SETTLING DOWN
IT was quite a week before Hope grasped the reins of home government,
and as she feared, she made many mistakes. If she taught Anne a few
lessons in method and cleanliness, Anne taught her some in economy, for
as yet Hope had little idea of the value of money. Mr. St. Clair was
curiously punctilious in all business matters; he told his daughter he
had never been in debt during the whole of his rough colonial life,
and Brian informed her that this trait had made him quite conspicuous
amongst his happy-go-lucky neighbours. He insisted now upon having
weekly books from the tradesmen; and putting aside a certain sum for
housekeeping, would not exceed it by a penny.
Hope was aghast at the end of her first week to find that she had
exceeded it by a couple of pounds. She promptly supplied the deficit
from her own purse, but determined not to err in like manner again.
Her days were very full. She found her mending-basket never empty. Her
father made great demands on her time and attention, and she was not
sure of half an hour to herself throughout the day. The first Sunday
had been pouring wet, and none of the family had gone to church, but
one afternoon in the following week, she found that she could attend
the cathedral service.
The stillness and coolness of the atmosphere struck her more forcibly
than ever, but she was able now to join in the service with all her
heart, and her soul was refreshed and strengthened by communion with
One whom she had learnt to love.
Coming out, Mrs. Dane stopped her, and as she shook hands, there was
something in her firm genial grasp that brought at once a sense of
strength and sympathy.
"Are you back again?" she asked. "I am so glad to see you. How is your
aunt?"
"She is not with me," said Hope, adding impulsively. "May I walk a part
of the way home with you?"
In a few minutes, she made Mrs. Dane aware of her altered
circumstances. She touched lightly upon them, but the elder woman
looked upon her with quickened interest as she talked.
"Do you remember saying to me that you wanted to turn from a butterfly
into a bee?" she asked presently.
"Yes. I was in a kind of transition state then, or wanting to be. But
in town I learnt a good deal. I see life so differently now Mrs. Dane."
The tone more than the words conveyed all that Hope wished her friend
to know; and Mrs. Dane was quick at comprehension.
"I expect you are having a very uphill time, are you not?"
"Yes, I am. The thing I mind most is that I have so little time to
myself. Quiet seems at an end. And quiet peace is what I have longed
for so much. The thought of the possibility of it quite reconciled me
to leaving all my gaiety."
"But," said Mrs. Dane thoughtfully, "however busy we are, we can carry
the sense of peace about with us. Do you know that hymn—
"'Peace, perfect peace, by thronging duties press'd?
To do the will of Jesus, this is rest.'"
Hope's face brightened visibly.
"How strange!" she said. "It was the first verse of that hymn that
haunted me so when I came here in the early spring, and now you have
given me another verse of it."
"A very beautiful one, as I know from experience. When we realise our
thronging duties are all opportunities for carrying out our Lord's
will, that it is service for Him as well as for our fellow-creatures,
we have rest at once in the midst of them."
"Oh," said Hope; "it will make my days so easy if I remember it."
She said little more, and they soon came to the corner where they had
to part.
"May I come and see you?" Mrs. Dane asked.
Hope hesitated for a moment, remembering Brian's words, and then
replied:
"Thank you, very much. It will be very kind of you, but if it is one of
my father's bad days, and I am with him, you will understand if I do
not appear."
"Certainly I will. Shall we waive ceremony, and will you come to tea
with me the first day you can manage it?"
"I shall be delighted."
When Hope entered her home, she carried such a radiant face that her
father even remarked upon it.
"I suppose it is your good health that makes you so happy," he
remarked. "I used to be called at school 'Jolly George.' When I think
of myself in those days, and contrast them with myself now, I can
hardly believe I am the same being!"
"No, it is something more than health," said Hope, but she could not
tell her father all that she was feeling.
She only knew as the days went on, that in the midst of many
uncongenial duties, and more real hard work and anxious thought than
she had ever before experienced, she had a deep feeling of peace in her
heart. The realisation that every bit of her day was just carrying out
the will of God for her, brought her more than ease of mind, it brought
her keen enjoyment.
