bitterness, "that it is owing to her failure as wife and mother that my
only son is as he is. He might have been a strong, sturdy youngster, in
full health and strength of body, instead of which he is a suffering,
mutilated cripple. Whilst I have him before my eyes, do you think I can
ever have gentle thoughts of his mother?"
Anstice had never realized how much he felt his boy's deformity. She
said very gently:
"Poor darling Ruffie, it seems a sorry thing that his beautiful little
presence should be the means of keeping up hatred and bitterness in
your heart. Whatever his body may be, God in His mercy has given him
great gifts of soul. Not only his charming, loving little personality
which makes us all adore him, but in mental capacity and artistic
genius. I believe he will do wonders with his pencil and paints if he
lives to grow up. You have great reason to be proud of your boy. And
his sweetness and cheery patience set us all an example of endurance
and fortitude."
Justin did not speak. He was gazing into the fire before him. Then he
looked across at his wife.
She was in a russet brown cloth tea-gown, with a little soft lace about
her throat, and she was a picture of dainty sweetness and grace.
"Perhaps," he said slowly as his gaze rested on her, "you will in time
get me to believe again in woman's sincerity. I have had a bitter
disillusion."
"Yes, I can believe you have, but you are sufficiently a man of the
world to know that there is every variety of woman, as well as every
variety of man. If you happened to make a bad choice, that is your
misfortune. Perhaps you were as little suited to her as she was to you.
Forgive me for touching upon the subject, but sometimes it is better to
talk a matter out, than let it fester inside into an unwholesome sore."
"I dare say I was an exacting and intolerant husband," said Justin
gloomily. "She hated this place, and I made her live here. Her friends
were not mine, and I would not have some of them inside the house. We
were like two snarling dogs on the same chain! Thank God, we only had
four years of it, but it was hell for both of us for that time, and
then, as you know, she took the law into her own hands and made a bolt."
"Well," said Anstice slowly, "she left you three sweet children. For
their sakes, forgive their mother and realize that you may have been
hard and unyielding. We are so faulty ourselves, that we ought to bear
with others' failings, but that seems an impossibility, does it not?"
Little more was said between them, but Justin was softened by the talk,
and Anstice noted that from that time he was less curt with his little
girls.
CHAPTER VI
AN ERRAND OF MERCY
SPRING was on its way. Justin seemed happy and content in his home.
There was no talk of going off with his yacht. Occasionally he
suggested a trip round the coast of Scotland with all of them on board,
but Anstice was very doubtful of Ruffie's being able to stand it, and
Justin would not hear of taking the girls without him. He would often
take his little son up into the Fells in his basket chair on the pony.
And to Ruffie, these expeditions were entrancing.
One lovely sunny morning, they had mounted a considerable height, and
stopped on the crest of a Fell to look over the lake and surrounding
scenery.
Ruffie's blue eyes blazed with fervour and delight. Then he drew a long
breath:
"If I get to heaven before you, Dad, I'll look down at you like this.
Do you see our house? Just a teeny bit of the chimneys behind the trees
there? I shall always be watching it and seeing you come in and out. I
shall have stronger eyes there, you know."
"We don't want to imagine you in heaven," said his father, with a short
laugh.
"Oh, but I love to! Fancy! Before Steppie came, I knewed nothing about
it, I didn't even know that God loved me, and that Jesus came into the
world to show us that He did. Do you love God very much, Dad?"
"I don't think I do, my boy. I don't know much about such things."
"I 'spec's you'd better ask Steppie to talk to you, same as she does to
us. You see, God is my other Father, so of course He loves me. And the
funny thing is, He's your Father too. Steppie will explain it to you
out of the Bible."
Then, as the sun streamed out of some passing clouds which cast blue
shadows on the distant hills, Ruffie stretched out his tiny hand:
"Oh, isn't the sky and world glorious! And God made it all for us to
live in! Wasn't it kind of Him?"
Justin could make no reply. These kind of conversations with Ruffie
very often took place. Sometimes Justin was amused, sometimes
embarrassed, sometimes interested. A little child's strong faith and
perfect trust in his unseen Father must always touch and soften those
who witness it.
One day Justin took Anstice to task about her teaching.
"Don't overdo the youngsters with religion," he said; "I have a horror
of pattern prigs and precocious saints! Ruffie sometimes seems away
from earth altogether. I want him to grow up a natural boy."
"It is not unnatural to love and serve our Creator," said Anstice
warmly. "It is the children's heritage. They compose the Kingdom of
Heaven in a large majority, and are safe inside it, when so many of
their elders are still outside and far away. And as for your children
being prigs, it isn't in them. They would tell you they have a perfect
horror of it themselves. If they're anything in the world, they're
perfectly sincere and natural."
He said no more. He accompanied Anstice to church, and acknowledged
that he enjoyed the Rector's sermons, but he refused steadfastly to be
drawn into any religious arguments.
Anstice prayed for him; she felt that at present she could do no more,
but she had a strong belief that prayer would accomplish what she could
not.
One morning, she was busy in the conservatory. She was fond of her
flowers and attended to most of the plants there herself. Suddenly
Neale, the butler, came to her.
"There's a lady arrived in a car, asking to see you, ma'am. She won't
come in till she knows if it is convenient to see you, as it is in the
morning."
"Did she not give her name?" Anstice inquired.
Then, without waiting for a reply, she went out quickly to the hall
door, wondering who it possibly could be.
To her surprise she found it was the elder Miss Maybrick. In a few
minutes, she was seated in Anstice's morning-room, and pouring out her
story.
"I have come to ask you to come back with me at once. My sister Carrie
is very, very ill, and she keeps asking for you. You know that we are
both at the Hall? I did not mean to take your advice. I gave her a date
last week on which I meant to take possession and I warned her that I
was going to have painters, carpenters and paperers all over the house.
And then to spite me, she went out of doors on that awful day of rain
we had about a week ago. She walked through the woods, and I believe
sat out, and when she came in she would not change her wet boots. Of
course, as she expected, the next day she could not rise from her bed.
The doctor came, said she had rheumatic fever, and then rode over to
give me the news. I knew she would circumvent me, if she could. We've
had to get two nurses in, but she keeps crying for you, until I could
stand it no longer, so I've come over to fetch you. The doctor told me
this morning that she would not pull through. Her heart is affected.
Can you come at once? You've been seeing a good deal of her, I suppose?
Anyhow, only your presence will satisfy her."
"Poor dear! I must come, I suppose, but I must just leave a note for my
husband. I was going for my first ride with him this afternoon. How can
I get back?"
"I'll send my car back with you, of course."
Anstice went to her writing-desk and scribbled a note.
"DEAR JUSTIN,—
"I am so sorry. I hope you will not mind, but Miss Maybrick has
called to take me to her sister, who she fears is dying. She wants
to see me. I hope I shall be back by tea-time. She will send me back
in her car.
"In haste.
"ANSTICE."
Then she went upstairs to put on her outdoor things, and in ten
minutes' time was being whirled along towards Harscale Hall.
Miss Maybrick seemed inclined to talk. Her dark, keen eyes looked
miserable.
"I can't believe she's dying. She has aged so wonderfully since I saw
her last. I think of her as a laughing, merry child, when I used to
mother her. I little thought then how we should spend our last years.
You did well to talk to me as you did; it made me write her a kinder
letter than I had intended to do. I told her of a farm about four miles
off, where I would make arrangements for her comfort and pay for her
board if she liked to go. I knew we could never live together in the
same house. We are both too masterful. But you see she was determined
not to go."
"I can't believe she would determinedly try to make herself ill," said
Anstice. "Perhaps she was feeling rather desperate and wandered out in
the wet to think things out. She told me she was very fond of walking
in the woods."
"I know Carrie better than you do. When I arrived at the Hall, she
looked at me over the bedclothes. 'You can't turn me out now,' she
said, 'Dr. Walters won't allow you to.' And then she turned her face to
the wall, and wouldn't speak to me again until to-day. All last night
she cried for you. 'Fetch Mrs. Holme, I want her. I'm going to die,
fetch her!' And when I went into her this morning, it was the same old
cry; so I spoke to her."
"'Cheer up,' I said; 'I'll fetch her. I'll go at once.' And off I came.
She looked at me suspiciously, but had the grace to say 'Thank you,'
and then the pain seized her, and that's the last I've seen of her. I
suppose you think I feel remorseful about it? I don't! I only feel that
in the long run people's greed and covetousness find them out. They
have to suffer. But I almost feel sorry for her now that she's such a
wreck. I'll do my best to ease her last hours on earth."
"I'm sure you will. I'm so very sorry for you both."
Then Miss Maybrick lapsed into silence, and Anstice did not feel
inclined to break it.
She went straight up to Miss Carrie's bedroom when she reached the
Hall, and found her with fever-flushed cheeks and parched, dry lips,
wrapped in cotton-wool, and giving plaintive cries like some child
in pain. As Anstice bent over her, she opened her eyes and a look of
recognition flashed into them.
"I'm going to die," she gasped; "and you're a good woman. I know you
are. Help me."
"May I be alone with her?" Anstice asked Miss Maybrick. "And don't you
think Mr. Bolland might be sent for?"
"I'll send, if you think it's any good. She doesn't know him, and the
Vicar here has gone away for his health and there are only locum tenens
who come over for the Sunday services."
The day nurse rather unwillingly left the room, and then Anstice knelt
by the bed.
"Miss Carrie, our Lord is here close to you. Won't you speak to Him
yourself?"
"I don't know how," she whimpered. "I'm in too much pain."
"Can you say after me, 'Lord, have mercy on me and receive my soul'?"
She murmured the words. Her breathing was distressing her.
Anstice bent over her.
"'Him that cometh unto Me, I will in no wise cast out.' Those are our
Lord's words. He will receive you."
She stretched out her hot shaking hand and clutched hold of Anstice.
"All the sins of my sixty years," she murmured. "Lord, have mercy on
me. Don't leave me."
But the nurse was back, pushing Anstice aside.
"My patient must have no agitation. Her heart is very weak."
Miss Carrie gave an angry cry.
"She is not to leave me. I won't have it."
Her face was purple. She panted in her excitement.
Anstice reseated herself by the bed in spite of the nurse.
"I'm not going to talk, but I'm here, dear Miss Carrie, and I'm praying
for you."
Miss Carrie heaved a sigh of relief.
"I hate these strange women," she murmured. "I want only you."
* * * * *
Anstice arrived home about four o'clock in the afternoon.
Justin met her in the hall with an angry light in his eyes. He said
nothing before the servants, but followed her into her morning-room.
She sank into a chair with pale cheeks and an exhausted air, but her
husband was too wrapped up in his grievance to notice her looks.
"Didn't we arrange to have a ride together this afternoon? Do you think
nothing of breaking your engagements with me? Are you aware that Fenton
sent a horse over from Penrith for you to try?"
"Oh, I am so sorry, that was to be a surprise for me then, for you
never said anything about it. I thought I was going on the old pony.
You got my note?"
"The note does not alter the fact of your breaking your engagement with
me."
"Oh, Justin, I apologize; but Miss Carrie is dying: they do not think
she will last through the night. She sent for me; I had to go. Surely
you would not have me refuse her?"
He stood by the window, like a thwarted, angry boy.
Tired as she was, Anstice rose from her seat. Putting her hand on his
shoulder, a thing she had never done before, she said in her tenderest
tone:
"Forgive me. Don't be angry. But I couldn't have refused a dying
woman's call."
"You are not a parson, and you are not called to do a parson's work.
Your place is at home with me and my children."
She dropped her hand, and then he wheeled round swiftly upon her.
"My claims come first," he said sharply.
"Your children's claims do," said Anstice very quietly, "but I do not
acknowledge that yours do. You mustn't be a tyrant, Justin. Women are
not chattels. And I must have my own independent judgment about things.
