A CALAMITY
"Little minds are tamed and subdued by misfortune; but great minds rise
above it."—WASHINGTON IRVING.
THE days slipped by very quickly to Heather. She enjoyed the walks with
Captain Vaughan, the talks with Ena, and the wonderful beauty of her
picturesque surroundings.
She lost a little of her imperious manner; she was no longer the
mistress of house and farm, "the young leddy" of the village. There was
no one to keep in order, no business matters to be taken in hand, and
the relaxation of her life brought out all the light-hearted gaiety of
her nature, and made her gain in girlish grace what she lost in dignity.
Ena watched her flitting about with a happy ringing laugh, and listened
to her bright humorous speeches with delight.
"I am making you younger," she said to her, laughingly, one morning, as
they sat in the sunshine under the old stone porch.
"I believe you are," Heather replied, with twinkling eyes. "I feel very
old at home, especially when I am trying to manage Abigail. And since
Bluebell has married, I have been lonely. It isn't good to live alone,
now, is it? What would you feel like if you had no brother in and out?"
Ena shook her head.
"I fail to imagine. And yet, of course, he may marry, and I may have to
seek a home elsewhere."
"Then you could come and live with me. That would be delightful."
Ena laughed.
Heather went on more seriously. "It is a great comfort to feel that
one's future is already planned by God, and out of our own hands. I
like to think of it. I wish I had realized it before; it would have
saved me from a good deal of fret. I don't think I should have tried to
change our lives so. I often think now that it has not been good for
Bluebell. She seems to love nothing better than a whirl of excitement.
I hope she will be different now that she is married, but I don't know."
A little sigh followed her words.
"I wish I knew your sister. I have never seen her."
"Yes, I should like you to know her. She always has taken life
brightly, much more so than I. I used to be much more discontented
with our quiet life than she was. I incited her to want a change, and
it seems strange that it should be I who have been brought back to the
quiet life again, and she who is away from it."
"But I think you must be the happier of the two."
"I really think I am. But, Ena, I am wondering if I ought to do more
definite work for God."
"What do you do? I mean outside your home duties."
"I visit the villagers, and since I have—well, since I have seen the
reality of it all, I have tried to speak to them about it. I have
started a little working-party amongst the mothers, it is a kind of a
mothers' meeting. And then I have Bluebell's Band of Hope, and I have
my Sunday class on Sunday. I don't think I do anything else. I go to
the Union once a week, that is four miles away. But in a small village,
there is not much to be done. I have been wondering, as I have no
home-ties, whether I ought not to go into some distinct work, perhaps
abroad as a missionary. I feel I should like to give my life right up
for God."
"That we can do at home as well as abroad," said Ena, quietly. "I know
when first I became a true Christian I thought the same, and grumbled a
little because my accident prevented all such ideas. But I have come to
see that a Christian's work is close to them, all round them, and that
a soul is worth winning, whether it is a fashionable member of society,
or a cannibal in heathen lands. If we each did our part in soul-winning
from our own home-centre, the world would be a different place.
"Of course, I know the needs of missions are great, and many are right
to obey the call and go. For myself, I have been placed here, and my
brother and I both try to quietly influence our neighbours. You have
not seen many of our friends yet. There are one or two that, judging
from appearances and life, would have been the last persons you would
imagine had any religious cravings. Yet three of them come to me for
real downright earnest talk; and one has quite lately seen with us,
that life is not life till one gets linked on to the Living One. I am
only telling you this to encourage you. Get to know young girls in your
neighbourhood and try to influence them. Ask them to stay with you—oh,
there is a great deal of work close to one's hand always, if we would
only see it."
"But," said Heather, hesitating a little, "I can speak to the poor
people about these things, but not to those in my own class. It would
be so difficult."
"Why? Is our Lord's service only for the poor? Are the rich to be
excluded from it? Don't their very temptations and difficulties appeal
to us from having known them ourselves?"
"I suppose it is cowardice," said Heather. "One knows the poor do not
sneer at one or shrug their shoulders at 'such fanaticism' as it is
termed. There is no cross to bear when working among the poor. But I am
afraid of girls of my own class. And the fact is, there are very few
about our neighbourhood. We have never had any girl-friends. I met a
good many when staying with Cousin Ida in town, but they would be bored
to death if I asked them to stay with me."
"I know a good many here," said Ena, thoughtfully. "I think I must have
some of them over to tea, and let you get acquainted with them."