And soon the household wheels began to run smoothly. Brian, coming
home tired at the end of his day, was conscious of home comforts and
brightness. The flowers about the house, the daintiness of the meals,
and the sparkling personality of Hope herself, all marked a strong
contrast to the struggles and failures of the time before. Hope was
naturally of a buoyant nature, and though at first the irksomeness of
her duties appalled her, when she realised that even cooking appetising
dishes for her father, mending her small brothers' clothes, and dusting
and tidying rooms were all distinctly service to the Master she was
longing to serve, those very duties became a delight to her. She was
not perfect; there were times when impatience and loss of temper gained
the day, but she gradually won the affection of all the household, and
her reign was a happy one.
One afternoon when her father was lying down with a bad headache, and
did not wish to be disturbed, she went over to call upon Mrs. Dane. She
found her sitting under the trees in her garden, and whilst she worked,
her son Lancelot was reading aloud to her.
"I am so glad to see you, my dear. We are enjoying an idle hour. Do you
know my son Lancelot? He is with me again for a short time."
"We have never met, Miss St. Clair, but I feel that I know all about
you," Lancelot said, speaking in fresh keen tones. "I think I may say
I began to know you when you first came into the cathedral that early
spring evening; do you remember?"
"Yes," said Hope, blushing slightly. "I noticed you. I liked your
attention to your mother."
They laughed. Mrs. Dane put her hand lightly on her son's broad
shoulder.
"I believe," she said, with a humorous twinkle in her eyes, "that his
attention to his old mother has sometimes prevented his attention to
young people. He is considered a very unsociable being in these parts."
"I am not a society man," Lancelot responded, drawing a lounge chair
forward for Hope to occupy.
"Do you know, Miss St. Clair, I fancy I am acquainted with your father.
Was he not in Canada some years ago?"
"Yes, he has only just returned home," Hope said. "Did you meet him out
there? I thought India was your country."
"There are not many countries that I have not visited," Lancelot
replied. "I was then secretary to the Premier over there. But I did not
meet your father officially. Ask him if he remembers the buffalo at the
Red River."
"I will. He is in such bad health now, so different from what he was."
"Lancelot, will you tell them we will have tea out here?"
Then, as he moved towards the house, Mrs. Dane turned to her young
guest.
"My boys are laughed at for their love of home, but I will say in
excuse for Lancelot, that he has been away from me for fifteen long
years, and he will be going out to India again in the autumn."
"Is he stationed there?" Hope asked.
"Yes, he has a very good Government appointment in Calcutta. Sir Hugh
Mowbray got it for him. He was his secretary, as he told you, when he
was in Canada. But Lancelot has not had good health lately, and I wish
for many reasons that he was not going back. Well, I will not talk only
of myself and my family. How are you getting on, dear? I have been
thinking a good deal about you lately."
"Things are going better," said Hope cheerfully. "I am daily finding
out what an ignoramus I am, and am struggling hard with cookery-books
at present. Why do they always leave out the vital point, Mrs. Dane?
They tell you that you are to mix ingredients, but never 'how!' I've
been stirring things with a spoon instead of my fingers, and 'vice
versâ.' But I turned out a delicious pudding yesterday. The only pity
was that the boys ate it up so soon!"
Her merry laugh rang out as Lancelot returned.
Mrs. Dane, remembering the past life that she had been leading, could
only wonder at her quick adaptability to her altered circumstances, and
then conversation took a graver turn. Lancelot began to discuss the
book he had been reading to his mother. It was extracts from some of
the modern thinkers of the day.
Hope listened with interest. The problem of universal suffering was the
topic, that mystery of the human race which to some souls seems the key
to all that is noblest and best, to others the knell of bitterness and
despair.
"We have been reading that the laws of compensation are not
sufficiently grasped," said Lancelot, sitting down and fastening his
keen bright eyes on Hope as he spoke. "What do you say, Miss St. Clair?
Do you ever think of these things?"
"Yes," said Hope softly, "sometimes. But I would rather hear your
opinions than give my own. I take life too lightly, I believe. I have
not yet looked much beyond my own immediate circle."
