots and some delicate old
china adorned the mantelshelf, and the top of a low book-case in a
recess by the fireplace. A work-table and writing-desk showed that the
room was for use as well as for rest. A couch was drawn up under one
window, two easy chairs were in the other, and Anstice, now gently
putting Louise in the most comfortable chair, seated herself opposite
her. From the open window in front of them was wafted in the scent of
the new-mown hay in the park, whilst the children's happy voices, as
they played about in it, brought a smile to Anstice's face.
Louise's lips quivered, then suddenly she lowered her head, and began
to sob.
"I wish I was a child again. I wish I had a mother living. I am so
utterly alone."
"I suppose your uncle is wrapped up in his books?" asked Anstice
gently. "But has he no visitors? My experience of country vicarages is
that there are always people coming and going."
"We never have any visitors. Our church and parish seem so far away
from any others that we are completely forgotten and ignored."
Then, as she talked on, Anstice soon learnt the real cause of the
girl's bitterness. In the sorrow of her soul she poured it into her
ears. It was a pitiful little love story. One day, as she had been
polishing the brasses in the tiny church, a stranger with a camera
had walked in. He had asked questions about the neighbourhood which
Louise had been able to answer. They had walked about together, had
become very friendly, and then as he was lodging at a farm near, and
had fishing rights in the lake, they met again the next day. He was
handsome and plausible; he amused himself by flattering her and drawing
out her best qualities. She, simple girl as she was, fell headlong in
love with him. And after three weeks of love-making, she considered
herself engaged to him. He was going back to London; they had a mutual
friend there, a school friend of hers, a fellow art student with him.
He seemed to be a dabbler in many things. He did a little journalism, a
little painting, sent his photos to a Black and White Magazine, and was
author of a small book of poems. When he had gone, she felt her life a
blank, but looked forward to his letters. She received one, and then
no more. After two months of agonized waiting, she heard through her
friend that he was engaged to another girl, and had alluded to his time
down at the Lake end as an "amusing episode." Then the iron entered
into her soul, and Anstice saw that even now, after four years had
passed, the blow was still heavy.
She put her arms in a motherly fashion round the girl.
"Oh, Louise," she said, "life is bigger than you think it. The time
will come when you too will look back, and treat the past as only an
episode. You have done nothing dishonourable; we women often love and
trust too much. Put it from you, dear. And now listen! I have a dozen
schemes for your good. How would it be to advertise for a paying guest?
Londoners would revel in your quiet, tranquil little nook, and many a
hard-worked girl would love the seclusion of your life. It would be an
interest to you for all the summer months. You might even find some one
who would like to stay the winter with you."
"Oh no, that would be impossible. And uncle will not have visitors.
Indeed, they would not stay a day. We are very poor, and our food is
the very simplest. I have not the means to make them comfortable. I did
think of it once, but Uncle Edgar would not hear of it."
"Well, if you are badly off, could you not have 'Teas' for visitors?
The hotel farther on is being shut up, I hear. It would be rather fun
for you, and teas are quite easy to manage. Let me tell you of an old
couple who live in another lonely part of the Fells. The sister told me
she was never lonely nor unhappy. That the visitors who came for her
teas brightened her life."
Anstice went on, giving an account of old Tommy Nixon and his sister.
Louise listened, but her face did not lighten; she only shook her head.
"Uncle Edgar wouldn't allow it—I know he would not."
"Then I shall try and get you a wireless set, that will amuse and
interest you during the winter; and you must come over to me as often
as you can. I wish you would take up gardening; that would occupy and
interest you all the summer. I am quite certain that a busy life is
what you want."
"I might try flowers," said Louise doubtfully; "but the truth is, I
don't care about anything enough to take trouble over it."
"No, I suppose you don't. And my suggestions are only surface ones.
They don't touch your depths. Will you let me do a little probing? You
see, we are comparative strangers. I want to help you, if I can. I know
what you really need, at least I think I do. I know what would give you
a fresh start and new vision of life. For I have only lately got it
myself, and I am longing for every one I know to have it."
Louise looked at her with interest, Anstice put her hand on her
shoulder.
