Two Love Stories.
Christmas Day broke clear and frosty—the last Christmas Day of the old
order. Everyone woke up with an oppressed feeling and a vague wish that
for just this once the season of merry-making and gladness might have
been omitted. For The Ghan House and the Parsonage it had always been
such a particularly joyous time, the aunties always spoiling the young
folks in every possible way, and Mrs Adair had been wont to say
laughingly when they were children, that she had to develop into a sort
of griffin armed with salts and soothing draughts, and follow them all
around. And there had always been such presents too—ever since Jack, as
a four-year-old youngster, managed to slip out of the Parsonage in his
night-clothes and no shoes, on a cold Christmas morning, to get over to
The Ghan House to show Paddy and Eileen his wooden horse. The gardener
found him trying to drag the animal over the breach in the wall, his
poor little feet blue with cold, but his eagerness was so great that he
could think of nothing but getting to The Ghan House with that precious
horse before any of the Parsonage folk caught him. So the gardener
picked him up, horse and all, and carried him into The Ghan House
kitchen to be warmed, and then went back to tell the aunties and fetch
his clothes. Meanwhile Eileen had heard him in the kitchen, and managed
to drag herself, burdened with an enormous doll, to the head of the
stairs, where she was only just rescued in the nick of time from going
down head first, doll and all.
But at breakfast-time things had looked a little more cheerful, for a
delightful surprise awaited everyone. The two families had arranged to
spend the whole day together, and The Ghan House had been selected, so
that quite a large party sat down to the table. Two minutes later the
postman arrived and Jack and Paddy once more raced and fell over each
other to the door. They came back with their arms loaded. It just
seemed as if everyone who knew them had seized the opportunity of
expressing their sympathy by means of a little present.
There were books, and handkerchiefs, and pictures, and purses—never had
there been such a Christmas before as far as presents were concerned,
and even Mrs Adair smiled to think her girls were so genuinely beloved.
The greatest surprise of all came last, in the form of an envelope on
each of the three young folk’s plates. With eager fingers Paddy got
hers open first, and then uttered a little cry of amazement, and in two
seconds was hugging both aunties at the same time with a vigour that
added consternation to their discomfort.
Each of the three envelopes contained a cheque for twenty pounds, and
the three recipients could find no words to express their thanks.
Later they all went to church, the Adairs sitting as usual in the top
pew on one side of the little aisle, and the Parsonage folks in the top
pew on the other side; just as they had sat ever since Jack and Paddy
as children had had to be closely watched, because they would peep at
each other and make signs behind their elders’ backs. Vivid
recollections thronged the aunties’ minds that last Christmas before
the boy left them. They remembered how he and Paddy would try to see
who could sing the loudest, all out of tune of course, and had
considerably disturbed the music of the whole congregation; how Jack,
as a little chap, loved to slip out of the pew when his father was
reading the Lessons, and stand beside him—and how once, when Paddy had
happened to be sitting on the outside of the Adair’s pew as a reward
for being a good girl, the temptation had been too much for her and she
had slipped after Jack; of the Sunday Jack had put a little frog in her
pocket, and she had found it and screamed out in church; and of another
time when Paddy, exasperated because he would not look at her, had
deliberately, in a fit of naughtiness, thrown a hymn book across the
aisle at his head.
For one and all there were recollections that saddened and gladdened at
once, but perhaps for Eileen were the saddest of all, because the most
hopeless.
Close behind, on one side, where his thin profile had been distinctly
visible, was the spot where Lawrence had often sat on a Sunday evening
after coming to church, as she could not but know, especially to see
her. The Blakes’ parish church was at Newry, but Lawrence was never
seen there; if he went to church at all he walked over to Omeath, and
went in to The Ghan House to supper afterward.
It was in vain Eileen told herself he was unworthy, fickle; struggle as
she would she could not tear him out of her heart, nor forget for a
moment all he had been to her. The effort to do so, combined with her
mourning for her father, and the dreariness of the future, had
seriously affected her health the last few weeks, and just as they were
finishing the first prayers, everyone was startled by the sound of a
fall, and discovered Eileen in a dead faint. A second later, with a
set, compressed expression, Jack had picked her up as when she was a
child, and carried her out, across the churchyard and into the
Parsonage. When he laid her down on the sofa, his own face was scarcely
less white than the face on the cushions, and he smothered a sound that
was almost a sob, as he turned away to make room for Mrs Adair and Aunt
Jane.
So the day ended in sadness after all, for though Eileen came round
quickly, she was almost too weak to stand, and in the evening Jack
helped her across to The Ghan House, and then went to fetch the doctor.
It had been arranged for her and Paddy and their mother to start for
London the first week in January, where Dr Adair had already taken a
house for them, and they were to stay with him while the furniture
followed, but in Eileen’s state of health this seemed very unwise, and
it was finally decided Jack and Paddy should start off together, and
Mrs Adair and Eileen should move over to the Parsonage, and remain
there for a week or two following to London when their own home was
ready.