I could not live anywhere stifling my ears to the cries for help from
anyone, rich or poor. Imagine yourself struck down suddenly upon a
sick-bed, knowing that you will never get up again alive, that you're
on the brink of eternity, going into an unknown life with no hope in
your heart. Wouldn't you like somebody to help you? To try to throw a
ray of light across your darkness?"
Justin stood looking at her with sombre eyes. Then he turned round
again and looked out of the window.
"I'm a fool to want you," he muttered.
Anstice smiled, though she did not feel like smiling.
"We mustn't quarrel," she said. "I don't think I have had an angry word
from you before. I am truly sorry I disappointed you. Don't tell me I
was wrong to do so."
"I wonder if you ever own yourself in the wrong?" Justin's temper
was under control again. He spoke in his natural voice, and when she
did not answer him, he drew her towards him. "I warn you, Anstice, I
shall make claims on you. I am not at all satisfied with our present
position, are you?"
He had imprisoned her hands in his, and was looking searchingly into
her face. Then suddenly he released her.
"You are tired, poor child, and I'm a selfish brute. I always have
lived for self alone. You will have to teach me to be different. We'll
have tea in here. Women always feel better after a cup of tea, don't
they?"
He left the room, and Anstice, feeling the strain of what she had been
through both at Harscale Hall and in her own home, sank back into her
chair, and putting her hands up to her face, surprised herself by
giving way to some quiet tears. Then, as Neale brought in tea, she made
her escape up to her room. When she came down again she was her bright
natural self; but Justin, as he took a cup of tea from her, saw the
traces of tears in her eyes, and felt ashamed of himself.
He talked of different things for the next twenty minutes, as if
nothing had happened between them, and then, as the little girls'
voices were heard coming down the stairs, he said quickly:
"Don't go to the children to-night. You're tired. They must do without
you."
Anstice shook her head.
"I will never fail them, unless I am ill," she said.
She left him after tea, and he heard music going on in the drawing-room
and the children's happy voices. But he sat on over the fire with
moody, discontented eyes.
"I shall get jealous of my own children," he muttered. "Who was it told
me I was too cold-blooded for jealousy? Why, it was Malcolm Dermot. He
was wrong."
He sat there cogitating; an unhappy man, who was just beginning to see
chinks of light through the clouds of mistrust and bitterness that were
spoiling his life.
When the children's hour was over, Anstice came back to her room and
was surprised to see her husband still there.
"Do you want me gone?" he asked her, making a movement in his chair.
"Oh, no," she said gently; "I like to see you there."
He looked up at her.
"Come and put your hand on my shoulder as you did a short while ago and
tell me that you forgive me for my selfishness and bad temper. I won't
be a tyrant. You must prevent my being so."
She came up to him.
"There is nothing to forgive," she said. "I ought to feel glad that you
wanted me with you this afternoon."
She did put her hand on his shoulder again, and Justin was thrilled by
her touch. He felt inclined to take her in his arms and kiss her, but
he controlled himself.
He was sweetness itself for the rest of the evening. The next morning
at breakfast he said to her:
"Well, what are your plans for to-day? Shall I 'phone to Fenton to have
the horse brought round again this afternoon?"
Anstice hesitated, then she said in her pleasant, even voice:
"I had better tell you straight out, though I fear it will annoy you,
that I promised Miss Maybrick, if I did not hear from her this morning,
that I would go over to Miss Carrie again this afternoon. She dreads
being left with her, I think, and is afraid she may die whilst she is
in the room. It is all very sad. Miss Carrie would hardly let me leave
her yesterday. She literally clung on to my hand and would not let it
go."
Justin put a great restraint upon his feelings. He responded in as
quiet a tone as hers:
"Very well, we must leave our riding for the present."
But they had hardly left the breakfast table before a telegram was
brought to Anstice. When she opened it, she drew a long sigh, and
handed it to her husband. It was very brief:
"Carrie passed away eight o'clock this morning in her sleep:
writing.—H. M."
"I hardly thought she would die so soon, but the doctor said her heart
was very feeble, and evidently it has been very weak for a long time.
Well, it is a merciful release for her."
"Now what are you going to do?" asked Justin. "Are you still going
over?"
"Oh, no, I shall wait till I hear. What a sad homecoming for Miss
Maybrick!"
"A peaceful solution of their difficulties."
"I suppose so, and yet I can hardly imagine that Miss Maybrick will
have a happy time by herself in that old house. She so very nearly
turned her sister out to die."
Anstice looked so sad that Justin said a little impatiently:
"At any rate you are not responsible for either of them. How you were
called in at all, I cannot imagine. They were both strangers to you a
few weeks ago."
"But they are old friends of yours, Justin. Don't you feel at all
interested in them? I think, when people get old and self-centred
as those sisters have, it is so tragic when they have to face death
and realize what it means. I am comforted about Miss Carrie. She so
genuinely repented and cried for mercy. And though it was a death-bed
repentance, I believe in the saying:"
"'Betwixt the saddle and the ground
He mercy sought and mercy found.'"
"But her sister, who is now realizing the sad fact of her death, must
be conscious what a sad, wasted life Miss Carrie's has been, and what a
hard, loveless one her own is. For years, she has bent all her energies
and will to turning her sister out of her inheritance. Now she has the
desire of her heart; but when her call comes, and this will remind her
that it will come, how will she be able to meet it?"
"We really need not make ourselves miserable over other people's lives.
Now, as you are not going over to them, will you see the horse this
afternoon and try him?"
Anstice shook off her grave thoughts. She felt that at present Justin
could not sympathize or understand with her in her deep interest and
concern in other people's troubles, so she brought light into his eyes
again when she agreed to do as he wished.
The horse was brought over in the afternoon. He had a black satin
coat, and soft intelligent eyes; his motion was all that was desired.
Anstice slipped into an old habit of hers, and was mounted from the
front terrace, the children all looking on. Justin and she rode along
by the lake, and then went up and had a canter on the soft grassy paths
that wound in and out of the Fells. The exercise brought colour to her
cheeks and light to her eyes.
"You like him?" her husband asked.
"Yes, what is his name? I love his swift, easy stride."
"Hereward they call him. Then he shall be yours."
"It's really very good of you. I don't know how to thank you."
"No thanks are needed. You have a good seat, and are evidently at home
in the saddle. I am sorry you have not ridden before. It is the best
way of getting about our Fells."
"It will be a great delight to me. And if you will get the little girls
two safe ponies, they and I will have many a pleasant ride together
when you are away."
"I'll see about it."
For the rest of that day Justin was his pleasant self. He was proud of
his wife's skill in horsemanship, and looked forward to a good many
rides with her. She was always good company, and her delight in the
lake scenery and in the lonely beauty of the Fells drew an answering
chord in his heart.
That evening, he joined the children in the drawing-room, and all of
them sang together. Just before they were called away to bed, Josie and
Georgie ran out to attend to Joshua, whom they had left in the garden.
Ruffie was on his father's knee, and Anstice was putting her music by.
Having done that, she was kneeling before the fire stirring it to a
blaze, when Ruffie suddenly said:
"Steppie, Brenda says you have a big heart and love everybody—do you?"
"Oh, no, darling, I haven't as big a heart as that, I am afraid."
"Well, do you love Dad?"
Justin gave a slight start, then he looked across at Anstice with a
little of his boy's impish mischief in his eyes.
"We must have an answer, mustn't we, Ruffie; but the question isn't
at my instigation, I beg to state. It's a discussion we were having
yesterday as to who loves who. To Ruffie there is no middle path. You
either love or hate."
Anstice laughed to hide her embarrassment.
"But I have a middle path, Ruffie; I always have had one."
"But you do love Dad, don't you?" persisted the child. "He said
yesterday he had nobody who loved him but me, and I told him there was
you, and he said: 'You mustn't tell tales, sonnie, or our confidential
talks will be over.'"
Justin was evidently uneasy as to what might be coming from Ruffie's
frank revelations.
And then Anstice, still stirring the fire to hide her hot cheeks, said
in her easy, pleasant way:
"We all love each other, Ruffie, I hope. And if anyone is weak or ill
or helpless, we must show our love, even to animals. I saw a little boy
yesterday clutching hold of a kitten in spite of its cries. It wanted
to go to its mother, and he wanted to keep it with him, so as he was
the strongest, he used force, instead of showing love for the poor
little mite."
Ruffie hung his head.
"I wanted to make it love me best," he said. "If it had loved me
proper, it would have wanted to stay with me."
Josie and Georgie appeared, and the conversation ended.
But when Anstice went to give her good night kiss to Ruffie, he said to
her, with an old-fashioned shake of his curly head:
"I think Dad would like you to love him like you do me. He said he felt
lonely sometimes. And I told him I used to, but you knowed how to kiss
loneliness away. He said he wished you'd try it on him!"
"Oh, Ruffie, my precious," said Anstice, laying her cheek against his,
with her rippling laugh, "don't you worry over Dad. He and I understand
each other. And he won't be lonely when he gets to his yacht again. He
will be leaving us soon."
"I'm going to ask God about that," said Ruffie mysteriously. "I think
God could get rid of that yacht for us. None of us like it taking Dad
away so often, and God can do anything in the way of storms, can't He?"
"Go to sleep, and never pray that anything may be destroyed, darling."
"Not even the wicked Devil?" asked Ruffie, but he was sleepy and tired
and did not wait for an answer to that question.
And Anstice said to herself as she left him:
"If he feels lonely, don't I feel so too? I wonder if we shall ever be
anything but lonely in this strange life of ours!"
CHAPTER VII
OFF ONCE MORE
MISS CARRIE'S funeral took place three days later, and Justin and
Anstice both attended it. The little churchyard away in the lovely
Fells struck Anstice as peculiarly beautiful. There was a great
stillness about it, a peace. Miss Maybrick did not attend. They were
told that she was not well enough to leave her room, but a week later
she sent for Anstice.
"You seemed to be so interested in my sister," she said, "that I
thought you might like to hear that we made up our quarrel about an
hour after you had left us that day. She asked for my forgiveness, and
I asked for hers. The last thing she said to me that night was—"
"'Good night, Hatty—I feel easier now—and thanks to Mrs. Holme, I'm
hoping to have made my peace with God.' I tell you this, for I think
you ought to know it."
"Thank you, I am so glad to hear it," said Anstice.
"Quarrels are a mistake," said Miss Maybrick slowly, "and even a
reconciliation doesn't do away with the stings of them. They remain to
haunt one. I'm going to be alone for the rest of my life. She was my
last relative left."
Anstice was touched by the pathos in her tone. The stern, indomitable
pride of the woman was crushed. She had a long talk with her, and
promised to ride over and see her from time to time.
The spring came on slowly but surely. The little girls got their
ponies. Their joy was intense, but their father absolutely forbade them
to ride about the Fells alone.
"For a year at least, you must have some one always with you," he told
them. "There are too many dangerous places for you to wander about at
your will."
They were very rebellious over this edict at first, but they were
allowed to ride round the lake, and along the lanes, and with this,
they learned to be content.
One day, when Justin was hunting, Anstice took the three children over
to see the Nixons. They had tea there, and Ruffie was highly delighted
with old Tommy's queer carved walking-stick. The old man took a great
fancy to him; and before he went, presented him with a carved pipe.
"'Tis for you to smoke when you get to be a man," he said.
Ruffie gazed at it adoringly; then put it into his pocket. "I'll
certainly smoke it every day," he said. "You know I shall be able to do
most things men do when I grow up—except just the leg part of me."
His happy pluck evoked an exclamation from Tommy as he turned to
Anstice.