But this plan was not carried into action.
The very next morning, Heather received a letter from her lawyer, Mr.
Brody, asking her for an immediate interview.
"It is something disagreeable about our money affairs, I know," said
Heather, with a perplexed face.
It was after breakfast. Captain Vaughan had just brought his sister
some early tomatoes from the greenhouse, and he stood in the French
window of his sister's morning-room.
"Cannot he come and see you here?" asked Ena. "You have only been with
us a fortnight, and you promised me a month."
"I am afraid I must go home. Mr. Brody has written me several long
letters lately. Some of our dividends have not come in, and grandmother
left us nearly all her money in shares that are very shaky now, I am
afraid. I cannot quite follow his letters, but I must see him, and I
think I would rather see him at home."
"When do you want to go?" asked Captain Vaughan, quietly.
"He wants to see me to-morrow. I ought to leave this afternoon. Would
it be possible?"
"Certainly, if you wish it. I will drive you to the station myself.
There is a train leaving at three, which will get you home before dark.
Will that do?"
"Yes, thank you, very nicely."
Captain Vaughan walked away without another word, and Heather turned to
her friend.
"Oh, Ena, I am so sorry. I have been enjoying myself so!"
The tears were in Heather's eyes as she stooped to kiss her friend.
"I sometimes think," she went on, trying to speak bravely, "that I am
not meant to have much pleasure in my life; duty is always stepping in
and spoiling it. Aren't there some plants that thrive best in the shade
and not in the sunshine? I think I must be one of them."
"No, no," said Ena, shaking her head, "my dear child, that is a gloomy
theory. This is a great disappointment to both of us, but I hope after
your interview, you will come back to us and finish your visit. Don't
you think that could be managed?"
"I should like to," said Heather, somewhat wistfully, "but I don't feel
as if I shall."
Then, brightening up a little, she added, "It is ungrateful of me to
talk so. I shall have enough pleasant memories of this dear old Priory
to last me till I come again. And you have promised me a visit later
on, so I shall look forward to that. I must go to pack my trunk now. I
shall not be long."
And for the rest of the time before she went, Heather was her bright,
brave self. She talked cheerily to Captain Vaughan on the way to the
station, and asked his advice about one or two things connected with
the farm.
Though perfectly at ease with him, she felt a strange shyness sometimes
when in his company. He was an extremely reticent and undemonstrative
man, and though always courteous and pleasant to her, and occasionally
humorous, he never seemed to invite any one's confidence, and had an
absent distrait manner that was not flattering to the one with whom he
was conversing.
Just before they came to the station, Heather asked him, a little
diffidently, "Do you know anything about these shares of ours, Captain
Vaughan? Do you think I need be uneasy?"
"Have you most of your income from them?"
"Yes, nearly all of it."
Captain Vaughan was silent, then he said, "I expect your lawyer can
give you better information about them than I can. Sometimes the tide
turns, and things look up when they've been about as bad as they can
be."
"I can see you think badly of them."
"If you want the truth, I do. But do not worry yourself unnecessarily.
Wait until you have had a good talk with your lawyer. Are you coming
back to us?"
"If—if things are satisfactory," said Heather, with knitted brow.
They were at the station. Captain Vaughan saw to her comforts, and, as
she shook hands the last thing, said—
"My best wishes, Miss Fotheringay. And, after all, remember money is
not happiness. There are other things left."
"It is an anxiety," said Heather, with a smile.
And as she was borne away by the express, her thoughts went back to the
day she had first separated from Bluebell, nearly a twelvemonth ago.
"Then it was want of money took me home. Now it is the same thing. I
almost wish I had none to lose!"
A week after, Ena received the following letter from Heather:—
"DEAREST ENA,—I sent you such a hasty line, telling you of my safe
arrival, that I am ashamed I have not written since. Truth to tell, I
have been so worried and uncertain about our affairs, that I felt I
could tell you nothing. I have had several interviews with Mr. Brody,
and now I can tell you definitely that Bluebell and I have lost nearly
the whole of our income. I can hardly realize it, even as I write it.
This house must be sold. I shall have barely forty pounds a year to
live upon, but I must be thankful for that.
"Of course, Bluebell wants me to go and live with her, but I feel I
cannot do it—Abigail and Rachael have been so kind—so has everybody. I
think I feel most for our poor people. How I should love to have you to
talk to about things! At first, I thought I could live on in our farm,
but it is not paying as it ought, and we shall have to sell that too.
