WEDDED
'My wife, my life. O we will walk this world
Yoked, in all exercise of noble end,
. . . . Indeed I love thee, come
Yield thyself up: my hopes and thine are one.'--_Tennyson._
It was after dinner, wandering arm-in-arm through the dusky garden,
that Philip told me the whole story. It appeared that a young cousin
of his whom he had promised a dying mother to befriend, had fallen into
bad company out in New York, and had accomplished several successful
forgeries for very large amounts in Philip's name. He was clerk in a
house of business out there with which Philip was connected; in fact,
he had obtained the situation for him. The forgeries were discovered
whilst Philip was with us, and though he forbade any proceedings to be
taken until he had investigated the matter himself, Ronald Stanton, the
culprit, took fright and absconded, taking with him a great deal of
money from the firm in which he was. And Philip on the impulse of the
moment determined to follow his track and save him if possible from
worse ruin. It was the wish to shield this cousin that kept him
silent, and made him leave us with so little explanation. When he
arrived at New York, he told the managers of the firm that he would be
responsible for the missing sums, and started with a confidential
servant in quest of the runaway. He went through a variety of
adventures before he came on his track, and then at length when he met
him in the depths of some backwoods, the young fellow turned upon him
in desperation, and before Philip could explain that it was on an
errand of mercy and not of justice that he had followed him, in the
heat of the moment Ronald drew his revolver and shot him.
'It was very nearly proving fatal for me,' said Philip as he told the
story, 'but God in His mercy prevented the sin of murder being laid to
the poor lad's charge. He was in such a state of mind when he found
what he had done, that if it had not been for my servant's restraining
hand, he would have made an attempt on his own life. I could just
manage to say, "I have come to save you," and then I remembered no
more; but when I recovered consciousness I found that he had become my
watchful, untiring nurse. I think it was due to his indefatigable care
that I recovered. Both he and my man Dawson never left me night or
day. Poor fellow! it was as I feared. He had been a mere tool in the
hands of others, who had decamped, leaving him to bear the consequences
of his sin.'
'But, Philip, how long were you ill? And were you hurt much? I have
no pity for your cousin--no, none; how could he, oh, how could he treat
you so?'
'Perhaps I had better tell you no more. Let us talk of other things.'
'No, no, I want to hear everything; please go on.'
'I tried to write to you when I got better, for I thought you would be
less alarmed than if a stranger wrote to you; but in illness one does
not take much count of time, and I had no idea that I had left you so
long without a line. At last I was able to manage, and then I did hope
I should get home. Ronald, poor boy, waited to come back and give
himself up to the hands of justice, and in telling your guardian about
it he thinks I was wrong in not letting the law take its course. But I
would be the only sufferer, it was my money he had made away with, and
I could bear the loss. He was so thoroughly and truly repentant that I
did not regret it. I made arrangements for him to go and start life
afresh out there on a farm. It is his determination to pay back
gradually as he can all he owes; but this would be the work of a
lifetime. It was through gambling that he was tempted first of all.'
'But why did you not come home at once?'
'I had a relapse, and found when I reached the nearest town I must go
into hospital to have the bullet extracted, which had never been done.
I did send you a letter from there, which you ought to have had, but an
accident happened to some mail bags about that time; they got burnt,
and I can only conclude yours must have been amongst them.'
'And were you very ill in hospital?'
'I had rather a bad time of it. If I had been able to have a proper
doctor at the time, it would have saved me a good deal. As it is, my
right lung has been injured, and I shall have to be careful for a long
time.'
'I feel as if I can never forgive that cousin of yours, never! Oh!
Philip, why were you so good to him?' And unnerved by the account he
had given me, I burst into tears.