"Blest if I ever heerd the loike! He's grand, mem, grand! An' he'll be
a sweeter nut then his feyther!"
But Anstice, as she looked at the fragile little figure, wondered sadly
if he would ever live to come to his heritage of manhood.
She was very happy these spring days. Justin and she rode a good deal
together, and in their rides, became closer drawn together. Once or
twice, she and the children went out upon the lake in his motor-boat;
as the weather improved, they were much out of doors. The budding
gorse, the sweet clusters of primroses in the lanes, the blossoming
hawthorns, and the young bracken uncurling beneath their feet, all
added to the attractions of the lake and the surrounding Fells.
And then one morning at breakfast Justin said suddenly: "My skipper
writes that the yacht is ready for a sail. She's been having a fresh
coat of paint; but now I need wait no longer."
Anstice looked across the table at him with a queer little smile.
"So you'll be off again! Where are you going this time?"
"I thought I would go to Norway for some fishing. I have not settled
anything further. I will wait and see what sort of fishing is going. I
may run over to Iceland afterwards."
"Oh, well, you will not be so far away from us this time."
"I haven't decided what I shall do. I could go on to America later."
"And how soon will you go?"
"The day after to-morrow, I think."
Anstice felt startled.
"So soon? But of course, a man's packing is not like a woman's! You
must let me help you with it. I am a very good packer."
"Thanks."
Then he fixed her with intense, imperative gaze.
"Will you be sorry for my departure?"
"Why should I be?"
She spoke lightly to hide the disappointment at her heart; and yet
afterwards wished that she had answered otherwise.
"This is too quiet a life for a rover like you," she went on. "Ruffie
is the one who suffers most for your absence. I hope that he may grow
strong enough to accompany you in a few years' time."
Justin's brow clouded. He crumbled a bit of toast in his fingers
nervously.
"I thought we were friends, Anstice," he said after a minute's silence.
"So we are," she responded quickly.
"Friends are not entirely indifferent to absence," he said; "at a word
from you I would stay at home altogether."
The colour rose in Anstice's cheeks, then she said in her quiet aloof
tone:
"I would never be the one to say that word, Justin. You must remember
that in our agreement you told me that I was to look upon you as a
negligible quantity; that our marriage would not affect you or touch
your life. I am content to carry out that agreement, to keep your house
and look after your children. More you cannot expect from me."
Justin pushed back his chair from the table, walked out of the room and
banged the door violently behind him.
And Anstice surprised herself by a fit of tears.
"He must see," she told herself, "that it is not for me to beg him
to stay. If he wants the conditions altered, he must say so. How can
I tell him the truth, that I shall miss him beyond words? It may be
propinquity, but I never thought I should get to lean upon him, and be
so happy with him! And now he is angry and hurt; but how could I answer
otherwise!"
Very soon every one in the house knew that the 'Squire' was off again
on his travels. Justin was always a rapid packer; he was here, there
and everywhere for the next two days, saying very little, quite
courteous and pleasant to his wife, but nothing more. Ruffie was the
only one who made open lamentation for his departure. All preparations
made, Justin went off at ten o'clock in the morning. And upon the spur
of the moment, rather fearing the awkwardness of bidding him farewell
before the children, Anstice said she would drive to the station with
him to see him off.
Her husband seemed pleased with her decision. As they were driving
along in the car together, he suddenly laid his hand upon hers.
"You have made my home a very happy one," he said. "When I contrast it
now with what it was before you came into it, I feel I cannot thank you
enough. I shall see it in my mind's eye when I'm the other side of the
ocean."
"Home is a woman's kingdom," said Anstice. "I have only done what
scores of others would have done, but I'm glad you appreciate it."
He was about to say more, but the words seemed to stick in his throat,
and Anstice began to talk rather nervously about the children.
Then they reached the station, and there was the usual bustle before
the train went off. At the last moment, Justin made Anstice get into
the first-class compartment with him where he was the only passenger.
"I won't say good-bye in public," he said. Then he put his arm round
her and kissed her warmly. "Don't tell me this is not necessary
according to our compact," he said; "you are my wife, and I'm inclined
to let that agreement of ours go hang! Anstice, tell me, shall we make
a fresh start when I come home again?"
Anstice looked at him and smiled, but her eyes were misty and Justin's
keen gaze noted it.
"Shall we wait and see?" she said.
And with this, he had to be content.
He was gone, and Anstice, driving home, was conscious that her sun was
dimmed, that the future, even amongst her beloved Fells, looked dreary
and forlorn.
She went over to see Miss Maybrick a day or two later, and found her
rather desolate in her old home. She welcomed her gladly.
"I am having it repaired and restored," she told Anstice as she took
her over the newly decorated rooms; "but I am the last of my family,
and I ask myself why I am spending so much money upon it! It will only
be sold at my death to some Liverpool or Manchester merchant. Nobody
will care for our old family treasures. I am beginning to like the Book
of Ecclesiastes. It does seem to echo some of my thoughts. What is the
good of anything in the world? Nothing will last."
"Love lasts," said Anstice thoughtfully.
"I have had no use for love," said Miss Maybrick sternly. "It is the
source of a good deal of misery and crime."
"Not the right sort. The love that comes from God."
Miss Maybrick deliberately turned to other topics.
When Anstice came away, she felt that sometimes the desires of the
heart turned to dust and ashes, when they were obtained. She asked the
Rector if he would go and see Miss Maybrick as often as he could. He
had at last got a rough pony which took him over the Fells to see some
of his far away parishioners.
"You will know what to say to her, and she likes you. I have the
greatest pity for her."
"She is not my parishioner," he replied, "now she has left her farm,
but I will go as a friend. I think perhaps that God is slowly leading
her towards Himself. Her goal down here has been reached, and is
evidently not satisfying her."
Then one day Anstice was astounded by a visit from Louise. She appeared
one morning about twelve o'clock, and Anstice kept her to lunch.
"Are you having your holiday now?" Anstice asked her.
"No," she said; "haven't you heard? Uncle is very ill and I have come
home to him. He wrote and asked me to do so. And I came back last week,
and do you know, I am giving up my work in town for the time, and am
going to look after him and cheer him up? I never knew that he was so
fond of me. His housekeeper is very good, and makes him comfortable,
but he is funny and old-fashioned and won't make a friend of her, and
he is pounds better since I came. He got influenza, and was not getting
up his strength. He wasn't able to browse amongst his beloved books,
and so got moped and thought he was going to die. His doctor thought he
was, he told me so."
Louise looked and spoke like a different creature. She was tastefully
dressed, had lost her discontented expression, and was quite a
pretty-looking girl. Anstice was unfeignedly glad to see the change in
her.
"I am afraid you will find it very dull after town life, but I do think
you've done the right thing. I confess that I have not been over to see
your uncle as often as I might. It is a long way, and I don't seem to
get the time for these long expeditions, though I love them."
"Well," said Louise, settling back into her chair with a very contented
look upon her face, "it's simply delicious to be here with you! I have
longed to see you. You will be glad to know that, through absence, I
have learned to love these lovely Fells of ours. As I drove along the
Ramdale, I was having little happy thrills in my heart. The air, the
birds, the mossy banks were all so sweet, and the lake! Ah! The ponds
on Hampstead Heath and the water in the London parks have given me such
a home sickness for the lakes! I never, never thought I could come back
to it with such happiness."
"How long are you staying?"
"As long as uncle needs me. Do you know, the farms and the cottages
have given me quite a welcome! And I'm going to set a few things
going. I shall have a little gathering for the women—a Mothers' Union
meeting—they want one badly. They seem out of everything out there, and
I want them to be happy."
"Louise, you have soul happiness yourself!"
Anstice spoke eagerly. Louise smiled at her.
"Yes, thanks to you, and to Miss Montmorency, the principal of our
school, and to our Vicar there. You three have made me long for, and
seek, and find, the one thing needful. And I know that whether I am
buried away in Ramdale, or in the bustle of town life, I can work
and serve, and do a little to bring happiness to others. But I won't
pretend I am coming back here wholly because I think it is my duty. The
Fells call me back. I never knew how I loved them till I lost them. We
may have bits of water in London to remind me of our lakes, but we have
no lovely green sloping Fells, no mountains; and it is these I find
I love. The scent and the smell of their moss and bracken, and moist
pools in between the crags. Oh, there's nothing like them in the world!"
Anstice laughed at the enthusiastic girl, and marvelled at the change
in her.
"And what does your uncle say at your giving up your work?"
"He looks at me with a smile and light in his eyes that I have never
seen before. He tells me, he used to watch me out of his study window,
and loved to see me flitting about the garden; but his silence had
encrusted him so, that it was hard to break through it. He is on the
couch now, but very weak and thin. Still, the doctor says he believes
he will recover. Do you know Dr. Ogilvy? He has only come lately, and
lives at a farm with an invalid sister. He seems very clever, and has
got the liking of all our people."
"I have heard of him, but he lives too far away from us. We always have
the doctor from Penrith."
They talked on together, Louise pouring out all her London experiences,
and when she went, Anstice could only wonder again at the change in her
since she had first come across her.
She did not lack for visitors. Since Justin's departure, a great many
of her neighbours had come to see her, Mrs. Wykeham foremost amongst
them.
"I did think Justin was settling down," she said to Anstice; "he seemed
so much brighter and more sociable in every way! What a vagabond he is!
I think you are a saint to put up with his wandering habits."
"Oh, we understand each other," Anstice said lightly. "His hobby is
yachting: why should he give it up because he married me? I think it is
very bad for men who have no special occupation to be continually at
home. Of course, he farms and is very interested in his estate, but it
isn't much of a life for any man here."
"You're a sensible woman," Mrs. Wykeham said. "I must confess that when
you first arrived here, and he went off and left you, I thought it very
queer indeed. And then, knowing how selfish men are, I began to put
two and two together. His house was a ruin, his children were little
fiends, he left you to battle with it all alone and get it straightened
out, and then when you had made a thoroughly comfortable and happy home
of it, back he comes to enjoy it. Don't contradict me, for you know
that it is true! I have known Justin for many years, and he is not one
to ride over obstacles, he simply slips round them."
"I won't hear you disparage my husband," said Anstice pleasantly, with
great firmness.
And Mrs. Wykeham knew that she had gone far enough. But afterwards,
when she was alone, Anstice began to think about her absent husband.
She knew that the charge of selfishness was an accurate one; he had
always been accustomed to take the easy path through life, and when
catastrophe came to him, he could not get over it. It had made him a
sour, embittered man. But lately, Anstice could bring to her mind many
little actions of his which made her realize that he could be unselfish
at times. He had twice given up fishing expeditions which he had
planned out for himself: once to take Ruffie up the Fells on his pony,
at his urgent request; once to take Anstice over to Penrith in the car
for some necessary shopping.
He had gone off one day, and scoured the neighbourhood for a special
fern for which Anstice had expressed a wish. She had wanted it for her
fernery which she was making. He had often left his smoking-room where
he was enjoying a quiet read, and had joined the children for their
hour in the drawing-room. This was generally for Ruffie's sake, who had
sent one of his sisters to summon him.
"No," she said to herself, "he is not an out-and-out selfish man. And I
think he would not shirk disagreeables, if he felt they were necessary.
I suppose we all take the easy path if we can."
Then presently she laughed at herself at her effort to defend her
husband's character. "What does it matter to me? He goes his way, and
I go mine, and we don't wish for anything different. We disagree very
seldom, and when we do, he gives in quite as often as I do. We get
on very happily together; but if I were to ask him to stay at home
altogether, it would be a great mistake. He would get restless and
miserable, and then he would be irritable, and we should drift into a
captious couple. We have not the foundation for a happy wedded life,
there is no love between us, so we have to be doubly careful as to our
behaviour towards each other."