Mrs Adair and Aunt Jane and Paddy and Jack planned it all in a
consultation that Christmas evening, while little Miss Mary sat
upstairs with Eileen. It was an opportunity she had wished for some
time, for her understanding heart saw that Eileen would be better if
she could be induced to speak of her pain, and she believed that she
held a key that would unlock her confidence. She carefully closed the
door and made up the fire, before she drew an arm-chair beside the bed,
and sat down, saying:
“I think we shall have a quiet hour now, dearie, for the others are
talking business, and that will be so nice, won’t it?”
Eileen smiled her consent, and Miss Mary went on talking softly, in a
soothing way that was natural to her. Presently she laid a little
wasted hand on the invalid’s and said simply:
“Eileen, my dear, you have always been especially precious to me. It
goes to my heart to feel that you are unhappy and none of us can do
anything.”
The quick tears sprang to Eileen’s eyes, but she made no reply.
“I have been thinking, perhaps, if you could trust me—” Miss Mary
continued a little hesitatingly. “I know how difficult it is to speak
of anything like this—I know how terrible it is to bear. I once
suffered in just the same way myself, dearie, only perhaps for me it
was a little harder, for we were actually engaged.”
Eileen was crying quietly now, wholly undone by Miss Mary’s tenderness,
and made no attempt to speak.
“I always meant to tell you about it some day, if you cared to hear,”
Miss Mary went on, softly stroking the girl’s hand, “and I have been
thinking I would like to tell you now, or shall I weary you?”
“No, please tell me,” murmured Eileen, and her fingers closed lovingly
over her companion’s.
“My dear, as you know, many people about here wonder why sister and I
have never married, but I doubt if anyone knows the real reason except
just she and I.” She paused a moment, and then continued simply: “You
have heard of old General Quinn, who used to live at Omeath Park? He
was a hard-drinking, hard-living old man, and he had three sons, two of
whom took after him in everything. The third son was quieter, but he
was terribly weak, though none of us quite knew it at the time. He took
after his mother, who was a beautiful Irish girl from the South, but
she died young, and none of the boys had anyone much to look after them
as they grew up. There was no real harm in any of them, but the two
elder were terribly wild, and the younger was very handsome and very
fond of popularity, though he followed none of the excesses of his
brothers.
“They all three went into the army and were away some time, and then
Patrick, the eldest, and Allan, the youngest, came home on furlough. My
sister and I were twenty and twenty-one then, and I believe we were
considered very pretty, but we had never been away from the Parsonage
much, and we knew nothing of the world beyond the mountains.
“Patrick fell in love with Jane, and Allan with me, and you can
understand, I think, how easily and naturally we were conquered, though
sister never actually got so far as Allan and I, who were secretly
engaged after a few weeks. We were afraid to tell my father, because he
was angry with the old General about something, and we knew well it was
wiser to wait until his anger had blown over, as it always did pretty
quickly. The only person who knew was my godmother, and she happened to
come and stay with us just then. Fortunately for me she liked Allan,
though indeed she was certain to, for he was just as handsome and
popular as Jack, only without Jack’s backbone. She promised to help us
if she could, and advised us not to say anything to father just yet. Of
Patrick and Jane she thought less, perhaps because they quarrelled so
often, and it seemed so very doubtful if they would ever be actually
engaged; though, when they were good friends, no one need wish to meet
with a happier pair. Looking back since, I have not been able to help
feeling deeply sorry for Patrick. Though he was wild he was not bad,
and Jane could have done as she liked with him. I know now that he was
far the best of the three brothers, and it seems strange that he should
have been the one who had to suffer for the other’s sins.
“Things were going on in this way when the Egyptian War broke out, and
Allan’s regiment was ordered on active service. It was a terrible time,
my dear. Getting Jack’s things ready now brings to my mind so clearly
that last week with Allan, and the misery of the parting when at last
he sailed away.
“Had I known what was to follow I could not have borne it all. My only
fear, night and day, was that he would be killed in battle, and yet
before so very long my cry was changed to—‘Oh, God I would that he had
been killed fighting for his country!’
“We did not hear from him for some time, and then his name appeared
among the wounded, and I was nearly distraught. My godmother was
staying with us again, and through her influence we managed to get many
details we could not otherwise have done, and we heard he had been
rather seriously hurt, and as it might prove a long case he was going
to be taken to the hospital at Cairo. I was not very strong at that
time, dear, and what with worry and dread, the winter tried me
exceedingly, and godmother grew anxious. Then she hit upon a plan. I
must tell you she was rich and she had no children of her own, which
doubtless made her care so deeply for me. When she saw how I was
suffering about Allan, she made up her mind to take me to him—and when
she made up her mind about anything she always carried it through. It
took her some time to talk my father round, but in the end he agreed to
let Jane and myself go away with her for three months, and a few days
later we started for Cairo.”