"It is easy to sit down comfortably and theorise upon such a subject,"
said Lancelot gravely. "To a certain extent I know that a capacity
to enjoy as well as to suffer is given to every class and race. The
lower races, we know, are not so highly strung as the more civilised.
They suffer less in consequence, but I think it is encouraging
self-indulgence to wipe out our neighbours' heavy burdens with the
reflection that they do not feel them. What do you say, mother?"
"I believe if we all shared each other's burdens, as we should,
four-fifths of the misery in the world would be saved."
"But how can you share them?" asked Hope. "I can't go and live in a
drunkard's home, for instance, and share the misery and anxieties of a
drunkard's wife."
"No, but you can offer her your sympathy and help, and be as anxious
and earnest about the reformation of her husband as if he belonged to
you," said Mrs. Dane.
"I have never had anything to do with the poor," said Hope, after a
moment's silence, "and my time is too full now to take a district."
Then she gave a little laugh.
"You see that I cannot talk broadly on these things; I narrow them down
to my own experience."
"Some people think that if they want to help their neighbours, they
must begin with the poor," said Lancelot smiling. "I have found in my
travels that there are quite as many burdens borne by our own class in
life as in any other."
"Yes," said Mrs. Dane, "but how many keep their purses in their
pockets, using that plea, 'Charity begins at home.'"
They were interrupted here by the arrival of two visitors, Hester and
Minnie Chesney, and Hope was not pleased at the interruption. Minnie
pounced upon her at once.
"You little wretch! What do you mean by keeping us in ignorance of
your whereabouts? We only heard yesterday that you were in this part
again. We have just come home, you know. Now, you must come to our
tennis-party to-morrow without fail."
Hope shook her head.
"I can't, Minnie, thank you. I am not with my aunt now."
"Aren't you? But what difference does that make? We heard from May
Fosberry that your father had come home and that you were with him."
"Yes, I am. He is in very bad health, and my time is much occupied at
home."
"Rubbish! You can come over to Mrs. Dane, and we are only a few miles
farther out. We shall take no excuses. Tell your father you must have
some recreation. Are you at Wistaria Lodge?"
"Yes, but we are living very economically, and I am cooking and mending
and housekeeping all day long."
"I don't believe you!"
Both girls laughed, but Hester regarded Hope with serious eyes.
"You are looking quite thin," she remarked. "What have you been doing
to yourself?"
"And, Hope, have you heard May's last fad? She says she is going to
give up society and do something with her life. Don't you hate that
phrase? She's what the Dissenters would call 'converted,' I believe!
Now, Mrs. Dane, don't look at me with shocked eyes. I'm awfully fond of
you, but I'm not fond of your religion."
"I wish," said Hope, slowly and emphatically, "that I was as good as
May is."
"May is all right," Hester said abruptly; then she turned to talk to
Lancelot.
Conversation became general, but Hope soon rose to leave. She
cheerfully but decidedly told Minnie that she could not accept her
invitation, whereupon that young lady declared that she would swoop
down upon her very soon and carry her off by force.
"And have you not a brother? What is he doing? He is sure to like
tennis, if you don't. You must bring him with you."
"He is at work."
"What is he doing?"
"I really don't know," and as she spoke, Hope hesitated.
"Something in the City, I expect. That's what most young men say about
here," said Minnie, laughing.
As she walked home, Hope began to ponder over Brian. She wondered if
he ever wanted relaxation like most young men, or if he were perfectly
content to work all day, and come home at night to attend to the wants
of his household, and soothe and cheer an irritable sick man.
"I really must make him tell me what he does. He seems so secretive
about it. I wonder if the boys know."
Strangely enough, that very evening Jerry mentioned his brother to Hope.
"Toby and me saw Brian in the town to-day. He has a grand time riding
about like a gentleman. I wish father would give us a pony."
"But," said Hope, "Brian works very hard. He was only in the town on
business, I expect."
Jerry laughed derisively.
"Nice business! He was following an awfully smart young woman on
horseback, and enjoying himself, you bet!"
"Hush!" said Hope. "That isn't the way to speak of Brian."
But the boy's words surprised her.