All this and more she told herself, but deep down in her heart there
was more than a real liking for the handsome, self-willed man. She
would not acknowledge that the tone of his voice and laugh, the sound
of his quick, active feet about the house, that mischievous twinkle in
his eyes which so often appeared in his talks with her and with Ruffie,
brought a thrill to her soul.
Sometimes she wondered if he were still indifferent to her. She knew
he appreciated her and respected her. He thanked her again and again
for what she had done to the house and to his children. But there were
times when he would put his hand on her shoulder, and speak to her in
almost a tender tone. She always laughed such moments off, but often
she felt nearer to tears. When he seemed to soften, she herself would
harden, but she did it in self-defence. Never, she assured herself,
would she show by word or touch or look that she craved for the love
of his heart. He had warned her when they married that she must not
have any expectations in that quarter. And she meant to stand by his
conditions and not go one iota beyond them.
CHAPTER VIII
AN ENCOUNTER IN THE FELLS
ONE afternoon Anstice asked the little girls if they would like to ride
over the Fells with her to Ramdale.
"I am going to see Louise," she said; "and it will be a lovely ride."
They were of course delighted to accompany her.
"Why can't I go too?" demanded Ruffie.
"It is rather too long for you, darling," Anstice told him. "You
mustn't be unhappy at staying at home. To-morrow, if it is fine, it
will be your turn. You and I will go off together, and Josie and
Georgie stay at home."
"But there's always two of them, only one of me," objected Ruffie; "it
isn't fair."
"I can't alter your number," Anstice reminded him.
"If only Dad was here!" sighed Ruffie. "Him and me are always happy
together."
But in the end, he was comforted by Brenda saying she would take him up
to Hocher's Farm on his pony, to have tea there.
Anstice and the little girls started directly after lunch. When they
left the lanes, and struck across the soft springy turf, their ponies
showed their signs of approval by being rather skittish, but the long
uphill climb soon made them settle down into a steady walk. The keen
mountain air, the sweetness of the young bracken and gorse, and the
carpets of bluebells in sheltered dells, all brought a feeling of joy
to Anstice. She was never happier than when riding or walking over
the Fells, and she was almost sorry when Ramdale was reached. Josie
and Georgie had never ceased their happy chatter, but as they came
round the lovely little lake called Dameswater, and saw it set like a
turquoise in a circle of emerald green, Josie exclaimed:
"I've never been here before! Is this where Louise lives? Fancy hating
this!"
"Oh, but she doesn't! That was only an idea," said Anstice hastily.
As they approached the Vicarage, Louise spied them in the distance, and
hastened out to meet them.
The horses were taken on by a boy who worked in the garden to the small
hotel a short distance off, and then Anstice and the little girls went
in and saw the Vicar, who was sitting up in his study looking very
white and frail. The room was bright with flowers, and Louise showed
them with pride, the garden in which she had toiled a year ago, now
rewarding her with its blossoms, and early roses. Anstice sat down and
talked to the old man. She had heard from Louise that his heart was
weak after his illness, and that he had to be kept extremely quiet. The
little girls ran out of doors to play about till tea-time. It was not
till tea was over, that Anstice found an opportunity for a quiet talk
with Louise.
She took her into the drawing-room, which she had improved in many
ways since Anstice had seen it before. Some fresh chintz coverings
and curtains, a rug or two on the drab carpet, and books and pictures
scattered about, made it quite a cosy room.
"Now," said Louise, "I have such a lot to tell you that I don't know
where to begin. I have made a fresh friend in Minna Ogilvy. She's the
doctor's sister, and she lives with him at a farm about a mile away
from us. She's such a sweet girl! She came here for her health; Dr.
Ogilvy left a good practice in Liverpool for her sake. The doctors said
she must live in the country, in good air. It was the only chance for
her. I'm afraid she is not getting better. I don't think her brother
thinks she will ever entirely recover. But you've no idea how bright
and amusing she is! I have never laughed so much in my life as I do
when I am with them. She is devoted to her brother, says his skill is
wasted here, and that this desolate country gives no scope to him to
use his talents, but that he is doing it entirely for her sake."
"I am so glad you have friends near you," said Anstice; "it must make a
great difference."
"It does, an enormous difference! And I have no desire to go back to
town. I couldn't leave Uncle Edgar at present. He is not able to take
any services, and I have to arrange for locum tenens to come once every
Sunday, and do a good deal of what uncle used to do. Then a great blow
has fallen upon us. I have said nothing to uncle about it, for it may
not come to pass in his lifetime, but a lot of engineers have been out
here with a view to making our lake into a huge reservoir to supply one
of the big northern towns with water. And to do this, they're actually
going to submerge our dear little church, and the hotel, and perhaps
this vicarage itself. They're going to raise the level of the lake
by damming it up. I don't understand how they're going to do it, but
this dear little quiet corner will be no more. I remember how I hated
it, and only a year ago! It's a kind of judgment upon me, isn't it?
Only of course it will take a long time to complete, and at present
they're only at the discussion stage. They say the church will be moved
elsewhere, but that won't be the same at all. I dare not let uncle
know. He is not to be worried about anything, Dr. Ogilvy says."
Anstice was really distressed at this piece of news.
"I have never seen such an exquisite spot as this is," she said. "I
felt it afresh to-day as we rode round the edge of the lake. It seems
sacrilege to drown a church, and that a mediæval one. Are you sure it
is true?"
"Yes, I spoke to the head engineer myself. The town corporation have
bought thirty-six miles of it. Isn't it a shame? It makes me very
determined to stay here as long as I can."
Their talk was interrupted by Dr. Ogilvy's appearance. He came to see
the Vicar every few days, and this was one of his days. Anstice saw
him before she left. He told her that the Vicar was failing rapidly,
and that he doubted if he would outlive the summer. And then, before
he went, Anstice noted something that sent her home much comforted as
regards Louise. She could not mistake the look in the young doctor's
eyes as he walked with Louise to the gate of the Vicarage, and stood
there talking to her, before he took his departure. Anstice was quick
to scent the budding romance, and rejoiced in her heart at the thought
of happiness rewarding Louise's devotion to her uncle.
Yet a little sigh followed her pleasant musings; and she was suddenly
roused from them by Josie saying:
"You're much duller, Steppie, when Dad is away than when he is home.
You always seem shut up to thinking."
"Am I?" laughed Anstice. "I must open myself at once then, Josie! I
don't like dull people. I never could bear them."
And after that she exerted herself, and the rest of the ride was a
lively time with them all.
It was only two weeks later that Louise wrote to tell Anstice of her
engagement.
"I don't know why God has been so good to me," she wrote. "If I had
stayed in London I should have missed this joy. I little thought that
I would meet my fate in this most lovely backwater. But I should never
have married in town. I never saw anyone there whom I cared for, and I
may honestly say who would have looked at me. There are such thousands
of girls there, and most of them with a certain charm and grace to
which I could never attain!"
"As for George, he's all that a girl could desire. He is good, really
good, and clever, and brave and unselfish, and I'm a lucky girl to have
such a husband in prospect. We are both perfectly happy, as you can
imagine; and quite content in our surroundings. I do not mean to leave
uncle. The sad thing is, that he may not be here much longer—George has
prepared me for that. And he has his sister to look after. But nothing
in the world matters when one loves! You must have felt this, and so
can understand."
Anstice laughed, and sighed again, and then sat down and wrote Louise a
loving letter of congratulation.
About a week later, she took Ruffie out on his pony to the lower Fells
near the lake.
Josie and Georgie were having tea with Mrs. Fergusson. Her son was home
for his Easter holidays, and he and the little girls were great friends.
Anstice loved having Ruffie to herself. He was full of quaint fancies
about the Fells, and knew the names of all, and endowed them with
separate personalities of their own. Having passed most of his small
life on a couch indoors, this new freedom on the back of a pony who
bore him miles away up to the heights which he had dreamed inaccessible
to him, almost intoxicated him. His blue eyes blazed ecstatically, and
he would frequently break out into song.
"We're getting nearer and nearer God," he announced to Anstice. "I wish
I was either a lark or an airman, then I could get nearer still."
They were away in the heart of the hills now, and came out upon a
carriage track which zigzagged up across a pass, through two steep
ranges of Fells. And then they came upon a broken-down motor-car, and a
lady, seated on a bank near, called out for their assistance. She was
disappointed when she saw no man was with them.
"It is a bad break somewhere near the axle," she explained to Anstice.
"My chauffeur has gone off for assistance. There is a farm we passed a
mile or so off. I think it's a screw broken. Happily I am unhurt. I am
trying to get through to a friend's house the other side of this pass.
I would walk, but I'm suffering from gout."
She was a handsome-looking woman, with white hair and flashing dark
eyes, but with an unhappy face, and she regarded Ruffie with great
intensity.
"What a lovely little face! Who is he?" she asked abruptly.
Ruffie took off his cap with a gallant air.
"My name is Rufus Holme," he said. "I wish I could lend you my pony to
ride, but I can't walk without him, and I'm too heavy for Steppie to
carry."
She smiled at him. She had given an involuntary start when she heard
his name, but quickly recovered her equanimity.
"Thank you for the wish," she said; then, turning to Anstice, she asked
if there was any house within her reach where she could rest.
Anstice considered. "I think there is a small farm round the corner,
about a quarter of an hour's climb from here."
"I can't do it," she said with a little impatient sigh; "I must
just wait till my man comes back. You might sit down and enliven my
solitude, if you can spare the time. We are strangers, but it is a
lovely afternoon. It is the loneliness that I dislike so much."
Anstice was quite willing to oblige, and Ruffie's pony was only too
ready to rest. She took the little boy off his pony into her lap, and
he, as well as she, talked to this strange lady of the Fells which they
loved so much. The stranger did not give her name, and asked no more
personal questions.
But presently Anstice said:
"I really think the quickest way will be to send off some one to get a
car to drive you home. Would you like me to walk on to the farm above
us, or do you think your chauffeur will have sent already?"
"He is too stupid to do that," said the lady irritably; "I told him to
get some men to come and mend my car. That is all he will think about.
The car is the first thought in his mind, not his mistress."
"Then I will go to the farm and send some one off to the inn at Stapp.
That is the nearest place where they keep cars. Do you mind taking care
of this little boy? I shall not be long."
"Thank you. Perhaps that is the best thing to do."
The afternoon was warm and sunny. Anstice took the cushions out of
Ruffie's basket chair, and made a "nest" for him, as she called it,
upon the ground close to the stranger. Then she tethered his pony to a
stout mountain ash, close by.
"Now, Ruffie, you're a little gentleman, and you must take care of this
lady till I come back," she said to the child when she had settled him
comfortably amongst his cushions, and wrapped a warm shawl round his
legs.
Ruffie held up his head gallantly. This was after his own heart. No
shyness was in his composition, and when Anstice had left them, he
turned to the stranger with his most angelic smile.
"I could spare you the littlest of my cushions if you would like to
lean your head against it."
She smiled at him.
"No, thank you. I wouldn't take one of your cushions for all the world.
Who is that lady? Your governess?"
"Oh, no, that's Steppie. She's a kind of mother, you know. Daddy made
her into one. She's a wunnerful person, most comf'able to lean your
head against when it aches. And I'm tremenjously fond of her. She makes
you laugh when you feel like crying, and she gives the most lovely
surprises in the world. She got me my chair for the pony, and Josie and
Georgie their ponies. There's nothing she can't do, but the thing we
like best about her is her stories. She has bookfuls in her head, and
most of them she makes up herself."
"Who are Josie and Georgie? Your brothers?"
"Oh, no, they're only girls."
Ruffie's tone was pitying.
"They've always wished they were boys, but God didn't mean them to be.
Steppie says nobody can't have everything they want. They can't be
boys, and I can't have my legs, and she can't be a little girl again.