'It has been too much for you to-night, childie,' and Philip drew me
closer to him. 'You will feel differently towards him to-morrow. I
have told you all, for you have a right to know, and I found I was
obliged to tell your guardian; but I did it in the strictest
confidence, and I know he will respect my wishes about it. Others need
not know particulars, and you must try to forget it. Now to come to
the subject that will concern us much more closely. This has made a
difference in my prospects. I have not gone thoroughly into my affairs
yet, but I see nothing for it but to let Cobham for a few years. I
will not go into debt, neither will I mortgage it, and I cannot now
afford to keep the place up as it should be. I think eventually I
shall be able to go back to it, but not at present. Will you be
content with a small house somewhere near town, while I follow my
literary pursuits, as much now for gain as formerly for pleasure?'
'Why do you ask me such a question? you know how satisfied I shall be.'
'The general is not. He is very distressed about it, and then there is
another objection now--my health.' He stopped, and his face looked
grave and worn in the', dusky twilight. I stood still and faced him, a
dreadful fear taking possession of me.
'Philip, tell me truly, is your life in danger? are the doctors afraid
of anything serious?'
He took my hands in both his, as he answered, 'There is nothing to be
anxious about, my darling, at present. I shall need care and nursing,
perhaps. They give me hope that time will outgrow the mischief, but
perhaps it may shorten my life. I tell you this because I want you to
see what is before us. I have no right to expect you to link your life
with mine under these circumstances, and your guardian is very doubtful
as to the wisdom and expediency of it.'
'Does he think,' I said, the blood rushing to my cheeks with
indignation, 'that this will make any difference in my feeling towards
you? It will certainly in one way; it will make me ten times more
conscious of the honour it will be to become your wife. It will make
me realize more and more your unselfish devotion and goodness towards
the one who has marred and spoilt your life, and make me know what a
noble----'
'Hush! hush!' he said, half laughing, as he dropped my hands, and put
his arm round me, 'you may think me a hero to-night, but in the calm
light of to-morrow morning you may think differently. And yet I am so
confident of your love and trust that I have never doubted how you
would act. I would not let you sacrifice yourself, if I were sure in
my own heart that my health was seriously injured; but I do not think
it is. I believe the doctors are right when they say that time will
heal the mischief. I do not think we shall be called to give each
other up, if you are content to take me as I am.'
Much more we said to each other on that calm, still evening; and before
we came indoors we gave thanks together to our Heavenly Father for His
goodness in bringing us together again.
I was obliged to have an interview with my guardian the next morning.
He was very kind, but said he was doubtful whether, under the present
circumstances, I ought not to look at things with a different eye.
When he found, as I think he must have expected to find, my opinions on
the subject were totally unchanged, he ended up by saying, 'Of course I
have tried to act towards you as I should towards my own daughters. It
is a disappointment to me that you will not be as comfortably off with
Stanton as I had supposed you would be at first, and there is his state
of health that is a drawback; but still I cannot press you to break off
the engagement, having given my sanction to it. I only wish he had not
acted in the extraordinary quixotic way he has. Then all this trouble
might have been spared you both. For a man of his age and stamp, I
consider he has been most foolish, if not to say culpable, in the
manner he has treated that young scoundrel of a cousin!'
Two evenings after this we were in the drawing-room after dinner, when
Philip asked me if I would play to them.
There was silence amongst the others whilst I opened my violin case,
and then Kenneth remarked, as I began to tighten the strings, 'Can it
ever be used again? Don't you know, Stanton, that it was not only a
broken heart, but a broken fiddle you left behind you, when you
departed so suddenly last time you were here? It's astonishing how
soon hearts get mended, and fiddles too, it appears. Goody has
shuddered at the sight of that instrument ever since. I thought the
epitaph on her tombstone would be, "She never played again!"'
I found a difficulty in playing that night in the midst of this
nonsense. I seemed to have lived a lifetime since last I had touched
my violin; but when I had once started, I as usual forgot everything
but just the comfort and soothing it brought me. And when I had
finished, Nelly said, impulsively, 'There! now you look like your old
self, Hilda. You haven't been the same since that night Kenneth was
speaking of. Don't you love your violin? I am sure you do, from the
way you handle it!'
'Of course I love it,' I responded warmly.