"Tell me, dear, is your religion a real joy and comfort to you, or is
it only an empty form?"
"An empty, unsatisfying form," said Louise with bitter emphasis.
"Church bores me; uncle's sermons bore me. I sometimes wish I had been
born a heathen, for I should be free then to do as I like and to live
as I like, without any compunction."
Anstice was silent for a moment, then she said:
"I wonder if I can say anything to help you. Every one is helped in a
different way. Tell me, does this verse convey anything to you? 'Have I
been so long time with you, and yet hast thou not known Me?'"
"I know it as a Bible verse," said Louise slowly.
"I heard a sermon on it the first Sunday I was here," Anstice said;
"and it came home to me with great force. So much so that it has
altered my whole life. My inside life I mean—though I hope that affects
my outward one. I had grown-up with the love of God surrounding me
and mine, but I never knew Him; least of all had I any love and real
personal knowledge of our Saviour—I think if you were to get real peace
and happiness in your soul, you would not find your lonely, monotonous
life so irksome."
Louise seemed impressed for a moment, then she shrugged her shoulders.
"I don't think I want real religion to seize hold of me. I am
matter-of-fact—not visionary! I don't want to be content with my
stagnant life. You can only be young once, and I feel the years are
slipping away. I want to live, to enjoy, even if I have to work for
enjoyment."
"But does fretting and chafing against your circumstances remedy them?
Does it make you happier?"
"No one has such an awful life as I have!"
Anstice laughed, but it was a tender laugh.
"Oh, you dear child!" she said. "If only you knew how many girls spend
their youth toiling and slaving for others! Some, nursing invalid
parents, taking care of brothers and sisters, never able to have a bit
of enjoyment themselves. There are hundreds of brave, unselfish girls
in the world, they are heroines, though the world is unconscious of
their courage and patience and self-denial."
"Look at poor little Ruffie here! I often marvel at his patience and
cheerfulness. Doomed to be crippled and helpless all his life, and if
he is spared to manhood, deprived of all the powers that make manhood
desirable. How would you like to be stretched on your back, and know
that you would have to lie there till you die?"
Louise shuddered, then she put out her hand protestingly.
"Be kind to me! Be a little sorry for me! I suppose I have an entirely
selfish outlook, and you are disgusted with my grumbles. I am not one
of those unselfish, uncomplaining heroines you talk about. I never
could be. But if I was in different circumstances, I should be a much
pleasanter person. I know I should. Happiness is like the sun amongst
the flowers; it would make me open my heart to others, but I've had so
little of it, and I want to be happy! I want to be happy!"
Anstice was silent for a moment, then she said slowly:
"That is the cry of all of us. We are made to be happy. We are meant
to be happy even in this world of sorrow and sin. But we don't know
what will give us real happiness. Outside prosperity—we'll call it
happiness—is so fluctuating and fleeting. I think you'll live to see
this come true in your experience, Louise. But I have preached enough
to you. Now shall we have a row on the lake?"
"I must be getting back. Uncle will think I have run away. Don't think
me a selfish, ungrateful pig; don't give me up as hopeless because I
don't want to turn religious! You've done me such a lot of good. It is
heaven to sit here with you, and talk!"
"My dear Louise—you see I'm calling you by your Christian name in a
very familiar way—I don't intend to let go of you. I can tell you
that! If you really must go, I will take you down to the other end of
the lake, we will row there together. It will save you a good bit of
walking. And I'm going to give you a big bunch of roses, if you can
carry them. I want you to put them in your sitting-room. I am sure they
will do you good. If you don't find the long walk too fatiguing, come
over to me next Thursday, will you? And if you will get a little bit
of ground ready in your garden, I can give you ever so many plants. We
are weeding out our herbaceous borders. Will you start a little flower
garden? You don't know how fond you may get of it!"
For the rest of her visit, they only talked of pleasant things. Anstice
lent her a book and she took away a lovely bunch of roses.
They had a delicious row on the lake, and when Anstice returned
after seeing her well on her way home, she did not feel altogether
dissatisfied with the visit. She knew that fresh interests would be a
great boon to the lonely girl. She was content to wait and pray for the
deeper change, which she wanted to bring into her life.