And—" here his face twinkled impishly—"you can't have your car to go
home with!"
"I'm afraid I can't," the lady said with a grim smile. "Go on talking
to take my mind off my misfortune. Is your father at home?"
"No."
Ruffie's face became dejected.
"He's always, nearly always at sea in his yacht. He's been longer at
home this last time than I ever remember before, and I did hope he'd
forgotten the sea. I believe, if Steppie coaxed him very hard, he'd
stay at home always. She's got such a coaxing face with holes in her
cheeks when she laughs, and she puts her face down next yours, she's so
soft and cuddly, that it makes all your wicked thoughts go away, and
you hug her, and—and do egsackly as she tells you. Dad said to me, he
'spected she was happiest when he was away, and when I asked her was
she, she wouldn't answer. I wish I could think of a kind of spell like
the fairies and witches make in stories, that would keep Dad from going
away from us. A kind of line that we could draw round the lake, and our
house, which he couldn't possibly step over."
"The only spell that could do that would be love," said the lady
gravely, "and your father has only loved one person in the world, I
believe, and that is himself."
Ruffie's colour rose. He looked at the lady indignantly.
"You don't know Dad; he loves me, he loves me from the very bottom of
his heart, and I love him!"
"I knew your Dad when he was a little boy and he always loved himself
first."
"Did you know him as a little boy? Did he know you?"
This was quite an exciting discovery to Ruffie.
"Yes, we knew each other through and through. You are rather like him
in face."
"Just the top of my body," said Ruffie with pathetic pride as he placed
his small hands across his waist, "is quite all right, isn't it? And
with this shawl covering me up, you might think I was all right all
through. But Steppie says that I'm like a treasure cupboard, where the
best things are on the top shelves. She says some little boys have
their legs all right, but their heads are no good to them. And so I'm
glad God took extra pains with my head. I'm not very clever really, but
I'm going to be a painter when I grow up, and I've got a notebook where
I write down the pictures that I shall paint when I'm a man. Steppie is
going to find some one to teach me drawing and painting properly. Would
you like to hear a few names of my pictures?"
"Very much."
Ruffie produced out of his jacket pocket rather a dirty and well-worn
little notebook. Then he began reading:
"The Fells on Fire."
"Dad being carried by Angels to Heaven when he's very old."
"An Arab Steed chasing a Tiger."
"A big War in the Air."
"A Fairies' Wedding on the Lake."
"The Garden of Eden."
"A Puppies' Tea Party."
He paused.
"I think your ambition is great," said the lady, looking at him with a
smile, "but I have always heard that artists' souls soar beyond their
brushes."
Ruffie would have this explained to him.
Then he said:
"I dream of pictures in the night. And then I put down the names in the
morning. Did you ever play leapfrog with Dad when he was a little boy?"
"I don't remember."
"Did you go to his house, and he come to yours?"
"No," said the lady, a grim look coming over her face. "We won't talk
about those times any more. Do Josie and Georgie want to paint pictures
like you?"
"Oh, no, indeed." Ruffie laughed merrily. "Georgie is going to write
books when she grows up. She says she'll have read all there is to read
by that time, and she'll want some more, so she'll make them herself.
And Josie is going to play to the King and Queen at Buckingham Palace,
and have nosegays of flowers flung at her for doing it."
Conversation did not languish between the two.
When Anstice returned, she found them on a very friendly footing. She
had sent a farm boy off post-haste for a car, and it actually arrived
at the same time that the chauffeur appeared with a blacksmith. The
lady did not wait till her car was repaired. She took the hired car,
and did not pursue her journey.
"I shall be glad to get home," she said. Then she turned to Anstice
very graciously: "I am glad to have met you, and as for this small
Rufus, I should like to run off with him, for he's the best company I
have had for many a long day."
"Where do you live?" Ruffie asked her.
"A long way off from you," she said, "and I don't think we shall meet
again. It is not very probable."
"But wouldn't you like to see Dad now he's grown-up?" Ruffie asked.
She shook her head. "Not at all, thank you. Good-bye. Perhaps one day I
may send over for you to come and cheer up a very lonely old lady, but
it's only a possibility, not a probability."
She turned to give directions to her chauffeur, and then, as Anstice
was busy putting the little fellow into his basket chair, she came over
and stood beside him.
"Will you give me a kiss?" she asked suddenly.
Ruffie coloured. He was not particularly fond of kissing strangers;
then he put his little arms round her neck and pressed his soft, rosy
mouth against her cheek.
"I like you," he said. "I like your eyes, they make me think of Dad's.
You move them about like he does."
The stranger murmured something to herself, and Anstice caught the
words: "May I be preserved from being like him in any way."
And then with a flash of intuition, Anstice guessed who she might be.
But she said nothing.
Farewells were said, and then Anstice and Ruffie turned homewards.
"It is too late to go on farther to-day," Anstice said. "As it is, we
shall be late for tea. What did you talk to that lady about, darling?"
Ruffie told her as much of the conversation as he could remember.
Anstice was very quiet on the way home. She wondered if it would have
been best to ask for the stranger's name.
"But then she might have refused to give it to me," she told herself;
"she evidently did not wish us to recognize her. I am glad she has met
her nephew. It may do good. I hope it will. I shall tell Justin about
it when he comes home. If I write to him about it, he will ignore it,
and we shall be no 'forrarder.'"
BOOK III
LOVERS
CHAPTER I
"I CANNOT LIVE WITHOUT YOU"
THE children's hour was over. Anstice sat outside on the terrace
enjoying a rest. She heard their happy chatter in the rooms above her,
as they were being got ready for bed. It was a lovely evening in late
June. Roses were just beginning to riot in the rose-beds and over the
walls of the old house. There was a sweet scent of jasmine and of
stocks coming from the flower-beds by the hall door. She looked across
the park, which was golden in the evening sun, to the still, dark-blue
water of the lake, and to the purple Fells beyond it. Much as her soul
was enjoying the peaceful beauty of the scene before her eyes, her
thoughts were on a certain yacht in Norwegian fiords, and very much
with the owner of it.
She and Justin had exchanged a few friendly letters, but she had not
heard for a fortnight now, and could not write till she had received
his fresh address. He had been gone a month. She wondered if he were on
his way to America, and a certain wistfulness gathered in her eyes as
for the hundredth time she began to speculate upon her future. She was
so engrossed with her thoughts, and so screened by a tall myrtle tree
in a tub, that she neither heard nor saw an arrival at the house.
A few minutes later, a shadow came between her and the setting sun;
and looking quickly up, to her amazement she saw that it was Justin
himself. He stood looking at her for a moment in silence, as she rose
to her feet. His eyes were upon her with a grave, inscrutable gaze, but
his words were simple and to the point.
"I could not keep away any longer," he said.
Her hand was in his, and he held it, but he did not stoop to kiss her.
The colour had risen in her cheeks. To Justin she had never appeared
more beautiful. She was in a soft creamy tea-gown, with a bunch of pale
pink roses at her breast. Her eyes looked into his with her soft, sweet
candour, and the dimples played in her cheeks, as she smiled him a
welcome. If her colour had risen, and her hand trembled ever so lightly
as it lay in his, her voice was steadiness itself.
"This is a pleasant surprise. Has a letter gone astray? We did not
expect you so soon."
"No. I suddenly determined to come home. I had finished what I went
away to do, and so I am back."
He hesitated, then the noiseless Neale appeared.
"If you please, ma'am, the young ladies are in the hall, they and
Master Ruffie have seen—"
Justin turned sharply round with an exclamation of impatience.
Anstice said with her happy laugh: "Ruffie has sent them down to bring
you up, Justin. They are not in bed yet. What a state of delight he
must be in! Come along!"
She led the way into the house.
Josie and Georgie in their blue dressing-gowns stood in the hall. Their
notion of proprieties had prevented them straying farther.
"Oh, Dad, we're not asleep. Ruffie is having his milk and biscuits, and
he wants—he wants you at once."
Justin's brow was smooth again.
He stooped and kissed them.
"I see well you're not asleep," he said, then he sped up the stairs,
and the next moment had his boy in his arms. Ruffie, laying his soft
cheek against his father's tanned one, whispered:
"God has answered me much quicker this time. Oh, Dad—I b'lieve I've
just prayed and prayed you back, till you couldn't keep away any
longer!"
"And that's just what I have said to your mother," replied Justin,
pressing his lips to the red gold curls resting against his shoulder;
"I couldn't keep away any longer!"
Anstice left him to his children. They met half an hour later at the
dinner table, and their conversation was limited to Justin's fishing
experiences in the fiords.
There was a good deal of correspondence awaiting his return, and to
Anstice's surprise, he shut himself into the smoking-room with it for
the rest of the evening.
He wished her good night courteously but hardly affectionately, when
she came to him to say that she was going to retire. And then, as she
was leaving him, he spoke:
"Anstice, to-morrow morning I want your undivided attention. I am not
going to stand any interruption, so will you come out with me directly
after breakfast? I see that my only chance will be to get away from
both house and children. We're in for a fine spell, so we'll take our
lunch in the motor launch."
Anstice hesitated.
"I promised—"
"Whatever promises you have made must be broken. I have come home to
have a talk with you, and that talk must be had to-morrow."
"Very well," she said quietly. "Your claims come first. I will send a
message through Brenda to the Nixons to say I will go over another day."
She left him, and went upstairs to her room, but she did not go to bed,
she sat by her window looking out into the hushed moonlit garden, and
her thoughts grew complicated and confused. She heard her husband come
up to his room soon after midnight, and later she was conscious of his
restless pacing up and down the room.
When she finally went to bed, sleep forsook her. And, as so often when
she had sleepless nights, her soul rose upwards in prayer to the One in
Whose care and love she was resting.
"My past," she murmured, "has been full of mistakes. Do not let me take
a false step now!"
And then at last she fell asleep, and did not wake till the sun was
high in the heavens.
But when Justin came to breakfast, she had done all her housekeeping,
and was ready for anything that he might require. At half-past ten
their luncheon basket was in the launch, and they pushed off on a
still, blue lake. The children had made a great outcry when they heard
that both "Dad" and "Steppie" were going to disappear for the day, but
Anstice promised them that she would be back to tea; and as Justin
agreed to this, they were forced to be content.
Justin was unusually grave as they crossed the lake; Anstice began
giving him bits of local news to which he barely responded. She saw
he was preoccupied with his own thoughts, and waited his time for
unfolding them.
He landed at a most delightful little cove away in the hollow of the
Fells, a veritable nest of mossy turf against a bank of bracken,
overshadowed by a drooping mountain ash. They took out their rugs and
luncheon basket, and settled themselves comfortably down, then Justin
drew a long breath.
"Now we're alone at last, we can't have any interruptions and you won't
be able to get away from me till you've heard me out."
Anstice laughed, but it was an effort to be her natural easy self.
"You are very mysterious; but, as you say, you can now have my
undivided attention."
"Why do you think I have come home?" he asked her abruptly.
"I don't quite know, but I think you are getting fond of your home and
children."
"I haven't come home with any thoughts of the house or the children. I
have come back, wholly and entirely, because of you."
He paused. Anstice did not speak. Her hands were loosely clasped round
her knees, and she was gazing out upon the lake before her. On the
opposite side was their home, set at the higher end of the beautiful
sloping park. Its old chimneys rose behind the big shrubbery on one
side, the sun was shining full on the glass in the windows. The cattle
grazing under the big trees in the park, the fresh green of the wooded
heights behind, and the buttercup meadows edging the lakeside below,
all formed a picture of a sweet English home.
