TROUBLE
"IS everything packed, Hope?"
"I think so. Oh, Brian, what shall I do without you? I'm afraid we
shall all miss you terribly?"
"You will manage. Father seems ever so much better. He has been quite
humorous to-night. I never knew him talk so much before!"
"He is excited about your going away. I thought he looked very flushed
at supper-time. Yes, I dare say I shall manage. I ought to be able to.
Will you see Aunt Gertrude in town, Brian?"
"Can't. I go straight through to the Great Northern. There's no object
in seeing her. She would only begin lamenting about you and your 'lost
chances,' as she described it when I saw her last."
Hope and Brian were talking together in the drawing-room. He was
leaving early the next morning, and as Hope realised that they might
not see each other for a very long time, she prayed for the courage
she felt she needed. She was standing at the open window, her hand on
a climbing rose outside. Suddenly she turned round and confronted her
brother with grave sweet eyes.
"Brian, I want to say something to you. You won't be vexed? You are so
silent, so self-contained, that I often wonder what your thoughts are
about. I know you have had very few opportunities of going to church,
but do you ever honestly think about religion in any shape or form?"
Brian looked at her queerly.
"Well, I won't say I haven't given it a thought since you came to
live with us, for I believe it is at the bottom of your content. I
rather looked for sulks and tears, when you found you had to forgo all
your luxuries and pleasures. I know you don't give me credit for much
observation, but if I don't say much, I see the more. As far as I make
it out, religion is a very satisfying thing for a woman."
"And not for a man? Oh, Brian, just think of the first disciples! And
all the men who have fought and suffered for their faith. I do long
that you should realise the reality of having our Lord as your Saviour
and Friend. It would make the difficult and hard things in life so
different, so sweet."
"Well, I'll think about it."
Brian half-shrugged his shoulders. He had a genuine admiration for his
sister, and believed in her, but he could not stand much talking. Hope
felt she had said enough.
"I have slipped a small Bible into your portmanteau," she said softly.
"Will you read it sometimes? You are such a devoted son, such a good
brother, that I can't help thinking what a splendid Christian you would
make."
"Oh, I'll read it," said Brian abruptly. "I think I'll be turning in
now. Good-night!"
He left the room quickly, and with a little sigh Hope turned out the
lamp and followed him upstairs.
She was very tired that night, and fell asleep almost directly her head
touched the pillow. But, in the grey dawn of the following morning, she
was suddenly aroused by a voice outside her door.
"Hope, I want you!"
It was Brian speaking. In an instant Hope knew from his tone that
something had happened. She slipped on her dressing-gown and opened her
door.
"Is it father?"
"Yes. He is unconscious. I heard him fall. I'm afraid it is a kind of
seizure or stroke. Come at once. I must go for the doctor."
Hope followed him silently and swiftly to her father's room.
She found that Brian had been able to get him on the low couch at the
foot of his bed, and there he lay, his heavy breathing the only sign of
life about him.
"The doctor told me in town this was to be expected," said Brian. "I
rather fancy he has had a touch before, just after mother's death. You
can do nothing for him, but just watch him. I won't be long."
He disappeared from the room, and Hope sat down by the side of the
couch wondering if it were some dreadful nightmare from which she would
soon awake. The dawn deepened into broad daylight, and the sun began
to creep in, and the twittering of the birds increased outside, before
Brian returned.
The doctor understood at a glance what had happened. He sent Hope away
with the words:
"It is a slight seizure, Miss St. Clair; your brother and I will get
him into bed. We shall bring him round again; do not be afraid."
She went back to her room and dressed herself hastily. Then she called
Anne, told her what had happened, and ordered her to get hot water
ready as soon as possible, in case it might be wanted.
Anne was voluble with dismay and importance.
"'Tis a stroke, miss, a parrytic seizure; my uncle lay two months, and
couldn't use his hands, nor his feet, nor nothin'! I knows all the
symtims, and the master will be long before he can be better, an' if
Mr. Brian is away, you and me will have our hands full, I can tell you!"
Hope's heart sank, for she realised the truth of Anne's words. When the
doctor did come to her, his news was not very reassuring.
[Illustration: "YOU CAN DO NOTHING FOR HIM, BUT JUST WATCH HIM."]
"This may be a long business, Miss St. Clair. You will need a nurse.
Shall I send one in? I shall come in again this afternoon to see if
there is any sign of consciousness. Perhaps you and your brother would
like to talk it over. He says he is not going to leave your father
to-day."
"But," said Hope, with bewildered eyes, "he was sailing for America
this evening from Liverpool."
"Was he? I fancy that trip will have to be postponed."
