IN THE OLD GARDEN
"My poverty, but not my will, consents."
SHAKESPEARE.
IT was Heather's last day in her native village. She stood in the
deserted garden of her home, and her heart ached at the thought of
leaving it all. The sale was over. Straw and paper littered the gravel
paths, the shutters were closed, and the house lay in the shadows of
the old elms, dark and silent, having finished a long chapter of its
life. The family that had moved within its walls for over sixty years
had left it for ever, and a new era had already begun.
Heather had been saying good-bye to the villagers, and it was hard work
preserving her bright demeanour. Now she felt she could let herself go,
and leaning her head down on the old sun-dial, she sobbed as if her
heart would break.
The sun shone down, the blackbird in the laurels sang as sweetly as
in days gone by, the bees hummed lazily over the roses and peonies,
and Nature seemed supremely indifferent to the grief in its vicinity.
Heather was not the only one in her sorrow that afternoon.
[Illustration: SHE SOBBED AS IF HER HEART WOULD BREAK.]
Along the narrow cinder path that led through the kitchen garden walked
Abigail. She was picking bits of lavender and sweet herbs with many a
sniff, and muttering to herself in an audible undertone—
"The Lord will comfort His own. 'Tis good to be afflicted, and He will
care for her. My life is nearly over. I could not have gone on in
service much longer. Me and Rachael have saved, and we will make our
home together, please God. But my heart aches over that child. 'Twas
here she used to run, and Miss Bluebell with her, when they were little
trots, and liked to pick the parsley for Rachael. I can see them now,
and the mistress watchin' them from the window. Ay well, she would be
sorely grieved if she were to see us now, and 'tis to be hoped she does
not. But she would be glad to see Miss Heather growin' into a good and
sober woman. I daren't think of Miss Bluebell. She has chosen the broad
road, and her heart is full of vanity. May the Lord in His mercy bring
her to a right mind and show her her sins and wickedness!"
Heather's thoughts were with Bluebell, too. She felt it keenly that
her sister had left her to break up their home alone. Cyril had indeed
been a help, but he had only stayed a couple of days, and the bulk
of the work had fallen on Heather's shoulders. Bluebell had written
sympathizingly, but said she would be in town the week of the sale, or
she would have tried to go to her.
"I am sure," she wrote, "it can be no grief to you to shut up that
house. It never has had happy associations to me, though of course it
has been our home. My only memories are of always being pounced upon by
Abigail, and lectured, if ever we were trying to enjoy ourselves. You
will be far happier away from it. You must come and live with me, and
perhaps after another season in town, you will meet your fate. I am not
at all anxious about your future, so don't worry about it."
Wise advice, perhaps, but Heather felt her sister understood her
less than ever since her marriage. Even Cyril seemed to guess at her
feelings better. Just before he left, he said—
"I wish you would come right away with me instead of staying on here.
It is not fit work for you."
"I cannot leave it. It is impossible."
"Why have you all the grit, I wonder, and Minnehaha none? She takes
life as easily as you do seriously."
"Don't spoil her, Cyril," Heather said rather earnestly. "Bluebell has
depths in her that can only be stirred by emergencies or trouble, and
I hope she will not have that. She has not a butterfly heart, whatever
her manner may lead you to believe. I sometimes wish life had not been
made so easy to her."
"'Wayward as the Minnehaha,
With her moods of shade and sunshine,
Eyes that smiled and frowned alternate,
Feet as rapid as the river,
Tresses flowing like the water
And as musical a laughter.'
"I find she bears out that description exactly, and I am very well
satisfied with my wife as she is."
"That is only as you ought to be," said Heather, smiling. "But if you
want her to show more grit, as you express it, you must let her share
some of your responsibility."
"Ah, well, that will come in time." Then with change of tone he added,
"I hope things may turn out better than you expect. You are very plucky
over it. I suppose you hardly realize your misfortune with so much to
do and to see to."
"I don't think I can ever forget it," said Heather, with gravity. Then
she added with a smile, "You must remember earthly comforts are not so
much to me as they used to be. I have something now that I cannot lose."
"Ah yes, I know. Well, I thought some months ago I had got hold of
life differently, but it was a passing emotion, I fancy. We are
impressionable creatures sometimes, even we men."
Then Heather looked him straight in the face.
"Will you tell me how you saw life differently, Cyril? Did you come
into real touch with God? Did you take Christ to be your Saviour and
Master?"
Cyril stroked his moustache consideringly.
"Well, you put it so crudely. I hardly got to those lengths. But I
seemed to see we were not meant to live mere animal lives, and ought to
bring glory to our Creator."
"And you never got any further?"
"I think I meant to look into the matter, but Minnehaha came into my
life, and we—well, we haven't the time, you know, for quiet meditation.
Are you going to preach to me, Regina?"
"No, but I pray a good deal that you and Bluebell may be out and out
for Christ. You will never bring glory to your Creator till you accept
the work of His Son, and own Him as your Saviour, and take Him to be
your King. It is dishonouring to God to refuse allegiance to the One
He sent into the world to be our King. Forgive my plain speaking, but
you do not know how I long that those I care for should experience the
peace and happiness in their souls that have been given to me."