But though Anstice's gaze was dwelling on what she loved, her heart
was hammering loudly. This masterful man by her side was not the
indifferent husband of a year ago. She knew a crisis was now in their
lives, and she was not sure whether she was ready to meet it. She would
have liked to slip on a little longer in the way that they had been
going.
So she did not respond to him. She just listened to what he had to tell
her.
"I went away," he said, "because the situation had become impossible
for me, and I went to consider the relative values of things. As I
fished in Norway, I threshed the subject out, but your figure was
always before me. Looking back now, I see what a brutally selfish
bargain I made with you. But my ideals of women were shattered, and I
only cared for my own peace and comfort. Then, when I returned home,
and saw what a good woman's presence and influence could do and how
my home and children were transformed, I settled down selfishly still
to bask in the sunshine, and to enjoy the fruit of your labours. But
as time went on, Anstice, I began to see that such a life would not
satisfy me. You yourself, not by any premeditated effort on your part—I
think that would have choked me off—but by your personality, your
power, your love for every one and everything needing love, in this
world; your infinite patience, and may I say your delicious lapses from
the divine to the most common things of this life, all this built up
afresh for me the ideal womanhood as it should be. It gave me back my
faith in women, and in God. I never spoke to you of my mother."
He stopped, and pulled out his watch. Opening the back of it, he held
it out to her, and there was an exquisite miniature of a white-haired,
dark-eyed woman, a woman with sweet, tender mouth, a determined chin
and keen, purposeful eyes. Looking from her face to his, Anstice
exclaimed:
"You are like her."
He shook his head.
"She was all that a mother and wife ought to be, and I expected my wife
to be like her. I only tell you this to excuse myself. And having once
been disillusioned, I had no use for any women afterwards. You knew
this when you married me."
"Yes," said Anstice very quietly; "I knew and understood."
"Why did you marry me?" he asked her. "Knowing you now, I know that the
mercenary side of it could have no weight with you, but at the time, I
thought it might."
"I think it was a dream that made me," said Anstice very simply. "The
thought of the poor neglected children had most weight with me. I
dreamt that they were in an open boat helpless at the mercy of the
waves, and calling out to me to rescue them."
"I have wronged you," said Justin; "and I ask your forgiveness."
"No," said Anstice quietly, "that is unnecessary. I have been thinking
that I wronged you. I have taken different views of life since I came
here, and I think that no two people ought to wed unless there is real
love between them. It is binding two souls in chains; you, a man, ought
to woo the wife of your choice, not be tied down by legal marriage to
one for whom you have no liking, nor perhaps respect."
"Don't talk like that."
Justin's voice was almost sharp.
"I respected you from the first day I saw you. And you must know that
I've had more than a liking for you. Well, the long and short of it
is, that we have started our married life all wrong, and we're going,
I hope, to put it right. Anstice—" he dropped his masterful tone
and became almost humble—"there is only one thing that will keep a
man's life straight and pure, and that is faith in a woman. I've been
without it these many years, and though I've steered away from some
evils through natural distaste, I've given myself over to rancour and
bitterness and selfishness. You've given me that faith again, Anstice.
May God help me to profit by it."
Anstice sat silent. Her eyes were misty, her hands clenched each other
tightly, then after a moment she said:
"It is faith in God, not in woman, that you need, Justin. Faulty,
erring woman will let you down over and over again."
"Well, all this has been simmering in my mind whilst I fished in
Norway," Justin went on, "but through it and above it surged a great
flood which has swept me to your feet. Right or wrong as our past has
been, I can offer you all my heart's love, Anstice. I want you, not for
what you have done, and are still doing for me, but for you yourself.
And this, and this alone, has brought me home. I cannot live without
you. I don't want to be like a polite stranger. I want to be your best
beloved, as you are to me. Can you take me with all my selfishness and
make a better man of me? We have been good comrades and friends; I want
to be something truer and deeper. Have I taken you by surprise?"
Anstice still looked away over the lake, but she turned her head at
last, and her eyes sought his in wistful appeal.
"Are you sure that your heart wants me, Justin?"
"As sure as the sun above us," said Justin fervently, and then he put
his arm around her, and drew her close to himself.
"Have I really won you? Tell me with your own lips."
"I have been yours for a long time," said Anstice.
"Then why have you been so cold and cruel to me? Why did you not let me
see a little of your heart?"
Anstice shook her head, and smiled into his eyes.
"How could I? A woman cannot take the first step. You impressed upon me
in our first meeting that you meant to be nothing to me; that I was to
have no hopes of being anything more than a caretaker and housekeeper.
Why should I show you my feelings towards you, before you showed me
yours?"
"I have been miserable," Justin owned. "I have almost been jealous of
my own children when they gathered round you in the evening. I could
not stand it any longer. I had to get away. You seemed so aloof and
indifferent."
"I wasn't really. I knew you were not happy. I am quick in reading
faces, and I read yours like an open book. I longed to comfort you, and
yet how could I? You have been looking so lonely and so wistful, that
my heart ached for you."
"I have felt like a lost soul. I was so close to you, and yet so far."
Then he stooped and kissed her passionately.
"I shall demand a great deal of comfort from you now," he said in a
tone of such exquisite satisfaction that Anstice broke into a low laugh.
"You are such a boy sometimes," she said.
They had their picnic lunch in that mossy hollow, and every barrier
rolled away between them. Hours sped away like moments. Justin took
her over the lake again, and they talked of many things. When they
eventually reached home about four in the afternoon, their faces were
radiant. Josie met them in the hall, and said with her usual frankness:
"Why, Steppie, you look glorious! You must have had a topping time! And
Georgie and me have been quarrelling all the afternoon. You've left us
such a longtime!"
"Have I?" said Anstice. "But you mustn't depend upon me to keep the
peace between you."
"We began to argue about you and Dad. Georgie said you didn't really
like Dad being home. You were happier with us, when there was no one to
interfere, and I said you laughed much more when he was in the house,
and that you were quite miserable the first day he had left us; and
then we got to who you really liked best; and then after Ruffie, I
thought you liked me, and she said you liked her, and then she reminded
me of all the nasty things I did and said to you, and I reminded her of
her disgusting ways, and then we went on and on until we came to hate
each other. And then we knocked each other down, and now she's locked
herself into our room, and I can't get in. Will you come up and make
her open the door?"
So Anstice was brought down from Paradise to earth, and she left Justin
and went upstairs to assure the little girls, as she had often assured
them before, that she liked them equally well, but that the only thing
she did not like and would not have in the house was bad temper and
quarrelling.
Bob Falkland came over to see Justin when he was at tea, and Anstice
and he did not have any more time together till they sat out on the
terrace after dinner was over.
It was a lovely evening; the lake lay like a pool of glass under the
dark purple Fells. And Anstice, looking up into the bright starlight
sky, suddenly put her hand very gently upon Justin's arm.
"I have been thinking, Justin, that this day will be one of the
happiest in my life. And I have been thanking God for having given it
to me. There is only one thing I want now; and I think I want it even
more than I want your love."
"Don't say that," said Justin. "What is it?"
"I want you to know and believe in the Love of God for yourself."
Justin was silent for a moment, then he said, "You shall teach me
anything you like. You have restored my faith in woman; you may teach
me to have faith in God."
She said no more, for her heart was full.
Justin lit up his cigarette; then his eyes roved over the beautiful
lake in front of them, but they did not stay there, they wandered to
the old stone house behind them, and finally rested on his wife's sweet
face.
"This is your kingdom," he said. "I only ask to be a subject in it."
Anstice protested at once. "My kingdom must have its king," she said.
"We'll rule together, Justin. I in my domain, and you in yours."
"I've been an idler," he said, looking at her with a spice of mischief
in his eye, "and I dare say I shall get you to be an idler too. Will
you come off in the yacht with me round Scotland? I should like you to
see the Scotch lochs."
"Some time I may like to do so, but you won't be off again just yet?"
"Perhaps not. You are more than enough for me. I am content at last."
He drew her to him, and they sat on in the fast deepening twilight,
feeling the peace and beauty around them typical of what was in their
souls.
But when Anstice was alone in her room that evening, she took her small
Bible in her hand and tried to find some verses that were running in
her mind and thoughts. She found them at last.
"And the woman which hath an husband that believeth not, and if he be
pleased to dwell with her, let her not leave him, for the unbelieving
husband is sanctified by the wife . . . For what knowest thou, O wife,
whether thou shalt save thy husband."
"If any obey not the word, they also may without the word be won by
the conversation of the wives."
Musing upon these suggestive words, she knelt in prayer. She had a
tremendous belief in its powers, and when she rose from her knees,
hope—almost certain hope—was filling her heart.
"If I can't do it, God can. He will lead him to the Way, the Truth and
the Life. We both began our wedded life without any religion; if I was
led to the right path, Justin will be. I will trust and not be afraid."
CHAPTER II
RECONCILIATION
"ANSTICE, will you come out for a ride with me?" Justin put his head in
at the nursery door one afternoon with this request.
Anstice and Brenda were both busy cutting and shaping some frocks for
the little girls out of some white serge on the nursery table. Ruffie
was lying on his couch by the window, very busy with pencil and paper.
He hailed his father's appearance with joy.
"Come and see what I am drawing. And wouldn't you like me to come on my
pony with you?"
His father came over to the couch.
"No, my boy. I want Steppie by herself. When you are with us, she is
too busy talking to you to talk to me."
"I will come in ten minutes," Anstice said, looking up from her
cutting-out.
"Then I'll order the horses. Ruffie, my boy, what awful tragedy are you
depicting?"
"It's a car turned nearly topsy-turvy on Scawfell, and there's the lady
crying, and Steppie and I coming to rescue her. It's all true, and she
said she knew you as a little boy. Wasn't that funny?"
"Lots of people knew me as a boy," said his father.
He was looking at his son's picture with a mixture of admiration and
amusement. Ruffie's figures were wonderfully clever, and looked alive,
though technically there were many mistakes.
"She had eyes like yours, Dad."
Then the observant child looked straight into his father's face.
"But your eyes smile now, they never used to; and they seem to melt
when you look at Steppie. You won't take her for a very long ride, will
you, and forget all about tea, and us afterwards?"
"I'll try not to," his father assured him, and then he left the room,
and twenty minutes later he and Anstice were starting for a ride
amongst the Fells. He was talking to her about Ruffie's talent for
drawing, and they were arranging that he should have lessons from an
artist whom Anstice had heard about and who lived in Penrith, when she
suddenly said:
"Do you know the name of the lady whom we met on the Fells?"
"No; one of our neighbours, I suppose."
"It was your sister."
Justin did not speak for a moment, then he said, "Did she make herself
known to you?"
"No, I saw she did not wish to do so, but she seemed to be much
impressed with Ruffie. Justin, cannot we be friends?"
"What would you have me do?"
"I know you have made overtures to her. You have told me so before; but
won't you make another effort? Just one more. It seems so sad to me
that the children should not know the only relative they have."
"She is an unforgiving woman."
Justin's voice was hard.
"A North-country woman," said Anstice with a smile; "but North-country
people are as deep in their loves as in their dislikes. What can we do?
How can we win her?"
"Why should you trouble yourself about her?"
"Well, ever since Miss Maybrick's death, I have been wanting you to
make it up with her. That seemed such a tragedy; and now, too late,
the one sister left, mourns for the one she quarrelled with. Life here
isn't very long; and your sister is getting old, much older than you,
isn't she?"
"Not so very much older. People say she has aged quickly. I would do
anything to please you, Anstice dearest; but I really don't know what
I can do in this matter. I think you are dispelling all the bitterness
in my nature, for I can think of Grace now with pity. I was really more
to blame than she was. I'll write to her if you like. I can but have
another try."
With this promise, Anstice was content. She was so happy herself, that
she longed for others to be so too. She could not forget Miss Holme's
unhappy face. When they returned home, Justin shut himself into his
smoking-room. And later on, when the children were safely in bed, he
showed her his letter. It was very brief.