The doctor took his departure. For a moment Hope felt quite dazed, then
hearing the boys' voices and the thud of their feet as they ran in and
out of the bathroom, she went up to them and broke the news.
They took it calmly. Their father had lately been the one member of
their household who spoilt their fun, and enforced the quiet that was
so irksome to them.
Jerry pulled a long face.
"Poor dad! Will he die?"
"Oh no," Toby assured him quickly; "he'll be all right soon. If he's
unconscious, he won't hear any noise, that's a comfort!"
"You must make no noise," said Hope gravely.
Then she left them and went downstairs and began her usual morning
duties.
It was a very long day. Brian never left his father's room, except to
come outside and send a telegram to his friend, the captain of the
vessel in which he had hoped to sail.
"I can't go," he said shortly to Hope, and she experienced the first
sense of relief at his words.
When the doctor came in the afternoon there was little change in Mr.
St. Clair's state, but Brian negatived the idea of having a nurse.
"I am home, and I can nurse him," he said shortly. "He never could bear
women fussing round him."
"Your father is in good hands," the doctor assured Hope before leaving.
"Your brother is wonderfully handy in a sick-room."
"He is handy anywhere," responded Hope. "Can you give me any hope about
my father?"
"Oh yes, every hope; but he may be a long time recovering. One side is
entirely paralysed at present. I hope he may regain consciousness and
speech in a few days."
But weeks passed before Mr. St. Clair's condition improved. He was
helplessly bedridden, and when all danger was over, Hope and Brian put
their heads together as to ways and means. The illness had been an
expensive one. If Mrs. Daubeney had not sent Hope a cheque for twenty
pounds, they would not have been able to keep out of debt.
From the first day, Brian had not uttered one word of complaint or
regret for the relinquishment of his intentions. He waited on his
father with ready cheerfulness and patience, and was seldom absent
from the sick-room. When Mr. St. Clair was convalescent, and when he
realised that his father would require an attendant always with him,
that he would not be able to raise himself from his couch, or even
convey food to his lips, he told Hope, with a set smile and a quiet
voice, that he would be that attendant.
"He can't afford a nurse, and you could not be with him always. I must
stay with him."
"Then, Brian, if you cannot earn money, I must."
Hope spoke resolutely, but the flash in Brian's eyes at her suggestion
showed her that hidden fires were beneath his calm exterior.
"I don't intend to be an idler," Brian said hotly.
"What are your plans?"
"I hardly know. We must leave this house and get a cottage in the
country, if we can. The doctor advises it. The cathedral chimes are
having an irritating effect on father's nerves. If we could find a
small place not too far away from here, it would be easy. We could live
twice as cheaply; and there would be a chance of getting something out
of the soil, perhaps."
"Yes," said Hope eagerly; "and I would be able to help you. Why, could
we not live as the country people do? Couldn't we grow vegetables and
flowers for market? Oh—I have it! It is an inspiration!"
She was silent for a moment, then said more slowly:
"It is capital that we want. I wonder if Aunt Gertrude would help us?
I know of a sweet cottage and small poultry-farm. Hester Chesney took
me to it the other day, and the owner would sell it very cheap, the
goodwill—isn't that the expression?—included. For she has a contract in
town with the Stores, to supply them with poultry and eggs."
She told her brother all the particulars she could remember. After
the darkness of their outlook, this seemed like a flash of light and
brightness. Brian listened and approved; but shook his head at the
amount of capital necessary.
"It sounds all right," he said cautiously; "it would be easy work for
us. I know a good bit about poultry; and you and I together could look
after father and work the place. There are the boys to be considered.
I really don't know what to do with them; but the great difficulty is
money."
"I will write to Aunt Gertrude at once. She must help us. She is our
nearest relation."
Hope went off at once, and wrote her letter.
But a week passed, and she received no answer.
Meanwhile she had sent Brian one day to see Miss Rill, and he came back
with light in his eyes.
"It will do," he said, "if we can buy it outright from her as it
stands. And I'll tell you rather a curious thing. I went over to look
at the church, and met the Vicar wandering round. He is badly off,
it appears, and would willingly take the boys as day-pupils for very
little. So that difficulty would be solved."
"Oh, if we only could go there!" sighed Hope. She saw herself in the
quaint cottage, tending the fowls and flowers, and her longing after a
country life increased.
The very next morning, as she sat at breakfast, a letter arrived for
her. Hope took it and read it through with dazed eyes again and again
before she could realise the truth. It was from her aunt's godchild,
Eva.
"DEAR MISS ST. CLAIR,—I feel you ought to be one of the first to hear
the sad news. Mrs. Daubeney died suddenly in her sleep last night. The
doctor has just told us that it was failure of her heart's action. I
dare say you knew that her heart was not strong. My mother has come
to me. It has been a great shock. Please excuse haste. I think Mrs.