I have no light at present upon my future. I lie awake at night and
wonder, and try to believe that it is all right.
"Don't you think this may be God's way of preparing me for some special
work? He has taken my home away from me. I am trying to discover what I
am fit for. My education has not been a modern one. A governess is out
of the question. A companion or mother's help may be more in my line,
but I don't know. Can you give me any advice? Remember, I must earn my
living. I cannot help telling you of an interview I have just had with
Watty.
"'Ay, well, Miss Heather, 'tis a proper breakdown to ye, but us will
hope some un will come along and patch ye up a bit. Some of your fine
Lunnon folks might do somethin' for ye!'
"'Thank you, Watty,' I said, with all the dignity I could assume, 'but
I don't feel at all broken down. I have health and strength, and hands
and feet to work, and I shall soon be earning my living like most of
you.'
"'Well, to be sure!' he ejaculated. 'And what may you be thinkin'
of?' Then, with a burst of generosity, he added, 'Tell you what, Miss
Heather—ye can't be spared from this 'ere village. If ye'll put up
with my wife's tantrums, and like a humble lodgin' wi' us, I'll let
you do turn-about with me of a carryin' them letters, for since this
'ere Lunnon post-master has given the public leave to send such vollims
of their trashy writin's for a penny, my old back just cracks wi' the
weight on 'em! Turn-about wi' the carryin'—turn-about wi' the pay! And
it'll keep you from the Union, Miss Heather, so let us settle it right
away!'
"I think I hurt him by my laughter, but I was very near tears! No more
for now. Cyril is so good. He is coming down to see about the sale of
everything for me, and I am going to lodge at the farm for the present,
for I think Annie and her husband will be allowed to keep it on under
their fresh landlord. Sir Thomas Black is going to buy it. Much love,
and kind regards to Captain Vaughan.
"Your loving—
"HEATHER."
"This is a dull letter, but don't think I am perfectly hopeless. I feel
any troubles that come now will be light compared with what they would
have been a year ago."
"She is a dear child," said Ena to her brother, after she had told him
the contents of the letter. "I always think happiness will come to her;
she tries to do her duty so bravely. It does seem as if her sister has
had all the sunshine and she the shade. She is such a lonely little
thing with no relatives to look after her. What would you say, Bertram,
to her coming to live with us?"
Captain Vaughan looked at his sister gravely. "I scarcely think she
would do it," he said.
"Why not? I should love to have her. She makes me forget my
helplessness so. She has such a quick, quiet way of seeing what I want,
and doing it before I have time to express the wish."
"You would ask her as a paid companion?"
"Now, Bertram, do you think I would? She is too proud, I fear, for
that. I should like her to come back to finish her visit, and then
drift on into staying with us altogether. You are so silent. Would you
dislike her here?"
Captain Vaughan gave a short laugh that seemed to his sister rather
constrained.
"My dear Ena, if you would like her, that is quite enough. I am out so
much that her presence really hardly affects me. You can ask her if you
like, but I am of the opinion that she will decline the invitation."
Captain Vaughan was right. Ena begged Heather to come to them directly
the sale was over, but she wrote saying it was impossible.
"I promise to come to you before I start my independent life," she
wrote, "but I must settle my future before paying any visits."
And with this, Ena had to be content.
A month passed, and then Heather wrote again:—
"You will be glad to hear that, through the exertions of Cousin Ida,
I have found a berth. An old lady, a friend of hers, is going abroad
for the winter in September, and wants a companion. I have been up to
London to see her, and she has approved of me. She is a thorough woman
of the world, and a little irascible in temper. Do you think I am right
in accepting this post? I shall not be plunged into society, for she
told me she liked her companions to keep themselves in the background!
"But I cannot help hoping I may be a comfort to her, and perhaps may be
given opportunities of work amongst those in my own class, as you have
so often suggested. Bluebell is a little vexed about it, but I cannot
be dependent upon any one. I do not feel at my age that it is right. I
am going to stay with Bluebell for a month now, and then, if you will
have me, I should like to come to you before going abroad."
"Well," remarked Ena, as she folded up the letter, "I suppose she is
right to go, but I cannot bear to think of her in such a position. She
is too young, too pretty, and too refined, to be turned into an old
woman's slave."
Her brother made no reply. He seemed absorbed in his newspaper.