"MY DEAR GRACE,—
"From what I hear, you happened upon my wife and boy the other day in
the Fells. Will you come over one day next week to lunch and renew your
acquaintance? Let bygones be bygones. I was to blame, and ask you to
forgive and forget the past.
"We lunch at one.
"Your affec. brother,
"JUSTIN."
Anstice smiled up at her husband, then placed her hand on his shoulder
caressingly.
"You'll carry a light heart now, and I believe she will respond."
The letter went its way, and two days later the answer came.
"DEAR JUSTIN,—
"I was impressed with your small son, and I confess should like to
see more of him. We will consider the past as a sealed page. Expect me
on Tuesday.
"Your affec. sister,
"GRACE."
"Ruffie wins everybody's heart," said Anstice.
"And what about you?"
"Oh, I'm a negligible quantity," said Anstice, laughing. "Now, Justin,
you must explain your sister's existence to your children. You can do
that better than I can."
"I will try," he said, and he went straight away and did it.
The little girls were much interested.
"Have we really an aunt? Where has she been all this time? Why has she
never been to see us?"
"She doesn't live very near us," said Justin rather awkwardly.
"And she's the lady who said she knew you as a little boy," said
Ruffie; "how very funny that she did not know she must be my aunt! She
didn't speak nice of you, Dad; she said you only loved one person, and
that was yourself, and I told her you loved me!"
"You were right to stand up for your old Dad," said Justin. "Perhaps
I had better tell you straight out that, long ago, your aunt and I
disagreed about something, and we thought it was best for us to live
away from each other. But we're going to be friends again, and I hope
you'll all be very pally and nice to her when you see her."
"Oh, Steppie will be nice to her," said Georgie. "We'll see what she's
like first, before we get pally with her."
So on the following Tuesday, Miss Holme came over to lunch, and her
brother greeted her in a very quiet, matter-of-fact way.
"Glad to see you, Grace. I want you to know my wife."
"We do know each other a little, don't we?" said Anstice, with her
bright smile. "I have so often wondered how you fared after that motor
misadventure of yours."
Miss Holme was graciousness itself to Anstice, and if she were rather
stiff at first towards her brother, it soon wore off. By the time that
lunch was over, she seemed thoroughly at home; and when the children
appeared, she devoted herself to them.
Josie and Georgie condescended to approve of her, and frankly told her
so.
"We only knew a few days ago," said Josie, "that you were an aunt of
ours. Ruffie seemed to like you when he met you in the Fells, but we
weren't there. Some aunts in books are horrid."
"But I'm not in a book, thank goodness," laughed her aunt.
She invited them over to spend the day with her before she left, and
Justin said he would send them over in the car. Then she took hold of
Anstice's arm and led her off down the garden. When they were quite
alone, she said:
"What have you done to Justin? You have tamed him entirely. I never saw
a man so altered. I heard about you from Myra Wykeham. You certainly
have done wonders. Most awful accounts were given me of the house
and children, but they now seem most desirable to me! I was tempted
more than once to come over in Justin's absence; but pride forbade
me. I suppose we owe our reconciliation to you. Family quarrels are a
mistake. But I was treated very badly. Justin was a spoilt boy, and
grew up a masterful, domineering man. He met his match in his first
wife, she was an outrageous flirt, and I can tell you this house was
no home after she set her foot inside it. But I could not feel sorry
for him. He chose her himself, and when he tried to dominate her,
she rebelled, flouted him, openly scorned him, and filled the house
with her old admirers. It was a shocking state of affairs. He rued
his marriage bitterly. You were a brave woman to come and tackle her
children. They do you credit."
She did most of the talking. Anstice listened, she liked her; but saw
that both she and Justin were too self-centred to get on amicably
together. Still her visit was a complete success, though Justin heaved
a sigh of relief when she had gone.
"Now," he said, turning to Anstice with a spark of humour in his eye,
"I'm at peace with the whole world. The family skeleton has been taken
out, and is no more!"
It was very soon after this, that Justin came to Anstice with a request.
"I don't want to insist upon it, if you're not agreeable, but I want
you to discontinue playing the organ in church on Sundays."
"Why?" asked Anstice. "It would be very difficult to get anyone to
supply my place."
"Oh, I'll manage that. I'll stand the salary. There must be numbers
of men or women who would like a small job of that sort. I want you
in my seat with me as my wife. Don't laugh! You've made me into a
regular church-goer, but I like to have my family with me, and the
fidgets of the small girls is more than I can stand. Ruffie suggests
that he might come to church. How can I manage the lot of them? You
can go to the choir practices, and play the organ as often as you like
on weekdays, but I do need you on Sundays. Are you very much set upon
being organist?"
"No, not at all. When you are away, it is awkward. I have only done it
to help Mr. Bolland. If we can get someone, and you're able to defray
the expense of it, I will willingly give it up."
Then she added: "I shall love sitting by you. We shall be able to enjoy
the services together."
"I haven't got to the enjoyable stage yet," was her husband's
rejoinder. "I'm interested in Bolland's sermons, he seems to make an
extraordinary lot out of quite a commonplace text, and he's original
and interesting; but to be frank, the service itself bores me!"
"It won't always bore you."
He shook his head sceptically, and changed the subject, but he managed
to get his way. An organist was found, and Anstice enjoyed her Sundays
more when she was no longer responsible for the church music. She
did not entirely give up the organ. Sometimes in the week, when she
passed that way, she would go into the church and have a quiet time by
herself. She could always get an organ-blower from the sexton's cottage
next the church, for there were boys there of different ages.
Ruffie got his wish, and was taken to church in his chair, but in the
sermon, he always found his way into his father's arms. The Rector had
found favour in his sight, and he expressed his opinion very quaintly
after his first experience in church.
"The organ and singing are lovely, specially when I know the words and
the tunes, but I get tired of the reading and muttering. I like Mr.
Bolland's part most."
"What do you mean by muttering?" his father asked.
"Oh, when the people put their heads down and mutter into the floor
under their seats. I s'pose it's their prayers. I used to mutter
prayers into my hands. Brenda taught me to, but now Steppie says I can
talk to God just as I like, and so I always have the window open and
speak up into the sky."
"And you like the sermon best? So do I. Your mother would tell you
worship ought to come first."
"I like it when Mr. Bolland smiles at us; he always smiles when he says
something 'ticularly nice, like God and Jesus loving us."
"Don't make Ruffie too good," said Justin to Anstice a day or two
later. "I don't want him to sprout wings and fly away from us. It's
unnatural for a small boy to be religious. I never was, as a boy."
"You led a more active life than Ruffie. He has time and opportunity to
think out things. But I don't think it's unnatural for children to be
religious. They take to it like ducklings take to water. It is their
natural atmosphere. 'Of such is the Kingdom of Heaven.'"
"I don't want him to soar above me," persisted Justin. "He has always
thought the world of his Dad. I am afraid of him learning to criticize
my ideals, to find them empty and rotten, and then have a profound pity
and contempt for me."
"Oh, Justin, nice children are never critics. Ruffie will never be a
prig. I remember, as a child, I always thought every grown-up person
was naturally good, with the exception perhaps of thieves, drunkards
and murderers. Don't you think it would be possible to raise your
ideals above Ruffie's head and keep them there?"
Justin looked at her with a smile. They were sitting together on the
terrace, as they generally did after dinner, he smoking, she with a bit
of work between her busy fingers.
"What are my ideals?" he said slowly. "I am changing them, you know,
since I have known you. A year or two ago, they were to be free of all
worry and responsibility, to laze in the sun in foreign climes, to be
beyond the reach of civilization's claims. I think to-day my ideal is
to make myself worthy of my wife. I want her to respect me, as well as
love me. If I reach her standard, I shall be content."
"Oh, Justin!" Anstice's voice was almost pained, then she smiled. "And
if we love, it makes all things easy. If we love the One who loves us,
we shall try to reach His Standard, and do what He would have us do. We
must try together to reach God's Standard."
Justin shrugged his shoulders.
"I shall never be as religious as you are," he said, "but I wouldn't
have you otherwise; for you're just perfect in my eyes!"
He would seldom be drawn into religious argument; and yet there was
nothing he liked better than being an unseen listener to Anstice's
Sunday stories, and talks with the children.
She did not worry him with overmuch talk, but she prayed for him
earnestly and continuously.
One day, she had a letter from Louise telling her of the death of her
uncle. She at once went over to her, and stayed with her till after the
funeral.
For the next few weeks Louise was a good deal at Butterdale. She was
going to be married almost at once, and Anstice insisted that she must
be married from the Manor. Justin was willing; he took a liking to the
girl. Her brightness and naturalness pleased him; and he promised, if
she had no nearer friend or relative, to give her away.
"I have no one," she said simply; "there are not many with so few
relations as I." And then she talked to Anstice about her future
prospects. "I am going to live in the farm with George and Minna. She
is very ill, I'm afraid, but I shall be able to nurse her."
"My dear child, what a sad beginning to your married life!"
"Oh, no, we love each other, and George is devoted to her. I'm so glad
to think we shall be all together for a little while still. I shan't
have very much of our Fells and lake; for if Minna dies, George will go
back to a busy doctor's life in some big town. I don't want him to stay
where he is wasted. I shall go gladly with him, but I know now from
experience how I shall miss our wild country when I have it no more!"
She was very busy settling a sale at the Vicarage, then on one
beautiful summer day, she was married in Butterdale Church by Mr.
Bolland, and took her leave of Anstice with a tearful, radiant face.
She and the young doctor took no honeymoon, for poor Minna was in the
last stages of decline, and, just three weeks after the wedding, passed
away.
It was not very long after that, that George Ogilvy heard of an opening
in Liverpool. The old doctor with whom he had worked before asked
him to come back to him, as he would soon be retiring, and a younger
man was wanted to take over the practice. So once again, Anstice had
to part with her young friend. But she felt happy about her now. And
Louise, up to the last, persisted in saying that all her happiness had
come to her through Anstice.
Justin, in hearing the story, said to his wife, "Another subject in
your kingdom! You reach out your hands to every one. What a benefit
I conferred upon the neighbourhood when I brought you here, and how
little I thought what a power my wife would become! The opinion all
over the Fells is that the 'Maaster ha' gotten a wife a power too good
for him,' which is of course a fact that no one can gainsay!"
"Oh, Justin, don't be ridiculous!" Anstice laughed as she spoke, then
she tucked her hand inside her husband's arm.
"The opinion of the Fells about the Squire or Maaster is very simple.
'He be good at heart, and sound as a bell, a raal great-minded mon!'
That has been said to me over and over again, and it is music in my
ears."
"Ah," said Justin with a short-breathed sigh, "they know how to get on
the right side of you, but you and I know better." Then he bent and
kissed her. "Sweetheart, believe in me a little. I pray I may give you
no cause for doubt."
And Anstice returned his kiss and murmured:
"I feel that you will never fail me."
CHAPTER III
IN THE SHADOWS
JUSTIN came in from a ride one afternoon to find Anstice waiting for
him in the hall with an anxious expression in her eyes.
"Anything the matter?" he asked lightly.
"I hope not. Josie is not very well. I am wondering whether I shall
send for the doctor."
"She was running about in the garden before breakfast."
"Yes, but she has had a sore throat since yesterday morning, and this
afternoon was so heavy-eyed and flushed that I have put her to bed."
"Oh, she'll be all right to-morrow, I expect. Children often have
ailments."
Justin seemed perfectly unconcerned; but Anstice knew that if it had
been Ruffie, he would have been anxious at once.
"I have just heard," Anstice said slowly, "that there is an outbreak of
scarlet fever in the village, and I am sorry to say that Hal Cross is
down with it. Stephen has just been up to tell me so."