Daubeney was going to write to you, but I don't know what about. She
was always talking about you, and I am sure that you, with me, will
feel her loss.
"Yours very sincerely,
"EVA."
Hope was quite stunned by this news. She told Brian of it very quietly,
performed her usual housekeeping duties, and then went upstairs to her
own room, and with locked door sat down by her window to think it out.
She had taken the trouble of her father's illness very calmly, but
this seemed to be overwhelming. Mrs. Daubeney had been like a mother
to her. And Hope's heart was with her, though perhaps not with her
environments. She had always, though unaware of it, considered that
Mrs. Daubeney's home was hers to return to, when her father should
need her no longer. Her present life was one of probation. Whatever
happened, and however many misfortunes might fall upon her, she had her
aunt to whom she could turn, and the half-conscious conviction of this
had always been her solace.
Now the very foundation under her feet seemed to have slipped away, and
with the despairing feeling of insecurity and loneliness, came real
grief at the loss of one she loved.
She bowed her head in her hands and wept passionately.
"It is so sudden. I can't believe it. Shall I never be able to take
up my old life with her again? Is it all over? I shall have no one to
advise me, to care for me! She was the only one. I am an outsider still
to my father and brothers. Aunt Gertrude did love me. We had lived so
long together, and oh, how I loved her, how I have missed her! I can't
believe I shall never see, never speak to her again! Why has life
become so clouded for me? It seems one trouble after another. I feel as
if I cannot bear them!"
It was a dark hour, but Hope was not left without comfort. And He who
is always ready to heal where He wounds, drew near and spoke to her
soul.
Brian was very good to her, and was quite ready to spare her when she
said she would like to go up to town.
"I shall manage very well. It is quite impossible for me to attend her
funeral, or I would. Are we her nearest relations?" Hope replied slowly.
"I believe we are. But, Brian, I must tell you that Aunt Gertrude would
never make her will, though she often talked about it. I can't bear
thinking of her money now she is gone, but you must remember it came to
her through her husband, and by his will after her death it goes to his
only nephew, who is somewhere abroad. I know that, for she told me so."
"I wish she had been able to help us about this small poultry-farm,"
said Brian rather gloomily. "It seems such a chance!"
Hope was absent for a week. She returned home pale and sad. Brian had
been hoping against hope that Mrs. Daubeney had at least left her
sister some small sum of money. He had no affection for his aunt, so
her death did not affect him as it did Hope. To Hope the time in London
had been inexpressibly sad. She had seen some of her old friends, and
Jim Horrocks had looked after her like a brother, and had tried to
comfort her in his own fashion; but all the accounts of her aunt's last
days from Mrs. Daubeney's old maid, and the associations of her house
and belongings, had weighed heavily upon her spirits.
As she returned to Kayminster in a third-class railway carriage, the
girl felt that she had finished now with all ease and comfort in life.
Mrs. Daubeney had died, as she feared, without a will. Her house and
furniture were to be sold, and the only legacy Hope received was some
valuable pearls that bore her name upon the case. As she leant back
in her seat, she tried to realise what it would mean. She would have
no allowance in the future, but would be absolutely dependent on her
father for every penny she would have to spend.
"I shall have to earn my living," was her inmost thought. And that was
followed by another—"How can I be spared? In either case, there is a
life of toil before me."
As she put her foot down on Kayminster platform, a voice startled her.
"Good afternoon, Miss St. Clair. May I ask how your father is?"
It was Lancelot Dane. She turned to him, trying to hide her depression;
but the look with which Lancelot met her glance brought the tears to
her eyes.
"I am in trouble," she said confusedly. "My aunt has died suddenly, and
I have been to her funeral. Father is about the same."
"I am so sorry for you. We saw the announcement of Mrs. Daubeney's
death. I am afraid it must have been a shock to you!"
"I don't think anything will shock me again," said Hope wearily. "There
is nothing that could."
He walked by her side after she had given directions for her small
portmanteau to be sent to the house. Then he said presently:
"This summer has been a hard one for you."
"It has all come at once, and I hardly know where I am."
"But however deep the waters are, you are not left to tread through
them alone."
Hope flashed a look at him.
"Oh!" she said. "If I could only remember that! If this had happened a
year ago, where should I have been!"
The strained look on her face passed away. Lancelot was silent for a
moment, then he murmured almost under his breath:
"'Peace, perfect peace, with sorrows surging round?
On Jesu's bosom nought but calm is found.'"
Hope drew a long breath, but not one word did she say.
He left her at Wistaria Lodge, but the grasp of his hand made her blood
tingle; and though she parted from him in silence, she felt as she went
into the house that his few words had been all that she needed.