She stopped, and remained thoughtful for a few minutes, as if recalling
all the facts more vividly to her mind. Eileen did not speak, and
presently she added:
“It was nine months after Allan first sailed that we reached Cairo. It
is no use to weary you with the details of the trip, or of what
happened when we arrived. All that matters is, that in three days we
discovered he was married.”
“Married!” gasped Eileen incredulously.
“Yes, dear, he was married to a great friend of the hospital nurse who
had nursed him—a rich heiress.”
“Oh! auntie, what did you do? How terrible for you, how terrible!”
“I was very ill for some time, there at the hotel in Cairo, and my
godmother and Jane nursed me night and day. Afterward, as soon as I
could be moved, they got me away to Switzerland, and there I gradually
grew well again. I thought it was hard at the time, Eileen, for I
wanted so to die, but I have lived to understand how poor and weak that
was.” She stroked the girl’s hand tenderly.
“It is cowardly to want to turn and run away directly the path gets
hard and stony. I was a coward. I see it clearly now, and I have lived
to feel ashamed. I am thankful that God did not hear my passionate
pleas, for it has comforted me often to feel I am trying to make up for
the weakness of that terrible year. But it was so hard at the time; oh!
my dear, I know so well, when the future looks all black and hopeless.
But it is never really so. What God takes away from us with one hand,
He repays with the other. I was quite certain no joy was left in all
the world for me—nothing but a long, lonely single life. And instead,
it has all been so blessed and so sweet. What I have lost in husband
and child, I seem to have found again a thousand times in you and Paddy
and Jack, and all the young folks and children around that I love so
well. It has been the same with Jane, I think. For twenty-five
years—that is since Jack was born—we have been intensely happy in this
dear, quiet spot. It is hard to lose him now, and you and Paddy also,
and most of our happiness will go with you, but we shall still have
each other, and it is not right to repine when one is drawing near old
age and the portals of the great New Day. I only pray I may live to see
you all happy, for yours is not the only aching heart, Eileen—My poor
boy!” she added softly.
“I wonder you don’t feel angry with me,” Eileen whispered.
“My dear, how should I?—though it hurts us to know that Jack is
unhappy, we have lived long enough to see that sorrow is a great
teacher and a great helper, and we believe that by and by he will be
glad again, and bless the Hand that let the sorrow come.”
“How good you are!” Eileen breathed. “It helps me only to hear you
talk.”
“I want very much to help you,” the little lady said sadly. “You are
going away to a hard change, my child, and carrying more than one heavy
cross with you. I wish I could bear something for you. But you must try
not to brood, lest it injure your health and add to your mother’s
sorrow; and you must try to be bright to help poor Paddy. London will
be terrible to her, poor child I fancy I see her now straining her eyes
to the horizon, dreaming of her dear mountains and loch.”
There was a short silence, and she said in a changed voice:
“But I have not finished my story yet. I have not told you what
happened to Jane and Patrick. It was not until we came back to England,
a year later, that I knew, and then it was a shock to me. I am afraid I
was very selfish all through that year, or I should have drawn it from
Jane sooner. It seems that Allan’s conduct made her very angry with the
whole family, and while in Cairo nursing me she learnt a great deal
about the world generally that she had never known before. Among other
things she heard how wild Patrick and his brother had been, and she
made up her mind she would have no more to do with anyone of the name
of Quinn, for my sake. By a strange chance, Patrick’s regiment came to
Cairo, and he sought her out at once and asked her to marry him. A very
stormy scene followed, in which Jane vented her wrath against Allan
upon poor Patrick and denounced the whole family. Then she accused him
of drinking and betting, told him she believed no one of his name could
keep faith, and sent him away.
“Poor Patrick; poor Jane—looking back now, I believe theirs was, after
all, the saddest case. You see she loved him all the time, though she
did not know how much until she had sent him away. And he loved her,
too. For her sake he would have changed, and there was much good in
him; only when she sent him away like that he just gave in and sank
deeper, and not very long afterward he died of sunstroke in India. For
a long time Jane never breathed a word concerning him, and then one day
I found her accidentally with her head down on his photograph, and I
made her tell me all.
“It was a strange mystery how one man’s perfidy should be permitted to
spoil three lives, but it is good to think that what looks so
mysterious to our dim eyes is perfectly clear to Him, and in the end we
shall understand and be satisfied.
“That is all, dear! Now you know why sister and I have never married,
yet are rich because we have known the deep wonder of Love. It is worth
some sorrow to have that knowledge, and there is no life so barren,
whatever else it holds, as the life that has not known a deep and true
Love.”
She got up, and in the firelight it seemed to Eileen that some inner
radiance lit up her sweet, lined face, reflecting a faint aureole round
her silver hair.
“I hear them coming upstairs. God bless you, dear,” and she stooped to
kiss Eileen’s forehead before the others stepped softly into the room.