She said no more, but Cyril Carter went away more impressed by her
words than he would care to allow.
Now, as Heather, with tearful eyes, raised her head from the dial and
looked at the empty, deserted house for the last time, her thoughts
were still with Bluebell.
"She and I will never be the same again to each other as we have been
in this old garden. Our girlhood seems a thing of the past. I feel a
woman now in experience, and I dread seeing how changed she is, when I
stay with her. Oh, why need changes come so fast? Nothing will ever be
the same to me again now I have lost my home!"
She started when Abigail touched her elbow.
"Miss Heather, don't take on so. 'Tis the Lord's doin', and ye'll be
givin' Him praise one day for this very trouble."
"Shall I?"
Heather looked up with a tearful smile.
"Don't be hard on me," she added. "I came here to have my cry out
alone. I did not know you would be here, Abigail."
"Ah well, I was havin' a look round, and the old times had come up and
near overwhelmed me. Miss Heather, my words may have been hard to you
at times, but my heart has always held you tight, and it will to my
dyin' day!"
A choke in her voice made Heather glance at her astonished, and then in
a moment, the faithful old servant had gathered her into her arms like
a little child, and was sobbing her heart out over her.
At last, ashamed of her display of feeling, she turned gruffly away.
But Heather kissed the worn old cheek very tenderly before she let her
go.
"I shall never have another faithful friend like you, Abigail," she
said; "it is nice to feel you care so. There are times lately when I
have felt that there is no one left to care what becomes of me."
A few days afterwards, and Heather was in Bluebell's country home. The
sisters were glad to be together, but the house was so full of guests
that they had little opportunity for talk alone. Heather watched her
sister dispensing her hospitality and entertaining all her husband's
friends with her pretty graciousness, and wondered if she had ever a
thought beyond the present. Sometimes she fancied Bluebell eluded close
talk with her, and she could only pray, and try not to withhold her
testimony if opportunity favoured it.
One evening after dinner, as the ladies were in the drawing-room by
themselves, conversation turned upon old Mrs. Macintyre, with whom
Heather was going abroad.
"I am told she is an awful old tartar," said Lady Robertson, a
vivacious young bride, who seemed to carry with her plenty of society
gossip, "and she gambles dreadfully. I knew a girl who lived with her
for a time. She gives her companions a handsome allowance, but compels
them to play cards with her every evening; she always manages to win,
and the poor creatures find their salary making its way back into the
old lady's pockets. I am told she meditates going to Monte Carlo this
year. I pity the slavey who goes with her."
Bluebell gave a little sign to Heather not to speak, but she ignored
it, and said frankly—
"Thank you for your pity, Lady Robertson. I am going with her, I
believe."
"Good gracious! You don't say so! But not as her companion?"
"Yes. You know we have lost a good bit of our money."
"It is a freak of hers," said Bluebell, a little crossly. "I want her
to stay with me, but she will be independent. I am sure a month of old
Mrs. Macintyre will send her back to us."
"Well, if you take my advice, you will get out of that card-playing,"
said Lady Robertson.
"I don't think there is any fear of her doing that," said Bluebell,
laughing; "is there, Heather?"
"No, certainly not. If such a thing had been mentioned to me, I should
have declined going with her," said Heather, with decision.
"Why? Do you object to card-playing?"
"Oh, Heather is a good person," said Bluebell, laughing; "of course she
does. I think she considers all amusements wrong. I should enjoy seeing
her tackle Mrs. Macintyre on the subject."
"Are you good?" asked a girl, Laura Kent by name. "I remember you were
not at all prudish in your first season?"
"I hope I am not prudish now," said Heather, with a rising colour. "I
don't feel so."
"You don't look it," said Lady Robertson, good naturedly. "I have an
aunt who is dreadfully good. She drags religion into every sentence,
until she sickens every one with it. Now, I am not against religion
myself, but it is not a thing to be talked about."
"I think there are times," said Heather, "when it is desirable to
mention it. But it depends upon circumstances. I used to think all
mention of religion was out of place, but if it is the most real thing
in our lives, why should it be?"
"It's a very shadowy thing to me," said Laura, thoughtfully.
"It wouldn't be, if you got hold of the real thing," said Heather,
quietly.
"But what is the real thing? Nothing seems real nowadays. Everything is
just a mere hobby, which gets ridden to death, until a fresh one comes
along."
"I suppose real Christianity is living our lives in touch with Christ,
and having the consciousness of His presence in everything that we do
or say."
"No one could live like that, unless you were always in church or
retired to a convent," said Lady Robertson, with a slight yawn.
"And how can any one arrive at such a stage, even then?" queried Laura,
turning her honest grey eyes upon Heather with interest.
But at this moment, the gentlemen entered, and Bluebell gave a sigh of
relief.
"Come along," she said gaily; "we were just forgetting that we were
a set of frivolous women whose after dinner talk always consists in
picking one another to pieces. We were actually getting into deep
theology. Let us have some music."
That short conversation brought Heather into close contact with Laura
Kent. She came to her bedroom afterwards, and had a long talk with her.
And before Heather left her sister's, one restless, dissatisfied soul
had found its way into the true path of peace.
She began to see now that even in society there are many who need a
helping hand and word.