"Hal? But, good heavens, he was drawing Ruffie round the garden in his
chair two days ago!"
Justin was startled and alarmed now. He had just had the telephone
installed, and made his way towards it. "We'll have the doctor round.
You're afraid that Josie has got it?"
"I may be mistaken."
"We mustn't risk anything. Keep her apart from the others. I think
Georgie had not better be with Ruffie. She and Josie are always
together."
Justin rang the doctor up.
"I always feel," he said, turning to Anstice with concern in his tone,
"that if Ruffie caught any bad illness, he would never weather through
it. If anything happened to him, I should go mad!"
The doctor 'phoned that he would come round, and in two hours' time
did so. But he confirmed their fears, and told them that Josie
was undoubtedly sickening for it. Anstice immediately made all
preparations. She moved Ruffie down on to the next landing, and told
Brenda that she was not to come near Josie.
"I shall nurse her myself, and we must have this landing to ourselves."
Poor Georgie was, as it were, between two fires. She was not allowed by
her father to go near Ruffie, neither was she allowed to go near her
sister. For two miserable days she wandered about the house alone, and
then came almost triumphantly up to her father.
"I'm going to get the fever. I've got a sore throat."
He looked suspiciously at her. "Are you inventing it?"
"No, on my word and honour, it's true. May I go upstairs to Steppie and
Josie?"
"Go into your room and stay there till the doctor comes," said her
father sharply.
Georgie went upstairs slowly and miserably. She did not feel well, was
half frightened and half excited at the thought of being ill herself,
and wanted Anstice to pet and comfort her.
Her father went to Ruffie's room, fear knocking at his heart. He missed
Anstice, who had wholly given up herself as sick nurse to Josie.
The very thought of his idolized boy being struck down by this
infectious disease filled his mind with terror and dismay. He was
relieved to find Ruffie his usual bright little self, and taking him
up in his arms carried him out into the garden and deposited him in a
small hammock under the tree which had been rigged up for his use and
comfort.
Before another day had passed, Georgie had been put in the same room
as her sister. Anstice was nursing them both. Neither of the little
girls had the disease severely, but it was bad enough to make them very
querulous and uncomfortable. The doctor insisted upon a nurse being
sent in to help Anstice. Justin was vexed with her for devoting herself
to the little girls, but nothing would induce her to act otherwise.
As the days went on, Justin began to congratulate himself upon Ruffie
being proof against infection. He was with him a great deal, and took
him up amongst the Fells on his pony, feeling that the open-air life
would be the best thing for him at present. Ruffie missed Anstice and
his sisters, and was always talking about them.
"Shall you and I catch it next, Dad? What fun, when we're all in bed
together!"
But Justin did not feel inclined to joke about it. He was still
watching his boy with breathless suspense, noting any feverishness or
heightened colour with anxious eyes. Brenda tried to comfort him.
"He need not have it, sir. The little girls had measles once and he
never took it. They say that delicate children often escape illnesses."
Hope allayed his fears for the time. And then one evening Ruffie grew
fretful over a game of chess with his father. He grew careless over his
moves, and when he was not winning, he threw out his little hand and
overturned the pieces.
"I'm tired, my head aches."
His father took him in his arms, and tried to soothe him. Ruffie put up
hot little fingers and stroked his cheek. "I love you, Dad, but I miss
Steppie dreffully. I want to feel her velvet dress against my cheek."
"She can't come to you, sonny; she's nursing your sisters."
"But they ought to be well by now. They've been ill such a long time. I
want Steppie!" He was half crying.
"You mustn't be a baby," his father said. "Cheer up! If your head
aches, what does Steppie do?"
"She puts eau-de-C'logne on her hanky and dabs my forehead."
"Oh, I can do that," said his father with alacrity.
He found the eau-de-Cologne, and tried his hand at cooling Ruffie's hot
head. But either his hands and movements were awkward, or the child was
impatient, for he suddenly pushed him from him, and burst into tears.
"I want Steppie! I want Steppie. I feel mis'able!"
Brenda came to the rescue.
"I'll put him to bed, sir. He is tired and hot; he will be all right
to-morrow."
Justin hardly slept that night. Ruffie, and Ruffie only, was in his
thoughts. He stole into his room in the early morning, and found Brenda
bending over the child's bed with an anxious face. Looking up, she made
an effort to speak lightly:
"He's been very restless and feverish all night, sir. I hope he may be
better now. He's had a nice sleep since six o'clock."
"He's no better at all," said a plaintive little voice from the pillow.
"He's very ill indeed, very!"
Justin came and put his hand on the little forehead; the curls were
moist with heat, and the anxious father looked at Brenda with scared
eyes.
"I must get hold of Mrs. Holme. We'll let the doctor see him when he
comes."
He sped along to the upper corridor and to the nursery wing which was
set apart for the girls. He dared not go near his wife, because of
carrying infection to Ruffie, but spoke to her from a distance. She
spoke to him with pale face and tired eyes, but she spoke encouragingly.
"Ruffie often has feverish nights, but let the doctor see him by all
means. Is his throat sore?"
"I have not heard him complain of it."
"Brenda will nurse him. She is accustomed to these feverish attacks of
his. We'll hope it is nothing more."
Justin went back to his boy. He felt that he could not leave him.
Two hours later, the doctor arrived. Justin paced up and down in
the passage outside Ruffie's room till the doctor had finished his
examination. His face was haggard when the door opened and Dr. Forsyth
joined him.
"Is he all right? Is it anything serious?"
"I am afraid," said the doctor gently, "that he will be our next
patient."
"He has taken it, then?"
"I think so. The symptoms are that way."
Justin said nothing. Now the blow had fallen, he seemed stunned for a
time. Dr. Forsyth went on upstairs to see the little girls. When he
came down he found Justin waiting for him on the terrace.
"You'll pull him through, Forsyth? I can't tell you what he is to me."
His voice choked. He turned abruptly away.
"Oh, yes," the doctor said in his cheerful professional manner;
"there's no reason why he should have it more severely than the little
girls. They have done splendidly. I'll call to-morrow early."
He was gone.
And the following day left no room for doubt. The rash appeared, and
Ruffie was too ill to take any notice of his father. Anstice, of
course, at once came to him. She was thankful that Josie and Georgie
no longer needed her. She and Brenda devoted themselves to Ruffie,
whose temperature was up to an alarming height and kept them intensely
anxious. Justin would not be shut out of the sick-room, but he could do
little there. And as the days went on, Ruffie seemed to slip farther
and farther into the Valley of the Shadow of Death. He was so frail
that Anstice felt it would be impossible for him to pull through.
She faced the doctor at last with a white face.
"Dr. Forsyth, he is sinking. I feel he is. You don't think he will pull
through?"
"You know the old saying, 'While there is life, there is hope.' If he
does not rally within an hour or two, the end will come."
He was an old man and experienced with children. Anstice knew that he
had given up hope. She said nothing, but her heart rose in passionate
prayer to God to preserve the little life, if only for his father's
sake. And then when the doctor had left, she went to Justin. He had
seen Dr. Forsyth as he left the house and had heard his opinion.
Anstice found him sitting before his writing-table in the smoking-room,
his head bowed in his hands. She put her hand very gently upon his
shoulder. He did not speak, but a low groan escaped him. Then suddenly
he faced her with hard, despairing eyes.
"If he is taken from us, my faith in God will go. It is tyrannical
cruelty to spare the girls, and take him!"
"Hush! Hush! My dearest!" And with tears in her eyes, Anstice leant her
cheek against his. "I'm praying still. All things are possible with
God. He loves him, and He loves us. We won't doubt His love."
A short time after they were both in Ruffie's room. The fever had
raged in his tiny body, and now his temperature had dropped. He lay
like a little waxen image, his beautiful eyes closed, and only the
very slightest rise and fall of his chest told them that he was still
breathing. The nurse was sitting by his side. She had been giving him
from time to time a little drop of stimulant in a teaspoon. For days
he had been unconscious. Justin sank on his knees beside the bed, and
Anstice signed to the nurse to leave them.
"I will take your place," she said, and the nurse, who had been on duty
for some hours, went.
To Anstice, it seemed as if angels were already hovering over Ruffie
ready to waft his soul to the Home for little children. She almost felt
as if she could wrestle in prayer no longer; and yet, as she looked
at her husband kneeling there, and knew his agony of soul, she again
pleaded that the precious life might be spared. Justin had taken one of
the little wasted hands in his and pressed it to his lips. There was a
quiver of eyelashes, and then the brown eyes gazed at him, and a slight
quivering smile crossed the face.
"Daddy dear!"
The words were but a whisper; yet both Anstice and Justin caught them.
"It's his good-bye," said Justin with a choke in his voice, for the
eyes had closed again, and Anstice put her hand gently over the little
heart to see if it was still beating. Five minutes of breathless
silence. They waited, both feeling they were in the Valley of the
Shadow of Death, and then the nurse stole in again. She stood at the
foot of the bed, then softly opened the window as wide as possible.
"Don't bend over him. Give him as much air as possible."
Anstice at once took the hint, but Justin remained on his knees.
Anstice saw his lips were moving, and she knew that he was praying. And
then the nurse drew nearer.
"He is sleeping," she said. "Leave him to me; if he sleeps, he may wake
the better for it."
Husband and wife reluctantly left the room, Anstice to go to the little
girls, Justin to pace up and down the terrace outside beneath his boy's
bedroom. All that night they watched and waited, and then towards
morning, the child's pulse seemed stronger and his temperature rose.
When the doctor came, he heard the good news with a smile.
"If he has improved at all, there is hope."
And before he went, he laid his hand on Anstice's shoulder. "He has
turned the corner. With careful nursing, I believe we shall pull him
through."
It was indeed true. Ruffie's little feet had been very near the
margin of the river, but no farther. He had been given back for a few
more years to rejoice his father's heart. A few days later, when his
recovery was a joyful fact, Anstice wandered out into the garden to get
a little fresh air. She was too tired to walk much, for the strain of
Ruffie's illness, on the top of the nursing of his sisters, had almost
proved too much for her. She sat down on the lawn under one of the old
trees. The beeches were turning colour, and the elms and oaks were
already carpeting the green turf with their fallen leaves. It was a
calm autumnal day. Anstice's heart was full of thanksgiving; she could
think of nothing but the mercy and loving-kindness of God.
And then presently Justin joined her. He had come straight from the
boy's room. But though his head was erect and steps light, there was a
great gravity on his face. He sat down on the garden seat by the side
of his wife. Then he bent his head and kissed her.
"You are worn out, sweetheart!" His tender, sympathetic tone sent the
tears with a rush to Anstice's eyes.
"I am only so thankful, so thankful!" she said.
He was silent for a moment, then spoke:
"These past weeks have been hard on both of us. For myself I own, I've
never been in such trouble before. I think I'd like you to know that
when Ruffie was given back to us, I gave God my heart and life."
He stopped. Anstice slipped her hand into his and gave it a little
squeeze.
For a moment she could say nothing. Her heart was too full for words.
Then she said softly: "It has been worth the strain and stress of these
past weeks to hear you say that."
They sat looking out upon the blue, still lake in the distance. Anstice
was thinking of her short and strange married life, and how through
Ruffie's illness, she had obtained her heart's desire.
Then she turned again to Justin. She knew that to such a proud reserved
man as himself, his confession had cost him something.
"We are both beginners," she said, "but we can help each other. I
always hoped that you and I would eventually have the same aims, the
same goal! Don't you like these lines? I read them this morning in a
little book I have:"
"'The race Thou hast appointed us, with patience we can run;
Thou wilt perform unto the end, the work Thou hast begun.'"
FINIS