Kenneth laughed. 'You have a rival, Stanton. I tell you, when she
stands up there, her eyes getting bigger and bigger, and her precious
fiddle hugged tighter and tighter, you are absolutely nowhere--out of
her affections and thoughts altogether! I think, if I were in your
place, I should quietly make away with it when you have an opportunity.
It will bring discord into your life, I warn you; it is capable of it!'
We all laughed; but Philip said to me afterwards, 'Everything that I
see and hear makes me realize afresh what an anxiety and strain I have
brought into your life. Can you forgive me?'
'Is there anything to forgive?' I asked. 'I have been anxious,
Philip--it was no wonder, but I think the trouble and anxiety has only
made me realize the force and strength of that verse in the Psalms, as
I never should have done otherwise: "God is our refuge and strength, a
very present help in trouble."'
'And it is worth going through the darkness to experience His
tenderness and care,' was the rejoinder.
Philip had a great deal of business to do for the next month or two,
and then it was settled that our marriage should take place the latter
end of November. A dreary month for a wedding generally, but it was
not so in our case, and it was a sunshiny, frosty morning when we stood
together in the little village church as man and wife.
I could not have believed, if any one had told me a twelvemonth before,
how much I should have felt the parting with the Forsyths--Nelly
especially lay very near to my heart; we had had many a talk together
of things above, and I sometimes dared to hope that she had grasped
hold of the truth, though she was fearful of letting others know about
it. The night before our wedding she came to me and asked me to pray
with her, which I did; and then with tears in her eyes she said, 'I
shall miss you so dreadfully, Hilda; you have helped me to see things
so differently, and I don't think I shall ever be satisfied now with
just a whirl of gaiety.'
'You have promised to take my Sunday class, so that will give you an
interest,' I said, trying to speak brightly; 'and oh! Nelly, if you get
to know the Lord as your personal Friend, you won't miss me. He will
be quite sufficient.'
'I am trying to,' she said softly; 'I would like to know Him as you
do.' Then in a brisker tone she said, 'And you will ask me to stay
with you soon, won't you? When you are in town, you know! I should
like to come, and I won't ask to go to any theatres, or even to a
picture gallery, or a ride in the Row, if you think it worldly! But do
let me come just to be with you.'
Miss Graham bid me good-bye with much grief; but I felt happy about
her; she was steadfastly setting her face heavenwards, and praying and
influencing her pupil into the same path too. I think Mrs. Forsyth was
genuinely sorry for me to leave, and when I said something to her about
being so sorry that my views had clashed with hers, and hoping she
would understand how it was, she gave me a warm kiss, saying, 'Never
mind the past, my dear. Perhaps if I had been brought up differently,
I should have seen more with you. We shall miss you very much, for you
have been a great help and comfort to us whilst you have been here.'
Miss Rayner appeared at the wedding, to every one's great astonishment.
Her parting words caused me much thought and consideration: 'Don't be
surprised if you hear soon that I have given up my chicks, and departed
to the wilds of Africa as a missionary. I must do something with my
bit of wasted life left me.'
My little Sunday scholars were in full force at the church gate as we
went through, and irrepressible Roddy darted up to me and clutched hold
of my dress,--'You isn't going away to heaven, is you, like Jim?'
'Not yet, I think,' I answered, trying to detach his chubby fingers
from my skirt.
'I thought you was, in that booful angel dress!' And he fell back with
a trace of disappointment on his rosy face.
Kitty was by his side openly weeping. As I came down the path after it
was all over, I could not help giving her a special 'good-bye.' Her
sad little face flushed with pleasure as I did so, and she murmured, 'I
never shall forget you, teacher, you've taught me to love Jesus'; and
my own eyes filled with tears at her words.
As we drove away to the station on our way to the Continent for a month
or six weeks, and I felt I was on the threshold of a new life, I said
to Philip, 'I feel as if I could put to this chapter of my life, "Not
one thing hath failed of all the good things which the Lord God spake
concerning you!"'