That evening her father retired to bed early. Sitting out with some
work in the garden, she told Brian of her visit to Mrs. Dane's. His
brows contracted sternly when he heard about the Chesneys.
"You need not include me in any of their parties," he said somewhat
bitterly, "for I am not going near them."
"Well, I don't think I shall go," said Hope; "I have not time. But,
Brian, I have been thinking about you to-day. I don't think your life
is natural or right. You have told me so little of what you are doing
that I do not know if you are hardworked or not, but I do know that you
never take a holiday, and even on Sunday you are away from us morning
and evening. You ought to have some relaxation in the week. Don't you
feel the need of it?"
Brian did not answer for a moment; then he said abruptly:
"Have you come to stay, Hope? Because if you have, I almost think I
could go back to Canada. I don't believe father would miss me. And you
seem to be getting on all right."
Hope's heart sank within her. She hardly knew herself how much she
leant upon her younger brother for help and advice, but now the thought
of living in Kayminster without him filled her with dismay.
"I'm glad you think I'm getting on all right," she said with her bright
laugh, "but I hide up a lot of my delinquencies from you, remember! Are
you very anxious to get back to Canada?"
"I would stay, of course, if father really wanted me, but I'd have a
chance of getting on if I went back. You must remember Canada is more
my home than England—I know the ways of it better."
"And do you dislike your work here very much? Brian, won't you tell me
what it is? Trust me. I will let it go no further. I know it is honest
work; you have told me so. I imagine it is horse-breeding, is it not,
with some big farmer?"
Brian gave a short laugh. He was on his knees weeding a flower-bed. Now
he stood up and squared his shoulders, looking at his sister rather
defiantly.
"It is for your sake that I have said nothing about it. I am not
ashamed of it, but you may be, having your grand friends all round this
part. Would you like me to tell you?"
"Yes," said Hope quietly, "I should."
"Then here it is. I am groom in Lord Cotes's stables."
For one moment Hope was petrified. She had met Lord Cotes in town,
and though she had not happened to meet him when she had last been in
Kayminster, the Chesneys knew him well, and were often over at the
Hall. He lived about three miles out of Kayminster.
"Why—why did you not tell me before?" she asked falteringly.
"Because I did not want to see the look on your face that you have at
this moment. You, need not be afraid. I have left out the 'Saint' in
my name, and he does not associate Brian Clair, the second groom, with
Miss Hope St. Clair, a Society beauty!"
"Oh, Brian, don't be so bitter! I am not—not ashamed—but I'm sorry for
you, that you should be in such a position. What made you do it?"
"Necessity, and perhaps inclination. I am fond of horses and really
understand them. I got the job, remember, before you came to us."
"And you want to give it up?"
"You won't be so loth to let me go now that you know what my billet is!"
"I don't care what it is!" Hope cried impulsively. "I shall miss you
immensely, but if it is for your good, I will, of course, try to get
on without you. Why, Brian!"—her eyes brightened as she turned them on
him—"I admire you intensely for your pluck and unselfishness. I only
wish I were half as plucky myself!"
Brian heaved a sigh. He seemed relieved at having made a clean breast
of it.
"I could not dangle round doing nothing!" he said. "And father does not
know. I don't believe he would mind if he did. But I've been afraid of
being recognised by you when I've been riding about. I know what you
feel. And, of course, I'm making nothing by my job—only just supporting
myself."
"I don't know about that," said Hope. "You have given me a good bit
towards the housekeeping."
After further talk, she promised to discuss his leaving for Canada with
her father; but when she was alone in her room that night, her courage
almost failed her.
Brian did not know the struggle and strain of her daily life. Her
very unfitness for it, owing to her lack of training in economy and
usefulness, made it much more laborious than it need have been. Brian,
returning after the day's work had been done, did not realise how
exhausting it was to both mind and body, and Hope prided herself upon
not enlightening him.
Yet as she leant out of her window as usual to hear the midnight chimes
of the cathedral, she repeated to herself the verse that was her
comfort through it all:
"'Peace, perfect peace, by thronging duties press'd?
To do the will of Jesus, this is rest.'"